Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph | ||
1. MEMOIRS
OF
MISS SIDNEY BIDULPH.
Editor's note
MRS. Catharine Sidney Bidulph was the daughter of Sir Robert Bidulph of Wiltshire. Her father died when she was very young; and of ten children none survived him but this lady, and his eldest son, afterwards Sir George Bidulph. The family estate was not very considerable, and Miss Bidulph's portion was but four thousand pounds, a fortune however at that time not quite contemptible; it was in the beginning of queen Anne's reign.
Lady Bidulph was a woman of plain sense, but exemplary piety; the strictness
She had educated her daughter, who was one of the greatest beauties of her time, in the strictest principles of virtue; from which she never deviated, through the course of an innocent, though unhappy life.
Sir George Bidulph was nine or ten years older than his sister. He was a man of good understanding, moral as to his general conduct, but void of any of those refined sentiments, which constitute what is called delicacy. Pride is sometimes accounted laudable; that which Sir George possessed (for he had pride) was not of this kind.
He was a weakly constitution, and had been ordered by the physicians to Spa for the recovery of a lingering disorder, which he had laboured under for some time. It was just on his return to England that the busy scene of his sister's life opened. An intimate friend of hers,
The JOURNAL
April 2, 1703.
MY dear and ever-beloved Cecilia is now on her way to Harwich. How insipid will this task of recording all the little incidents of the day now appear to me, when you, my sister, friend of my heart, are no longer near me? How many tedious months will it be before I again embrace you? How many days of impatience must I suffer
Avaunt then complainings! Let me rest assured that my Cecilia is happy in her pursuits, and let me resolve on making myself so in mine.
April 3.
We have had a letter from my brother George; he is landed, and we expect him hourly in town. As our house is large enough, I hope he will consent to take up his abode with us while we stay in London. My mother intends to request it of him: she says it will be for the reputation of a gay young man to
April 5.—
My brother returned to us this day, thank God! in perfect
When the cloth was removed, my mother proposed his taking up his abode with us: you see, said she, your sister and I have got here into a large house; there is full room enough in it for you and your servants; and as I think in such a town as this, it will be a reputable place for you to live in, I shall be glad of your company; provided you do not encroach upon my rules by unseasonable hours, or receiving visits from such as I may not approve of for the accquaintance of your sister. I was afraid Sir George would disrelish the terms, as perhaps some of his accquaintance (though far from faultey (?)
To say the truth, I am very glad that my brother has consented to be our guests, as I hope by his means our circle of acquaintance will be a good deal enlarged. There is no pleasure in society, without a proper mixture of well-bred sensible people of both sexes, and I have hitherto been chiefly confined to those of my own.
I asked Sir George jocosely, what he had brought me home? He answered, Perhaps a good husband.—My mother catched up the word—What do you mean, son? I mean, madam, that there is come over with me a gentleman, with whom I became acquainted in Germany, and whom of all the men I ever knew, I should wish to have for a brother. If Sidney should fortunately be born under the influence of uncommonly good stars, it may happen to be brought about. I can tell you (applying
An admirable character indeed, said my mother. So thought I too; but I wanted to know a little more of him. Now, Sidney, for your share in the description, I must tell you he is most exquisitely handsome, and extremely sensible.
Good sense to be sure is requisite, said my
Good young man! cried my mother. I should like to be acquainted with him. (So should I, whispered I to my own heart.)
Well, brother, said I, you have drawn a good picture; but to make it complete, you must throw in generosity, valour, sweetness of temper, and a great deal of money.—Fie, my dear (said my good literal parent) a great deal is not necessary; a very moderate fortune with such a man is sufficient!
The good qualities you require in the finishing of my piece, answered my brother, he possesses in an eminent degree, —will that satisfy you? As for his fortune, —there perhaps a difficulty may step in.—What estate, madam (to my mother) do you think my sister's fortune may intitle her to?
Dear brother, I cried, pray do not speak in that bargaining way.
My mother answered him very gravely, Your father you know left her but four thousand pounds; it is in my power to add a little to it, if she marries to please me. Great matters we have no right o expect; but a very good girl, as my daughter is, I think, deserves something more than a bare equivalent. The equality, said my brother (with a demure look) I fear is out of all proportion here, for the gentleman I speak of has but—six thousand pounds a year.
He burst out a laughing; it was not good-natured, and I was vexed at his joke. My poor mother dropped her countenance;
Then he is above our reach, Sidney, answered my mother.
I made no reply.—Have a good heart, Sid, cried my brother, if my nonpariel likes you, when he sees you (I felt myself hurt, and grow red) and without a compliment, sister (seeing me look mortified) I think he will, fortune will be no objection. I have already told him the utmost extent of your expectations; he would hardly let me mention the subject; he has a mind for my sister, and if he finds personal accomplishments answer a brother's (perhaps partial) description, it will be your own fault if you have not the prettiest fellow in England for your husband.
My mother reassumed her pleased countenance. Where is he? Let us see him. I forced a smile, though I did not feel myself quite satisfied.—We parted on the road, my brother answered; he is gone to Bath for a few weeks; he has sent his servants and his baggage to town before
My mother enquired on what account he went to Bath. Sir George said, he complained of a weakness in one of his wrists, which was the consequence of a fever that had seized him on his journey in their return to England. It seems he had finished his travels, on which he had been absent near five years, when my brother and he met in Germany. The liking he took to Sir George protracted his stay, and he resolved not to quit him while his health obliged him to continue abroad; they took a trip to Paris together, and returned home by Holland.
The name of this piece of perfection is Faulkland, Orlando Faulkland. What a pretty name Orlando is; My mother says it is romantic, and wonders ho sober people can give their children such names.
Now I am dying with curiosity to see this man. A few weeks at Bath,—what
April 7.—
We have settled Sir George's oeconomy within doors: my mother has been very busy all day in fixing trunks, portmanteaus, and boxes, in their proper places; and in appropriating the rooms for his men, which she has taken care shall be as remote from those of our servants as the house will admit. She says, she knows our own domestics to be orderly and regular, but she cannot answer for what other people's may be.
I begin to recover my spirits: my bother's arrival has given new life to the family; my mother thinks, that in his company, with a lady or two, there will be no impropriety in suffering me to go,
April 20.—
My brother has had another letter from Mr. Faulkland. He has been but a fortnight at Bath, and already has found benefit from the use of the pump; I wish his wrist was quite well; I never was so impatient to see any body.—But, Sidney, have a care—this heart has never yet been touch'd: this man is represented as a dangerous object. What an ill-fated girl should I be, if I should fall in love with him, and he should happen not to like me? Should
Nature, says Sir George, never formed a temper so gentle, so humane, so benevolent as his; yet, when provoked, no temper is more furious. You would imagine him so humble, that he thinks every one superior to himself; yet through this disguise have I discovered, at certain times, a pride which make shim look down on all mankind. With a disposition formed
Are not these faults? Yes, surely they are; yet Sir George protests he has none; or at least says, if these be such, they are so over-balanced by his good qualities, that unless it by you, sister (flattering creature! though that is seldom his failing) I don't know the woman that deserves him. I did not thank him for the compliment he paid me, at the expence of the rest of our poor sex.
May 5.—
A month is past since my brother arrived, and Mr. Faulkland does not yet talk of coming to town.—If Sir George had drawn half such a flattering picture of me to him, as he has done of him to me, his curiosity would have brought him here sooner.—My mother has mentioned him several times, and asked when he is to be in town. My brother has taken a very handsome house for him in the Square.
May 19.—
Six weeks, and no news of Mr. Faulkland's coming! I'll positively give him but another week; I begin to think myself affronted by his stay.
May 23.—
Now, now, my Cecilia, I can gratify your curiosity at full: he is come at last; Mr. Faulkland, I mean; Orlando is come! we had a message from him this morning, to enquire after all our healths; he was just arrived at his house in the Square: Sir George flew to him directly, and said he would bring him without ceremony to take a family dinner. My mother bid him do so; and she held a quarter of an hour's conference with her cook. She is always elegant and exact at her table; but we were more than ordinarily so to-day. My brother brought
We had both been prepossessed highly in favour of his figure, a circumstance that seldom is of advantage to persons on their first appearance: but here it had not that effect; Sir George did not overrate the personal accomplishments of his friend. Now you'll expect I should describe him to you, perhaps, and paint this romantic hero in the glowing colours of romantic exaggeration. But I'll disappoint you,—and tell you, that he is neither like an Adonis nor an Apollo,—that he has no hyacinthine curls flowing down his back; no eyes like suns, whose brightness and majesty strike the beholders dumb; nor, in short, no rays of divinity about him; yet he is the handsomest mortal man that I ever saw.—I will not say that his voice is harmony itself, and that all the loves and graces (for why should not there be male as well as female
I never saw my mother appear so pleased with any one. The polite freedom of his address, the attention and deference he seemed to pay to her sentiments (and the dear good woman talked more to him, I think, than every I heard her do to any one on so short an acquaintance) delighted her beyond expression. I bore no great part in the conversation, but was not, however, quite overlooked by Mr. Faulkland. He referred to
I did not interfere in the debate, only said, I was very glad to have my mother's approbation of my conduct. This put an end to the argument, and my mother launched out into high encomiums on Mr. Faulkland. She said, upon her truth he was the finest young man she ever saw, in every respect. So modest, so well bred, so very entertaining, and so unassuming, with all his fine accomplishments:
Well, said my mother, I have the pleasure to observe to you (and I think I am seldom mistaken in my judgment, that Mr. Faulkland is at least as well pleased with Sidney as we are with him.— What say you, daughter? Ay, what say you, sister? cry'd Sir George,—I think, madam, that Mr. Faulkland is an accomplished gentleman, and—'and that you could be content to look no farther,
Sir George told us, that Mr. Faulkland, at going away, had requested he would sup with him at his own house, as he said he had a few visits of form to pay, and should be at home early in the evening.
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
This put me a great deal more out of countenance than what he had said at
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,
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
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
June 10.—
I do really think my good mother grows so fond of Mr. Faulkland, that if he goes on at this rate, he will get the start even of Sir George in her affections— 'Mr. Faulkland said so and so; Mr. Faulkland is of opinion; and I am sure you will allow Mr. Faulkland to be a good judge of such and such things.'
To say the truth, the man improves upon you every hour you know him. And yet I have discovered in him some of those little (and they are but little)alloys to his many good qualities, which Sir George at first told me of. The interest I may one day have in him makes me a closer observer than I should otherwise be. There is that sly turn to ridicule which my brother mentioned; yet, to do
We had a good deal of company at dinner with us to-day; amongst the rest, young Sayers, who is just returned from his travels, as he calls it. You remember he went away a good humoured, inoffensive, quiet fool; he has brought no one ingredient of that character back with him, but the last; for such a stiff, conceited, overbearing, talkative, impertinent coxcomb does not now exist. His mother, who, poor woman, you know originally made a simpleton of the boy, contributes now all in her power to finish the fop; and she carries him about with her everywhere for a shew. (?) We were assembled in the drawing room before dinner: in burst (for it was not a common entry) Master Sayers, and his mama, the cub handing in the old lady.—so stiff, and so aukward, and so ungraceful, and so very unlike Mr. Faulkland, that I pitied the poor thing, who thought that everybody
Mr. Faulkland then proceeded to ask him abundance of questions, which any one, who did not know him well, would
Sayers, elated with having shone so conspicuously (for he observed that both my mother and I attended to his discourse) proceeded to shew away with an immensity of vanity and frothy chat, beginning every new piece of history with 'When I was at Rome, or, when I was at Paris'.—At last, unluckily for him, speaking of an incident (which made a good deal of noise, and happened at the first-mentioned place) in which two English gentlemen had been concerned, he said it was about eleven months ago, just before he left Rome. My mother, who had heard Mr. Faulkland relate the same story, but with some very different circumstances, immediately said, Mr. Faulkland,
If a spectre had appeared to poor Sayers, he could not have looked more aghast. He dropped his visage half-way down his breast, and, for the first time, speaking very plain, and very loud too, with a stare of astonishment, Have you been at Rome, Sir? I was there for a little time, Sir, answered Mr. Faulkland, with real modesty; for he pitied the mortified buzzard; and I know the story was represented as you have told it; the circumstances differed in a few particulars, but the facts were nearly as you have related them.
How obligingly did he reconcile the out-of-countenance Sayers to himself and to the company? Were you long abroad, pray Sir? said the coxcomb: About five years, Sir, answered Mr. Faulkland; but I perceive, by the conversation I have had the honour of holding with you to-day, that many accurate
I think such a bagatelle may give you some idea of this man's turn. I told it to Sir George; he laughed heartily, and said it was so like him! My brother loves even his faults, though he will not allow me to call them by that name.
July 4.—
You are unkind, Cecilia, and do not do justice to my sincerity, when you say, you are sure I am in love with Mr. Faulkland. If I were, can you conceive it possible that I would deny it to you? Ah! my sister, must I suspect you of wanting candour by your making a charge of disingenuity against your friend? Indeed, Cecilia, if I am in love with him, I do not yet know it myself. I will repeat it to you, I think him the most amiable of men, and should certainly give him the preference, if I were left to a free choice, over all the rest of his sex; at least all that I have ever yet seen; though possibly there may be handsomer, wiser, better men, but they have not fallen within my observation. I am not however so prepossessed in his favour, as to suppose him a phoenix; and if any unforeseen event were to prevent my being his, I am sure I should bear it, and behave very handsomely.
And yet perhaps this may be only bragging like a coward, because I think a very short time will put it out of the power of fortune to divide us. Yet certain as the even of our marriage appears to me at present, I still endeavour to keep a sort of guard over my wishes, and will not give my heart leave to center all its happiness in him; and therefore I cannot rank myself amongst the first-rate lovers, who have neither eyes, nor ears, nor sensations, but for one object. This, Mr. Faulkland says, is his case, in regard to me. But I think we women should not love at such ar ate, till duty makes the passion a virtue; and till that becomes my case, I am so much a philosopher in love, that I am determined not to let it absorb any of the other cordial affections, which I owe to my relations and my friends.
I think we ought always to form some laws to ourselves for the regulation of our conduct: without this, what an impertinent dream must the life be of almost every young person of our sex? You, my dear, though with an uncommon understanding of your own, have always been intirely conducted by your wise parents;
July 5.—
A little incident happened to-day which pleased my mother wonderfully. She had been at morning prayers (as you know is her daily custom;) when returning home in her chair, one of the men happened to slip his foot, and fell down just before Mr. Faulkland's house. He was so much hurt, that he could go no farther; and the footmen immediately opening the chair, told her she had better step into Mr. Faulkland's, till he called another, or got a man to assist in carrying her home. One of Mr. Faulkland's servants happened to be standing at the door; so that, without any previous notice, she was immediately conducted into a parlour, where Mr. Faulkland was sitting at breakfast. She found with him two
My mother inquired, if he permitted them to be in the house? He said, he did; and that he had been induced to it from the distress he had seen their poor father in a few days before. He is an honest careful fellow, continued Mr. Faulkland, and has lived in my family from a boy. He was married to a good sort of a body, who took great care of these children, and helped to maintain them decently by her work. The poor woman died in childbed last week; and the person who attended her in her illness (for she had no servant) took that opportunity of robbing the lodging;
The poor little wretches continued in that dismal situation all night, having cried themselves to sleep, without being heard, though there were some other people in the house. The morning following I happened to make an early visit in the neighbourhood of this distressed little family, and my coachman, who was a very affectionate husband and father, took that opportunity of calling on his wife, whom he had not been able to see for three days. The cries of his children (now awake and almost starved) obliged him hastily to break open the door of the room, where the poor fellow was shocked with the dismal spectacle of his wife's motionless corpse in bed, the infant almost expiring at her side, and the other two poor little famished creatures calling to their dead mother for bread.
The sight almost deprived the man of his senses. He snatched up his two eldest
The honest poor fellow was delighted, when he came home to find his two children well and merry; for they were sensible of no want but their food. But his grief returned on him with great violence, at the thoughts of his being obliged to put them in to the hands of people, who, he said, he was sure would not be so kind to them as their own poor mother had been; and my man told me he did nothing but kiss them, and cry over them the whole day. To make his mind easy at once, I let him know they should remain here under his own eye, till they were old enough to be put to school; and accordingly directed my housekeeper to see that they
The little rogues have found their way up to me, and I love sometimes to hear them prattle; but this morning the eldest having told me a lie of his brother, I was checking him for it when you came in.
My mother was so pleased with Mr. Faulkland's conduct in this little history, that she repeated it to me word for word as soon as she came home, and concluded with observing how good a creature Mr. Faulkland must be, who in so tender a manner interested himself in his poor servant's misfortune. Most young gentlemen, said she, would have thought they had done enough in giving the servant money to have provided for his children as well as he could: it is in such trifles as these that we often discover the excellence of the heart.
You will suppose, my dear, that I am not displeased at any circumstance that can raise Mr. Faulkland's character in my pious mother's esteem. I heard the story
If you should be married! said my brother; I know of no possible ifs, unless they are of your own making. I know of none neither, answered my mother; yet I think Sidney is in the right to be doubtful about
I think mother, said Sir George, bluntly, you were disappointed in your first love; I have heard you speak of it, but I forget the circumstances. As I had never heard my mother make any mention of this particular, I begged she would oblige me with relating it.
When I was about one and twenty, daughter, said she, a match was concluded by my father between me and a very fine gentleman. I loved him, and (as I suppose all young women do in the like circumstances) believed myself equally beloved by him. The courtship had been of a year's standing; for you must know I was not very easily won. Every thing was settled, and the day appointed for our marriage arrived; when, instead of the bridegroom, whom we every minute expected, there came a letter from him directed to me. The contents were, that having formerly been engaged to a young
The whole letter, which was very long, was so expressive of a mind overwhelmed with despair, that I was exceedingly shocked at the reading of it. What could I say? The plea he offered for his seemingly strange conduct, was too just to admit of any objections. I own the disappointment afflicted me, but I bore it with a becoming resolution. My family were at first exceedingly exasperated against my doubly unfaithful lover; but, upon inquiring into the facts, they found the truth to be as he had represented it. The conclusion was, that, upon the very day on which he was to have been married to me, and on which he had writ me that gloomy letter, he was seized with a melancholy, which encreasing on him daily, soon after ended in absolute madness, and he was confined for the remainder of his life. The young lady lived but a short time after the melancholy fate of her lover, and died, as it was said, of a broken heart.
It was a great comfort to me to reflect, that my fate disposed otherwise of me
This extraordinary anecdote of my mother's life, which I had never had a hint of before (for she could not speak of it without great emotion) very much affected me. Sir George said, the story was more tragical than he had apprehended, and told my mother, that was an accident which fell out between the cup and the lip with a vengeance.
My mother continued thoughtful for a good while; and I was sorry that the memory of this melancholy story had been revived; but Sir George talked and laughed us both into spirits again.
July 6.—
This Mr. Faulkland is a princely man; he has sent me such a set of jewels! My mother says they are too fine for a private gentlewoman; but George tells her they are not a bit too fine for Mr. Faulkland's wife, and only suitable
July 8.—
My probation is over, my Cecilia.—The formidable question has been put to me, and I have answered it—Ay marry, say you, but how? In the negative, to be sure, my dear—No, no, my Cecilia; a valuable (psha! what an affected cold word that is) a lovely and most worthy man, with six thousand pounds a year, is a prize that a country girl must not expect to draw every day. Mr. Faulkland, in lover-like phrase, demanded from me the time of his destined happiness: I referred him to my mother. She, good and delicate as she is, referred him to Sir George. George blurted out some sudden day that startled us both, when
Sir George is downright insolent; he declares I am not sensible of my own happiness, and that I deserve to be married to some little petty Wiltshire 'squire. He so piques himself upon making this match, there is no bearing him. He has taken all matters of settlement upon himself,
July 10.—
I really begin to be hurried. My mother, you know, is exactly punctilious in every thing. Such a quantity of things are bought, and such a quantity to be bought, that there is no end of journeys into the city. Then milleners and mantur-makers! One would think I was going to pass the remainder of my life in a remote country, where there were no kind of manufactures or artificers to be come at; and that I was to provide cloathing for half a century.
July 12.—
I have much upon my hands, and Sir George is so impatient and troublesome, that I believe I must employ a secretary, to give you a minute detail of all our foppery; for I shall not have patience to do it myself.
July 13.—
Sir George has often told me, that he knows of no fault Mr. Faulkland has, but a violence of temper when provoked. I saw an instance of it to-day, which I was sorry for, and the more so, as I was in some measure accessary to it. Mr. Faulkland, my brother, a lady of our accquaintance, and myself took a ride in Hyde-Park this morning. We were to dine at Kensington (where my mother was to meet us) at the house of the lady (a relation of Mr. Faulkland's) who was with us.
We rode into the stable-yard of her house, in order to alight. My horse, which happened to be a young one that Sir George had newly bought, saw some object that made him shy of advancing, and he turned suddenly about. A footman of Mr. Faulkland's, who chanced to stand just behind me, very imprudently, though I am sure without design of harm, gave him a stroke with his whip, which made the animal plunge and throw me, as I had not time to recover my seat from the first short turn he made.
This little incident convinces me that Mr. Faulkland is of too warm a temper; yet I am not alarmed at the discovery; you know I am the very reverse; and I hope in time, by gentle methods, in some measure to subdue it in Mr. Faulkland. His own good sense and good nature must incline him to wish it corrected. My brother says, he has often lamented this vice of his nature to him, and said he had taken infinite pains to get the better of it; and had so far succeeded, that he seldom was surprized by it, but on very sudden and extraordinary occasions, such as, I suppose, he looked upon this to be, which I have related.
We passed the day delightfully at Kensington, and did not return to town till late. I think I have got cold, as we walked a long time in the garden.
July 14.—
I have got an ugly sore throat: my mother insists on my being let blood; I am afraid of alarming her by complaining, though I had very little rest all night. Mr. Faulkland came early this morning to enquire after my health: my mother told him I was not well. How tenderly dejected were his looks, when I came into the room. Sir George made his stay to breakfast; he scarce tasted any thing; he was quite cast down, My brother rallied him (I thought it unseasonable) on the chance he had the day before of losing his wife. Mr. Faulkland answered, I wish I had followed the first motion of my thoughts, and discharged that wicked fellow a month ago. Sir George said, as it happened, there had been no harm done; but he thought Mr. Faulkland would do well to dismiss such an insolent rogue from his service. He
My mother lectured Mr. Faulkland a little, for suffering a servant, whose fidelity he was not sure of, to see where he
He appeared so anxious and unhappy about my indisposition, that I affected to make as light of it as possible; though indeed I find myself very much out of order. With what a kind sorrow did he observe my looks; sighs now-and-then stole from him, as his eyes were fixed on my face. I am obliged to him, yet I think I should be as much concerned for him, if he were ill.
Here is a whole cargo of silks and laces just sent in to me—Heigh-ho! I can't look at them—I am not well—and I have such a gauntlope to run of visiting and racketting that the thought makes me sicker.
July 27.—
After a fortnight's, a dreadful fortnight's intermission, I reassume
I will try to recollect all the circumstances of this miserable interval, and relate them as well as I can. The last line in my journal (which I have not yet ventured to send you, as your stay at Paris is so uncertain)informs you that I was ill. I was let blood; but my disorder increased, and I was in a high fever before next morning. I remember what my reflections were, and am sure my apprehensions of death were not on my own account afflicting, but grievously so at the thoughts of what those should feel whom I was to leave behind.
My mother and Mr. Faulkland, I believe, chiefly engaged my mind: but I did not long continue capable of reflection. The violence of my disorder deprived me of my senses on the fourth day, and they tell me I raved of Mr. Faulkland. I remember nothing, but that, in my intervals of reason, I always saw my poor mother in
My mother staid with me till it was time for her to go to rest: but avoided mentioning Mr. Faulkland's name, or giving me any opportunity of doing it; for she tenderly conjured me to keep myself quite composed, and not to talk. The doctor assured her this night that he thought me out of danger; and she retired with looks of cordial delight.
She was not sooner gone, than I called Ellen to my bedside, and charged her to tell me all she knew concerning Mr.
The good-natured girl's trouble and confusion increased as I spoke; My dear madam, she replied, when you are better, my lady will tell you all: 'No, no, Ellen, I must know it now; tell it me this minute, or you must never expect to see me better under such uncertainty. What is the all, the frightful all, that I am to be told? How you have shocked me
This was all I could gather from the maid. What a night did I pass! I scarce closed my eyes. Ellen lay in a field-bed by me; she had watched several nights, and I obliged her now to undress and go
My mother, ever kind and tender, came early the next morning into my room. She inquired after my health, and looked as if she pitied me. I was ready to cry at her compassionate glances; they mortified me, but I was determined not to let her perceive it. I told her I was much better; and, what is surprizing, I was really so, notwithstanding the uneasy state of my mind. She talked of indifferent
My dear, replied my mother, it gives me great pleasure to hear you say so. I pray God preserve my child, and grant her a better lot than she could hope for in a union with Mr. Faulkland. What has he done, madam? My dearest Sidney, she answered, this is the first trial you have
I did not intend to have spoken to you on the subject, till you were better able to bear the knowlege of what I am going to acquaint you with; but your prudence, I think, makes you equal to every thing; and I hope your health will not be endangered by the discovery of Mr. Faulkland's baseness. (What a dreadful preface!)
The day after you were taken ill, a letter, directed to you, was brought hither by a porter, which your maid (very discretely) delivered to me. As you were not in a condition to read it yourself, I thought proper to open it. The cover contained a few lines addressed to you; and in it was inclosed a letter directed to Mr. Faulkland. Good God, added she, taking the papers out of her pocket, how little reliance ought we to have on a fair outside!
Here are the letters; read what is in the cover first. I did so; it was ill writ, and worse spelt. These were the contents.
Sidney
I hear you are soon to be married to Mr. Faulkland; but as I think it a great pity that so virtuous a young lady should be thrown away, this is to inform you, that he does not deserve you.
The inclosed letter, wrote to him by a fine and beautiful young lady that he decoyed, shews you how false he is. When you tax him with it, he will know from whence you got your information; but let him deny it if he can.
Your unknown friend,
and humble servant.
The letter to Mr. Faulkland, in a very pretty female hand, and the date but a week old (from the time it was sent, to me) was as follows:
Faulkland A.B.
'Oh! Mr. Faulkland, I am the most unfortunate woman in the world! Fatal have you been to me, and I am undone for ever.—I was in hopes that our mutual fault might have been concealed; for, while we staid at Bath, I kept my aunt intirely ignorant of what passed between us, though she often pressed me to confess the truth; but it can now no longer be concealed. I am but too sensibly reminded of the unhappy consequences of my own weakness, and your ungoverned (would I could call it) love. I never meat to trouble you with complaints; but my present condition calls loudly for your compassion. Are you then really going to be married? There wants but this to complete my destruction! Oh! Sir, before it is too late, take pity on me! I dare not continue in the house with my uncle much longer. My aunt says, that, when my affliction becomes so conspicuous as not to be any longer hid, she will form a pretence, on account of my health, for me to be absent for some months, under
A. B."
When I had read these letters, my mother asked me, what I thought of Mr. Faulkland? Indeed, I was so astonished, that I scarce knew what answer to make; but replied, Madam, are you satisfied that this letter is not forged, with a design to injure Mr. Faulkland? Ah! my dear, said she, I am sorry you strive to catch at
I shewed the letters to your brother, as
What, George! answered I, a trivial matter for a man to ruin a fine young lady, forsake her, and date to involve an innocent creature in his crimes! Do you call this a trivial affair? If you knew the circumstances, said he, you would not view it in so disadvantageous a light. Faulkland certainly gained the affections of a young lady, though without seeking to do so; he never courted her, never attempted to please her, much less to win her heart, and least of all to ruin her virtue. I know that is an action he is not capable of committing. How comes it to pass then that he did so, said I, interrupting
I may expect to find a man without flagrant crimes to answer for, I hope; and I believe I spoke it with warmth. Do you call this one, madam? said he, with still more assurance: I hope Sidney will not be such a chit as to think in this manner, when she comes to hear the affair explained. I really grew down-right angry, and could not forbear saying, I would rather see you married to your grave than to such a man. Your brother then begged I would hear Mr. Faulkland justified, and be a little cool till that was done. I told him there was a terrible
George said, he had a letter to shew me on the subject, which he had received from Mr. Faulkland while he was at Bath, and which he was sure would convince me, that the whole affair was so trifling, it ought by no means to be objected to Mr. Faulkland, nor, in his opinion, even mentioned to him.
I told him, I was sorry to find that he and I thought so differently; for that I was determined to speak to Mr. Faulkland immediately about it, and, if he could not satisfy me intirely on the score of the injured lady, that he must never think of Sidney more.
Your brother said, that the letter which was sent to you had come from the revengeful dog who had robbed his master, and that he would give half his estate to have the villain punished as he deserved. Mr. Faulkland, it seems, had told him this himself. The fellow found it in the pocket-book which he had taken out of the escrutore, and his disappointment
The loss of this letter had alarmed Mr. Faulkland so much, that he put an advertisement into the papers next day, worded in so particular a manner, as shewed how very fearful he was of that letter's coming to light; for, no doubt, he suspected the man might make a dangerous use of it. The advertisement said, that if the servant, who had absconded from his master's house in St. James's Square the night before, would restore the papers which he took with him, they should be received without any questions being asked, and a reward of twenty guineas paid to any person who should bring them
Though this little digression was very pertinent, I was impatient to know what had passed between my mother and Mr. Faulkland on the fatal subject, and could not forbear asking her.
I shall tell you, said she, in order. Your brother and I had some farther altercations; and indeed, my dear, it amazes
I own I had not patience to read the letter through. To say the truth, I but run my eye in a cursory manner over it; I was afraid of meeting, at every line, something offensive to decency. And this was the account, which, in your brother's opinion, was intirely to exculpate Mr. Faulkland. I think I never was so angry. I threw the letter to George with indignation, telling him, I was ashamed to find, that he, after knowing an incident of this kind, had so little regard to the honour of his sister, as to promote a marriage between
I presume he went directly to his friend Faulkland, and told him all that had passed; for the plausible man came to me in the evening, and with looks, full of pretended sorrow, but real guilt, begged I would hear him on the subject of a letter which, he said, he found had unfortunately prejudiced me against him. To be sure he was prepared, and had, with George's help, contrived an artful story to impose on me. He took me unawares; but I was resolved not to give him the advantage or arguments, but proceed to ask him a few plain questions. I therefore cut
I then asked him, taking the young lady's letter out of my pocket, whether that was from the same person, of whom he had written an account to my son whilst he was at Bath? He answered, It is, madam; and I hoped from that letter, which I find Sir George has shewn you, you would be induced to believe that I never formed a thought of injuring that young lady, till some unfortunate circumstances combined, and suddenly surprized me into the commission of a fault that has made us both unhappy. Sir, said I, I don't pretend to know people's hearts, I can only judge of them from their actions. You acknowlege that she was a fine young woman, and you believe innocent: What excuse can you offer for being her destroyer? Dear madam, don't
I felt myself exceedingly displeased with him; I was so disappointed in my opinion of him, that it increased my resentment. Sir, I proceeded, I must inform you, that there is as much now in your power as ever there was. You are still unmarried; the way is open to you to repair the mischief you have done: I will never bring down the curses of an injured maid upon my daughter's head, nor purchase her worldly prosperity at the expence of the shame and sorrow of another woman, for aught I know, as well born, as tenderly bred, and, till she knew you, perhaps as innocent as herself. For heaven's sake, madam! he cry'd, don't, don't, I beseech you, pronounce my fate so hastily.— You must pardon me, Sir, said I, if I beg to hear no more on this subject. Sir George has already said every thing you could expect of your friend to say in your justification, and more than became him
I cannot pretend to repeat to you all he said upon this last article: words of course you may be sure. He intreated, over and over again, that I would permit Sir George to plead for him. I told him, that after the facts he had granted, it was impossible that either he or Sir George could make the affair better; that I was very sorry to find myself disappointed in a person of whom I had conceived so high an
He said some frantic things (for the man seems of a violent temper); but finding me peremptory, took his leave with respect.
I understand from Sir George, that he flew directly down to Richmond, to a little house he has there, where he has remained ever since; but sends every day to enquire after your health. Sir George, I am sure, sees him often; for he frequently goes out early in the morning, and stays abroad till night. The increase of your illness, from the time I received the last visit from Mr. Faulkland, to such a degree as to alarm us for your life, I suppose, prevented your brother from reassuming the subject; though I can perceive
Shall I own my weakness to you, my dear Cecilia? I was ready to melt into tears; my spirits, exhausted by sickness, were not proof against this unexpected blow; a heavy sigh burst from my heart, that gave me a little relief. You know my mother is rigid in her notions of virtue; and I was determined to shew her that I would endeavour to imitate her. I therefore suppressed the swelling passion in my breast, and, with as much composure as I could assume, told her, I thought she acted as became her; and that, with regard to Mr. Faulkland, my opinion of his conduct was such, that I never desired to see him more. This answer, dictated
The honest pride that my mother endeavoured to inspire me with, had a good effect, and kept up my spirits for a time.
She told me, she was sure that Sir George would quarrel with us both, when we came to talk upon the subject of the marriage;
You know my mother has ever been despotic in her government of me; and had I even been inclined to dissent from her judgment in a matter of this importance, it would have been to no purpose; but this was really far from my thoughts.
I was as much disgusted with Mr. Faulkland as she was, and as heartily pitied the unhappy young creature whom he had undone.
You may recollect, my dear, that my mother, tho' strictly nice in every particular, has a sort of partiality to her own sex, and where there is the least room for it, throws the whole of the blame upon the man's side; who, from her own early prepossessions, she is always inclined to think are deceivers of women. I am not surprized at this bias in her; her early disappointment, with the attending circumstances, gave her this impression. She is warm, and sometimes sudden, in her attachments; and yet it is not always difficult
How I am shock'd, my Cecilia, to think of this! I was glad my mother had spared his confusion on this particular; for though probably, as she observed, he had come prepared with some evasion to this charge, yet what a mean figure must a man make, who is reduced to disingenuous shifts, to excuse or palliate an action, despicable as well as wicked!
My brother came in, during our discourse, to ask me how I did. My mother answered his question before I had time to speak. She is pretty well, thank God! and not likely to break her heart, though she knows your friend Mr. Faulkland's story (and she spoke in scornfully). My brother said, Sidney, Are you as
Sir, you are disrespectful, said my mother angrily. Dear brother, I cry'd I beg you will spare me on this subject; my mother has given me leave to judge for myself; she has repeated all that you have said, and all that Mr. Faulkland has
My brother left the room with these words. My mother was downright in a passion, but soon cooled on his withdrawing.
My spirits were quite fatigued; and my mother left me, that I might take a little rest.
What a strange alteration have a few days produced! our domestic peace broke
I long to know who this ill-fated girl
I will add no more to this, but send the packet off at all events; I think I will find you at Paris.
August 1.—
My health promises to return: my mother praises me, and calls me a Heroine. I begin to fancy myself one: our pride sometimes stands in the place of virtue.
Sir George went to Richmond yesterday. We have scarce seen him since the tift he had with us the other day. What strange creatures these men are, even the best of them! and how light they make of
My mother takes his behaviour very ill: he staid all night with his friend, and returned to town this morning: he only looked into my room, to ask me how I did: my mother was sitting with me. I believe that hindered him from coming in; for he looked as if he wanted to speak to me. He bowed to my mother, but said not a word; he went abroad again as soon as he was dressed, and did not come in till late. I fear his conduct will oblige us to separate; for my mother will not brook any liberties to be taken with her: she hinted as much, and said she believed Sir George was tired of living regularly.
She anticipated the request I intended to make to her, of letting me go out of town; for she said, as soon as I was able, I should remove into the country for a while. Sidney Castle is too long a journey for me at present to think of undertaking, and she talks of going into Essex, on a visit to Lady Grimston, which we have long promised her. I shall like this
August 4.—
Sir George continues sullen and cold to us: he never has had an opportunity of saying any thing particular to me since the day he said so much. My mother scarce ever leaves me; he seems nettled at this. I believe he would endeavour to work on me, as he knows the attempt would be vain in regard to her. As I am now well enough to receive the visits of our intimate acquaintance, I am never without company. I am really in pretty good spirits, and bear my disappointment (as I told you I would) very handsomely. I never hear Mr. Faulkland's name mentioned, no more than if such a man did not exist. We are to set out for lady Grimston's house on Tuesday; it is but twenty miles from London; and I am already strong enough to bear a longer journey.
My mother told Sir George, that if he
August 5.—
I have been obliged to turn away my poor Ellen. She was so imprudent as to receive a letter for me from Mr. Faulkland's man, contrary to my mother's express commands. She brought it to me, and I gave it to my mother unopened; who put it directly into the fire without reading it, and told me it would oblige her, if I would part with the servant who had presumed to take it after her prohibition. I instantly obeyed, and have just discharged her. I should have a sad loss of her, only I am in hopes of having her place well supplied by an old acquaintance and play-fellow of ours, poor Patty Main; her father is dead, and she is obliged to go to service, for he has left a widow with six children. The eldest
Patty came to town last week with a lady from our neighbourhood, who applied to my mother to recommend the girl to wait on some person of fashion. My mother has been looking out for a suitable place for her; but she told me today, she thought I could not do better than take her to myself; I shall be very glad to have her, for she is an amiable young woman.
August 6.—
We go out of town at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, as we are to dine at Grimston-hall, and purpose going at our leisure. I will steal a few minutes from sleep, though it is now very late, to give you a short scene which passed in my chamber about an hour ago.
Sir George (who, according to his late custom, had been abroad all day) came
This being the eve of our journey, some little domestic matters, which my mother had to settle, called her out of the room. Sir George took that opportunity to ask me, whether my mother had shewed me the letter which he had received
I am very sorry for your sake, Sidney, said he, that our mother is of so inflexible a temper; you have lost by it, what you will have reason to regret as long as you live. Such amazing obstinacy! such unaccountable perverseness! I do not want to shake your filial obedience; but I, for my own part, think that nothing but infatuation can account for your mother's conduct—Does she want a man without passions? Or have you filled your head with such chimaerical notions as to— I interrupted him (for my brother is not always nice in his choice of words);—Dear Sir George, say no more; I am very well contented as I am. I will not increase your uneasiness, said he, by telling you what Faulkland has suffered on this occasion.
Patty Main, who gladly accepted of the offer of my service, came home to me this evening. She is grown very tall and genteel. I hardly know how to treat her as a servant; but the good girl is so humble, that she does all in her power to make me forget that I ever knew her in a better situation; but in this she fails of her purpose, for it only serves to remind me the more strongly of it: she is so ready, and so handy, that she does twenty little offices that do not belong to her place, and which are not expected of her. My mother is exceedingly pleased with her, and
We arrived here yesterday, and met a most friendly reception from the lady of this mansion. But before I say any more of her, I will hasten to a more interesting subject. I have got Mr. Faulkland's letter to my mother; she has just put it into my hands; and while she walks in the garden with lady Grimston, I will make haste to transcribe it. Thus it is:
Dorothy Faulkland
I submit to the sentence you have passed on me. I am miserable, but do not presume to expostulate. I purpose leaving England directly; but would wish, if possible (a little to mitigate the severity of my lot), to convince you, that the unhappy rejected man, who aspired to the honour of being your son-in-law,
To Sir George's friendship I know I am much indebted for endeavouring to vindicate me. It was not in his power, it was not in my own; for you saw all which I, in unreserved freedom, wrote to him on the subject of my acquaintance with Miss B.
I have but one resource left; perhaps, madam, you will think it a strange one. To the lady herself I must appeal. She will do me justice, and I am sure will be ready to acknowledge that I am no betrayer of innocence, no breaker of promises; that I was surprized into the commission of a fault, for which I have paid so dear a price.
Her testimony, madam, may perhaps have some weight with you; though I propose nothing more from it, than that you may think of me with less detestation. You have banished me from your presence: I am a voluntary exile from my country, and from my friends: I submit to the chastisement, and would
The lady whom it has been my ill fate to render unhappy, and by whom I am made unutterable so, will, ere long, come to a house at Putney, which I have taken on purpose for her. I have placed in it my housekeeper, a grave worthy woman, under whose care she will be safe, and attended with that secrecy and tenderness which her condition requires.
I have written to her a faithful account of every thing relative to my hoped-for alliance with your family, and the occasion of the treaty's being broken off. As she must, by this means, know that your ladyship is acquainted with her story, I have told her, that, perhaps you might, from the interest you took in her misfortune, be induced to see her in her retirement. Let me, therefore, conjure you,
I think she will be in very good hands with the honest woman who waits her coming; but if any thing should happen otherwise than well, it would make me doubly wretched.
To one who has no resources of contentment in her own bosom, solitude cannot be a friend; this I fear may be the lady's case; and this makes me with the more earnestness urge my request to you. Forgive me, madam, for the liberty I take with you; a liberty, which though I confess it needs an apology, yet is it at the same time a proof of the confidence I have in you, which I hope will not affront either your candour or your virtue.
If you will condescend to grant this request, I shall obtain the two wishes at present most material to my peace; the one to secure to the lady a compassionate friend, already inclined to espouse her cause; the other, to put it in your power to be satisfied from the lady's own mouth of the truth of what I have asserted. I trust to her generosity to deal openly on this occasion.
I wish you and Miss Bidulph every
blessing that heaven can bestow, and am,
with great respect,
Madam,
Your ladyship's most obedient,
Humble Servant,
ORLANDO FAULKLAND.
P.S. The lady will go by the name of Mrs. Jefferis: you will pardon me for not having mentioned her real name. I never yet told it even to Sir George; but I presume she will make no secret of it to you, if you honour her with a visit.
Poor Orlando! unhappy Miss B.! I could name a third person, that is not
I make no doubt of her complying with Mr. Faulkland's request in seeing the lady: she is very compassionate, particularly to her own sex.
What a strange resource indeed is this of Mr. Faulkland's, to appeal to the lady herself! What am I to judge from it, but that the unfortunate victim, ignorant of the treachery that was practised against her by her wicked aunt, and that her destroyer paid a price for her dishonour, exculpates him from the worst part of the guilt, and perhaps, poor easy creature,
But even supposing Miss B. were generous and candid enough (and great indeed must be her candour and generosity) to justify this guilty man, What would it avail? Did not my mother tell me she conceived a sort of horror at the bare idea of an union between Mr. Faulkland and me? This arises from the strong impression made on her by the unlucky event which blasted her own early love. Strong and early prejudices are almost insurmountable.
My mother's piety, genuine and rational as it is, is notwithstanding a little tinctured with superstition; it was the error of her education, and her good sense has not been able to surmount it; so that I know the universe would not induce her to change her resolution in regard to Mr. Faulkland. She thinks he ought to marry Miss B. and she will ever think so. I wish he would; for I am sure he never can be mine. The bell
I saw my mother rested her compliance with Mr. Faulkland's request, merely on one point; that of compassion to the girl. As for the other motive, said she, the hearing him justified from the lady's own mouth, I am not such a novice in those matters, but that I know when a deluding man has once got an ascendency over a young creature, he can coax her into any thing. Too much truth I doubt there is in this observation of my mother's.
But it is time to say something of lady Grimston. My Cecilia has never seen her, though I believe she has often heard my mother speak of her. They are nearly of an age, and much of the same cast of thinking; though with this difference, that lady Grimston is extravagantly rigid in her notions, and precise in her manner. She has been a widow for many years, and lives upon a large jointure at Grimston-hall, with as much regularity and solemnity, as you would see in a
August 10.—
All our motions here are as regular as the clock. The family rise at six; we are summoned to breakfast at eight; at ten a venerable congregation are assembled to prayers, which an ancient clergyman, who is curate of
August 14.—
You cannot expect, in such a house as this is, my dear, that I
This visit has given me hopes that I may now-and-then have a chance for seeing a human face, besides the antiques of the family, and those which are depicted on the arras. Though not to disparage the people, they were all agreeable enough in their different ways. The old dean is good-humoured and polite; I mean the true politeness, that of the heart, which dictates the most obliging things in so frank a manner, that they have not the least appearance of flattery. Being very nearsighted, he put on a pair of spectacles to look at me, and turning to Mr. Arnold, with a vivacity that would have become five-and-twenty, he repeated,
(?)(?)
'With an air and a face,
'And a shape and a grace,&c.' The young man smiled his assent, and my mother looked so delighted, that the good-natured dean's compliment pleased me for her sake. Lady Grimston, who is
August 15.—
This packet is already so large that I am sure it will frighten you. I will therefore send it off before I increase it; especially as I am now so much in the hum-drum way, that I ought, out of policy, to make a break in my narrative, in order to encourage you to read it. Positively, if things do not mend, and that considerably too—Patty shall keep the Journal; for I find myself already disposed to sleep over it.
August 20.—
I have looked over what Patty has writ for the five last days; upon my word she is a very good journalist, as well as amanuensis; and she has given you, to the full, as good an account of matters and things as I could.
My time passes rather more tolerably than I expected. The dean's family seem to have broken the solitary spell that hung over the house, and we have company you see every day. Mr. Arnold never fails. I always make him play' he is very obliging, and, if he were not good natured, I should tire him.
August 22.—
I have had a letter from Sir George; he mentions not Mr. Faulkland; I too am endeavouring to forget him. When my mother goes to London, I will try to prevail on her to let me go down to Sidney Castle. I have no inclination to go to town, and less to stay here. We are to have a concert to-morrow at Mr. Arnold's house. My lively good old dean touches the bass viol, his
August 30.—
Are you not tired of my Grimston journal, my Cecilia? Day after day rolls on, and the same dull repetion! Lady Grimston, the Dean, and Mr. Arnold, perpetually! there is no bearing this, you cry. Well, but here is a new personage arrived to diversify the scene a little. Lady Grimston's daughter, a sweet woman; but her mother does not seem fond of her. It amazes me, for she is perfectly amiable, both in temper and person; she is a widow of about eight-and-twenty. Lady Grimston appears to treat her with a distance very unmaternal; and the poor young woman seems so humbled, that I pity her. She is come but on a visit, and we shall lose her in a week, for which I am very sorry, as I have taken a fancy to her.
September 1.—
Poor Mrs. Vere! that is the name of lady Grimston's daughter.
How happy you are, dear Miss Bidulph! said she: you seem to be blessed with one of the tenderest of parents. I am indeed, I answered; she is one of the best of mothers, and the best of women. She sighed, and a tear started into her eye; I too was happy once, said she, when my indulgent father lived. I hope, madam, lady Grimston is to you, what my good mother is to me. She shook her head: No, Miss Bidulph, it must be but too obvious to you that she is not. I should not have introduced the subject, if the cold severity of her looks were not so apparent that you must have taken notice of them. My mother is undoubtedly, a very good woman; and you may naturally suppose, that my conduct has been such as to deserve her frowns; I will therefore tell you my melancholy, though short, story. It is now about twelve years since Mr. Vere
This offer, I suppose, was advantageous; for she immediately consulted my father upon it, or rather gave him to understand that she meant to dispose of her daughter in marriage.
My father, who had no objection to the match, told her he was very well satisfied, provided I liked the gentleman; but said
My mother told him, she was sorry he had such romantic notions, as to think a girl of my age capable of having any ideas of preference for one man more than another; that she took it for granted I had never presumed to entertain a thought of any man as yet, and supposed her precepts had not been so far thrown away upon me, as that I could let it enter into my head that any thing but parental authority was to guide me in my choice.
My father, from the gentleness of his nature, had been so accustomed to acquiesce, that he made no other reply than to bid my mother use her discretion. He came directly to me notwithstanding, and told me what had passed. It was then, for the first time, that I discovered I loved
Though my kind father chid me gently for admitting a lover without his or my mother's approbation, yet at the same time he told me, he would endeavour to dissuade her from prosecuting the other match; though he could wish, he said, I would try to bring myself to accept of it; adding, he was afraid my mother would be much incensed by a denial.
My mother was fond of grandeur; and would not like to have me marry any one, who not could at once make me mistress of a fine house, and a fine equipage; which I knew I must not expect to be the case with Mr. Vere. His father
These discouragements, however, did not hinder me from indulging my wishes. My father's tenderness was the foundation on which I built my hopes. I told Mr. Vere the designs of one parent, and the kind condescension of the other. Emboldened by this information, he ventured to disclose his love to my father, begging his interest with my mother in his favour. He had a great kindness for the youth, and was so fond of me, that he would readily have consented to my happiness, if the fear of disobliging my mother had not checked him. He represented to her in the mildest manner, the utter dislike I had expressed of the proposed match, and conjured her not to insist on it. My mother, unused to be controuled, was filled with resentment both against him and me; she said, he encouraged me in
My good father, who loved my mother exceedingly, was alarmed at this menace. Unwilling to come to extremities either with her or me, he was at a loss how to act. His paternal love at length prevailed, and he determined, at all events, to save me from the violence which he knew would be put upon my heart.
My mother had never condescended to talk to me on the subject: she thought my immediate obedience ought to have followed the bare knowledge of her will. She forbad me her sight, and charged me never to appear before her, till I came with a determination to obey her.
However severe this prohibition was, I yielded to it with the less reluctance, as my father's tender love made me amends for my mother's harshness. Perhaps, had she vouchsafed to reason a little with me,
My mother had given me a stated time in which I was to come to a resolution, and if I did not, at the expiration of it, acquiesce, I was to be pronounced a reprobate, and to be no more considered as her child. In this emergency I had recourse to my father. I told him there was nothing which I was not ready to suffer, rather than marry the man I hated: my greatest affliction was the uneasiness I saw him endure on my account; for my mother reproached him daily with my obstinacy.
My father said, he thought the alternative offered by mother, was to be
Mr. Vere's father was no stranger to his son's attachment, and we were very sure he would readily come into the proposal which my father intended to me.
The two parents had a meeting secretly, where all the terms of portion and settlement were speedily and privately adjusted. Mr. Vere the father, who had been long
Every thing was conducted in the manner proposed. I was married with the utmost privacy, and continued in my father's house till the day arrived, when I was to give my definitive answer.
Unfortunately for me, my mother chose to receive it from my own mouth, and called me into her presence. I appeared before her trembling and terrified: I had not seen her for a fortnight, and I was in dread, lest the discovery I had to make, should banish me her sight perhaps for ever, unless my father might influence her in time to forgive me. She
I flew to my father, and conjured him to let my mother know the truth at once, that I might be no longer subject to such harsh treatment; for I knew the being sent home to my husband would be the consequence of her being told that I had one.
My poor father was almost afraid to undertake the task, though he had been the chief promoter of my marriage, and his authority ought to have given sanction to it. He ventured however to let her know, that I had confessed to him what my fears of her immediate resentment
Mr. Vere's whole family received me with great tenderness; but I was sorry at leaving my father, whose visits to me were made but seldom, and even those by stealth.
My situation, though I was united to the man I loved, and caressed by all his family, was far from being happy. My mother's inflexible temper was not to be wrought upon, notwithstanding my father did his utmost to prevail on her to see and to forgive me; and she carried her resentment so far, that she told my father, unless he cut me off intirely in his will, she was determined to separate herself totally from him. This was an extremity he by no means expected she would have gone to.
In a fit of sickness, which had seized him a few years before, he had left me ten thousand pounds; five of this he had secretly transferred to Mr. Vere on the day of my marriage, and had promised him to bequeath me five more at his death.
In consequence of this disposition, he purposed making a new will, so that he the less scrupled giving my mother up the old one, with a promise of making another agreeable to her request.
My mother's jointure was already settled on her; my eldest sister had received her portion; so that there was little bequeathed by this testament, but my fortune, and a few other small legacies.
My mother tore the will with indignation, and not satisfied with my father's promise, insisted on his putting it into execution immediately. In short, his easy temper yielded to her importunities, and he had a will drawn up by her instructions, in which I was cut off with one shilling, and my intended fortune bequeathed to my eldest sister. My mother was made residuary legatee to every thing
Had my mother known this secret, she would not perhaps have been so ready to have made my father devise all my intended fortune to my sister. My father, who was aware of this, durst not however inform her at that juncture, how much she hurt herself by forcing him to such measures. She insisted upon his leaving the whole of what he designed for me to my eldest sister; as well to convince him, she said, that she had no self-interested views, as to be an example to other rebellious children.
My father had no remedy on these occasions, but a patient acquiescence: the will was made, and my mother herself would keep it.
My father took an opportunity the same day to inform me what he had done; but assured me, he would immediately make another will, agreeable to his first intentions, and leave it in the hands of a faithful friend.
This was his design; but alas he lived not to execute it! He was seized that night with a paralytic disorder, which at once deprived him of the use of his limbs and his speech. They who were about him believe he retained his senses, but he was not capable of making himself understood even by signs. Alarmed with this dismal account of my beloved father's situation, I flew to the house without considering my mother's displeasure; but I was not permitted to see him. I filled the house with my cries, but to no purpose I had not the satisfaction of receiving even a farewel look from him, which was all he was capable of bestowing on me.
He languished for several days in this melancholy condition, and then, in spite of the aid of physic, expired.
The loss of this dear father so intirely took up my thoughts, that I never reflected on the loss of the remaining part of my fortune; but it was not so with my father-in-law. There had been a settlement made on me in consequence of the fortune promised; though not equal to what it demanded, yet superior to the half which was paid. He relied on my father's word for the remainder, and had no doubt of its being secured to him, knowing his circumstances, as well as his strict integrity, and that my sister had actually received the same fortune which I was promised.
Mr. Vere had four daughters, and it was on this fortune he chiefly depended to provide for them.
The news of my being cut off with a shilling exceedingly surprized and exasperated him. Unluckily I had not mentioned to him, nor even to my husband, the will which my father had been obliged to make. The assurances he gave me, of immediately making another in my favour, prevented me; as I thought it would
It was now thought adviseable, that I should write to my mother, to condole with her on my father's death; again to intreat her forgiveness of my fault, and, as some mitigation of it, to acknowledge that it was not only with my father's privity, but even with his consent and approbation, that I had married.
I wrote this letter in a strain of the utmost
My mother had been left sole executrix to my father's forced will; and she took care to put my sister, and the other legatees, into possession of what was bequeathed to them, in a very short time after his decease. She found there was an unexpected deficiency in his personal fortune, insomuch that there was barely enough to pay his debts; and that her being left the residue, after the specified legacies were paid, amounted to nothing. On the contrary,
She was not long however at a loss to know how this came to pass. Mr. Vere determined to assert his own, and his son's right; and being exceedingly provoked at my mother's behaviour, wrote to her immediately on his return home; and having informed her of the settlement made on me, on account of the fortune already paid, and what was farther agreed on to be paid by my father, told her, he expected that this promise should be punctually fulfilled. He said, he knew she had it in her power to do this; and since it was by her contrivance I had been robbed of my just right, if honour, and the duty of a parent, would not induce her to make me proper amends, she must excuse him, if he made use of such means as the laws allowed him, in order to compel her.
Such a letter, to a woman of my mother's
This exasperating reply made my father-in-law directly commence a suit against her, in which the other legatees were made parties. The distress I felt on this occasion is scarce to be imagined; the breach was now so widened between my mother and my husband's family, that there remained not the least hope of its ever being closed. Mr. Vere unwillingly joined with his father in pursuit of these measures. He would for my sake much rather have yielded up his expectations, than supported them at the expence of my quiet; but his father's will, and justice to the rest of his family, compelled him to proceed, and deprived me of any pretence for interposing.
The law-suit was carrying on with
I will not pretend to describe my sufferings to you on this sad occasion; they were aggravated by my being near the time of lying-in.
Whatever affliction Mr. Vere felt for the death of his only son, it did not make him forgetful of what he owed his daughters; and he was resolved to carry on the law-suit with the utmost vigour.
You may suppose the house wherein I had lost a beloved husband appeared a dismal place to me, especially in my present situation. I thought too, my father's looks began to grow colder to me than they used to be; and I begged I might have his permission to remove for a while. He did not oppose it, and I went, at the pressing intreaties of your favourite, the good old dean, to his house; where he and
Mr. Vere, though I had left his house, visited me constantly, and kept up a shew of tenderness, which I am sure he had not in his heart: I told him one day, whilst I was still confined to my bed, that as I had now lost both my husband and
I was much better pleased at this losing agreement, than if I had acquired a large accession of fortune.
Mr. Vere soon got the proper deeds ready, and they were executed in form.
I now relapsed into an illness, from which I was supposed to have been quite recovered, and my life was thought in great danger. I have since been told, that Mr. Vere repented his agreement at that juncture, and told some of his friends, that if he had not been so hasty, he should have had a chance for my jointure and my fortune too.
I begged of the dean to go to my mother, and use his last efforts on her, to prevail with her to see and forgive me, before I died; at the same time I sent her the release I had procured from Mr. Vere, which I knew was the most acceptable present I could make her. The dean urged the danger I was in, without its seeming to make much impression on her. I am willing to believe, that she thought the dean exaggerated in his account of my illness. He owned to me himself, that he was shocked to find her so obdurate. At length, he took the paper out of his pocket, and presenting it to her, I am sorry, madam, said he, I cannot prevail with you to act like a parent or a christian;
My mother, a good deal alarmed at the dean's manner of speaking, now examined the contents of the paper. She seemed affected, and called him back, as he was just leaving the room. She told him, she was not lost to the feelings of nature; and that if he thought her presence would contribute to ease my mind of the remorse it must needs labour under, she was not against seeing me.
The good man, glad to find her in this yielding disposition, told her she could
She staid with me not more than a quarter of an hour, and having talked of indifferent things, without once so much as mentioning what I had done, she took a cold and formal leave.
This interview, as little cordial as my mother's behaviour was to me, had so good an effect on me, that I began perceptibly to mend from that hour. She sent indeed constantly to inquire how I did; but avoided coming, lest, as she said, she should meet with Mr. Vere, whom she could never forgive. As soon as I was in a condition to go abroad, I went to
I did not choose to return to Mr. Vere's house, as I had only a polite, not a kind invitation. One of his daughters, she who had been present at my marriage, and who always had shewn most affection towards me, was about this time married to a gentleman, whose estate lay in another county. When the bride went home, she pressed me to go with her so warmly, that I could not refuse her; and during the time I staid with her, I received so many marks of tenderness from her, that I resolved to settle in her neighbourhood; and have now a little house near her, where I have resided constantly ever since. I come once or twice a year to pay a visit to my mother; but my reception, as you may see, is always cold, and I seldom stay more than a few days.
Old Mr. Vere is dead; and his daughters,
I was much affected at the story of the amiable Mrs. Vere. The sweet melancholy, which predominates in her countenance, shews that the spirits, when broken in the bud of youth, are hardly to be recovered. What a tyrant this lady Grimston is! I did not admire her before, but I now absolutely dislike her. What a wife and a mother has she been to a husband and a daughter, who might have constituted the happiness of a woman of a different temper! And yet, she passes for a wonderful good woman, and a pattern of all those virtues of a religion which meekness, and forgiveness characterise. She is mistaken, if she thinks that authority is necessary to christianity. The most that my charity allows me to believe of
What an angel is my good mother, when compared to this her friend, whom her humility makes her look upon as her superior in virtue! I am very angry with Sir George, who is in his resentment, said to me once, that she was like lady Grimston. I then knew but little of that lady's character, or I should have reproved him for it.
I conjured Mrs. Vere to make her visit longer than she had at first intended. She told me, she would most gladly do it; but that it was a liberty she did not dare to take, unless her mother asked her to prolong it; which, she said, she possibly might do in complaisance to me.
September 4.—
My mother I find has made lady Grimston her confidant in relation to my affairs; the dear woman never keeps her mind to herself on any subject. Lady Grimston highly applauds her conduct
September 6.—
My mother and lady
Mrs. Vere tells me, she suspects the subject of their conferences; but she is perverse, and will not tell me what she thinks, for fear, as she says, she should have guessed wrong, and her surmises would only teaze me.
September 10.—
A packet sent me from London—A letter from Sir George —one from my Cecilia—and so soon too! Welcome, welcome, thou faithful messenger from the faithfulest of hearts!
Thou dear anticipating little prophetess! What put it into thy head to call Mr. Arnold a new conquest, upon my but barely mentioning him to you? I was just going to tell you all; and behold your own whimsical imagination has suggested the most material part to you already.
This has been the subject of my mother's and lady Grimston's private conferences; and Mrs. Vere (sly thing as she is) guessed it. It seems Mr. Arnold disclosed his passion to lady Grimston, in order to ask her advice about it. She loves mightily to be consulted; and, ill-starred as I am, did me the honour to recommend me strongly to him; and she has prepossessed my mother too in favour of this new man. I wish the meddling old dame had been dumb. Now shall I go through another fiery trial! Heaven help me, if lady Grimston were to be my judge! But my mother is all goodness.
Well, but you want a description of this man. I will give it to you, though I have scarce patience to write about him. Indeed, Cecilia, I am vexed; I foresee a great deal of trouble from that quarter.— But come, I will try what I can say.
The man is about thirty, genteel, and handsome enough; at least he is reckoned so, and I believe I should think him so, if I were not angry with him. He is very like your brother Henry; and you know he is an allowed handsome man. He seems to have plain good sense, and is good-humoured I believe: I do not know of what colour his eyes are, for I never looked much at him. Lady Grimston says he is a scholar (a thing she pretends to value highly) and a mighty sober, pious, worthy gentleman. He is of a very good family; and has an estate of about fifteen hundred pounds a year, upon which there is a jointure of three hundred pounds a year, paid to his brother's widow. Part of the estate is in Kent, and part in this county of Essex, where he has a mansion-house, a well-enough
I have told you already, he plays divinely on several instruments; this is the only circumstance about him that pleases me.
He has not yet made his addresses to me in form; yet we all know that he intends it, from his uncommon assiduity towards me; but he has a sort of reserve about him, and loves to do every thing in his own way.
Bless me!—here he is—his chariot has just driven into the court; and Mrs. Vere peeps in upon me, and with a most vexatious archness, bids me come down to the parlour; but I will not, unless my mother desires me. I will go into the garden, to be for a while out of the way.
September 11.—
Yesterday evening was productive of nothing but looks and compliments, and bows, and so forth; except two or three delightful pieces of
I was sitting in the little drawing-room, reading,w hen he came in. To be sure he was sent to me by the ancient ladies, otherwise he would not have intruded; for the man is not ill-bred. The book happened to be Horace; upon his entering the room, I laid it by; he asked me politely enough, what were my studies. When I named the author, he took the book up, land opening the leaves, started, and looked me full in the face; I coloured. My charming Miss Bidulph, said he, do you prefer this to the agreeable entertainment of finishing this beautiful rose here, that seems to blush at your neglect
You are so lovely, madam, that nothing you can do needs an apology. An apology, I'll assure you! did not this look, my dear, as if the man thought I ought to beg his pardon for understanding Latin? For this accidental, and I think (to a woman) trivial accomplishment, I am indebted, you know, to Sir George, who took so much pains with me the two or three summers he was indisposed at Sidney Castle.
He then proceeded to tell me how much he admired, how much he loved me! and that having been encouraged by lady Grimston's assuring him that I was disengaged (observe that) he presumed to tell me so. Oh, thought I, perhaps thou art thyself a Grimstonian,
I was in some confusion at their entering the room. Mr. Arnold had at that minute laid hold of one of my hands, and I had but just time to withdraw it, when the door flew open to give entrance to the two ladies and the good man: the latter lifting up both his hands, as if conscious of having done something wrong, with a good-humoured freedom, asked pardon; but with a look that seemed to indicate, he thought the apology necessary both to Mr. Arnold and me. This disconcerted me more; my mother smiled, and lady Grimston drew up her long neck, and winked at the dean. I took up my hat, that lay in a window, without well-knowing what I did, and said, I would wait on
Mrs. Vere delivered her sentiments with such a calm sweetness, such a disinterested sincerity, that what she said made an impression on me. We are apt, contrary as it may seem to reason, to be more wrought upon by the opinion and advice of young people like ourselves, than by that of persons whose experience certainly gives them a better right to form judgments: but we have a sort of a natural repugnance to the being dictated to, even by those who have an authority to do it; and as age gives a superiority, every thing that comes from it carries a sort of air of prescribing, which we are wonderfully inclined to reject.
Had lady Grimston said this to me, it would have put me upon my guard, as suspecting a design on my liberty of choice. Even my good mother might have been listened to on this subject not without uneasiness; though my duty to her would not suffer me to give her a moment's pain, unless I was sure that my eternal as well as temporal happiness was at stake.
I told Mrs. Vere that I had no aversion to Mr. Arnold; on the contrary, that if I had a sister, I should wish her married to him. Now, my Cecilia, the mischief of it is, there can be no reasonable objection made to him: he is a very tolerable man; but I knew a man once that I liked better—but fie, fie upon him! I am sure I ought not to like him, and therefore I will not. I am positive, if I were let alone, I should be as happy as ever.
I told you I got a letter from my brother; he says in it, he has had one from Mr. Faulkland, who is now in your part of the world. He tells Sir George, that 'that if my lady Bidulph will be so good as to see Miss B. and converse with her, he is not without hopes that she may so far exculpate him, as to induce my lady to repeal his sentence of banishment.' Sir George adds his own wishes for this, but says (go give you his words) he fears the wench will not be honest enough to do Faulkland justice—Justice! what can my brother mean by this? How ungenerous these men are, even the best of
To what purpose then would it be? I know my mother's sentiments already on that head. I would not shew Sir George's letter to her, he had said so many ridiculous things about lady Grimston in it, which I know would have offended her highly; otherwise, on account of Mr. Faulkland's paragraph, I should have been glad she had seen it.
September 12.—
Ah, my sister! my friend! What shall I do? Oh that officious lady Grimston—What ill star drove me to her house? Nothing would serve her but she must know what Mr. Arnold said to me in the drawing-room
He thence took occasion to apply particularly to my mother, apologizing at the same time for his not having done it before. What the self-sufficient creature added, I know not; for my mother, from whom I had this account, did not repeat all he said; but it seems it was enough to make her imagine I had not heard him reluctantly, and accordingly she gave him her permission to win me and wear me.
I could cry for very vexation to be made such a puppet of. This eclaircissement I dreaded before I had time to explain myself to my mother. The best of
Dear madam, said I, sure Mr. Arnold did not say, that I had encouraged his addresses. Encouraged, my dear! why sure the hearing, from a young lady of your education, is encouragement enough to a man of sense.—I heard him with complaisance, madam, because I thought that due to him; but I had not time to tell him, that it was my wish to remain single, at least for some time. My mother look surprized. "Sidney, this is not what I expected from you; I flattered myself you thought no longer of Mr. Faulkland."
She contracted her brow a little. Madam, I do not; indeed I think no more of him; but may I not be permitted to continue as I am?
Had you never had any engagement with Mr. Faulkland, answered my mother,
Lady Grimston has put your affair in such a light to me, as I never considered it in before. How mortifying must the reflection be, my dear, to think that it may be said Mr. Faulkland perhaps flew off, from some disadvantageous circumstance he discovered in regard to you. The world wants not envious malicious tongues enough to give it this turn. Your unlucky illness, and your brothers ill-timed assiduity in going so often to him when he was at Richmond, looks as if we had been endeavouring to recal him. Every body knows the marriage was almost concluded; and lady Grimston, though she thinks our reasons for breaking it off were extremely cogent, yet as she knows the world well, thinks it has not virtue enough to believe those to be the true reasons, and that it will be much more apt to put an invidious construction on the affair, that may be very detrimental to you in your future prospects. These
She left me with these cruel words; cruel in their kindness—Oh! she knows I am flexible by nature, and to her will yielding as air. What can I do? My
I have told Mrs. Vere what my mother said to me; she is intirely of her mind; every body is combined against me; I am treated like a baby, that knows not what is fit for it to choose or to reject.
September 15.—
I have been searching my heart, my dear Cecilia, to try if there remained a lurking particle of my former flame unextinguished; a flame I call it, as we are allowed the metaphor; but it never rose to that; it was but a single ray, a gentle glow that just warmed my breast without scorching: what it might have arisen to, I will not say; but
This was a very necessary scrutiny before I would even entertain a thought of Mr. Arnold; and believe me, had I found it otherwise than I say, I would rather have hazarded my mother's displeasure by owning the truth to her, than injure any man, by giving him my hand with an estranged heart.
I will acknowlege to you, my sister, that it was not without a struggle I reduced my mind to this frame. My heart (foolish thing!) industrious to perplex itself, would fain have suggested some palliating circumstances in Mr. Faulkland's favour; but I forbid it to interpose. Trifler, said I, let your guardian, your proper guide, judge and determine for you in this important cause, whereon so much of your future peace depends. It sighed, but had the virtue to submit; and I arraigned Faulkland before a little tribunal in my breast, where I would suffer reason only to preside. The little felon,
If Mr. Faulkland feared the frailty of his virtue, why did he not fly when he was first alarmed with the knowlege of the lady's passion for him? If not for his own sake, yet at least for her's. If he could not return her love, was he not cruel in suffering her to feed a hopeless flame? But since his evil fate urged him on, and the unhappy girl lost her honour, was he not bound to repair it? He had never seen me at that time, was under no personal engagements to me, and might easily have acquitted himself to my brother, from so justifiable a motive.
What if I had married him, ignorant of this secret, and it had afterwards come to my ears, how miserable would it have made me, to think that I had stood between
You have not forgot, I believe, that about two years ago there was a match proposed to my mother by the bishop of B. between me and his nephew. The young man was heir to a good fortune, was reckoned handsome and accomplished, and I think he really was so: I was intirely free from prepossessions in favour of any one, and had no objection to him, but that I knew he had a most lamentably-vulnerable heart, for he had been in love with two or three women of my acquaintance. My mother mentioned him to me upon the good old prelate's recommendation, and I gave her this as my reason for disliking the offer, which she approved of so intirely, that the thing went no farther. Indeed I think that woman is a fool who risques her contentment with one of a light disposition. Marriage will not change mens natures; and it is not every one who has virtue or prudence enough to be reclaimed. Upon the whole, I am satisfied with my lot; and am sure I could hear with pleasure, that Mr. Faulkland was married to that Miss B.
September 16.—
My mother asked me to-day, Had I considered of what she had been saying to me? I told her I had, and only begged a little more time. She kissed me with tears in her eyes. To be sure, my dear, as much as you can reasonably desire. I know my Sidney is above trifling. Mrs. Vere was present when my mother left the room. Oh, Miss Bidulph, said she, who would refuse to gratify such a parent as that? Had my mother condescended to treat me so, I am sure she could have wrought on me to do any thing she liked, even though it had been repugnant to my inclination. Dear madam, I replied, how sweetly you inforce my duty—Yes, I will obey that kindest, best of mothers. I believe I spoke this, tho' without intending it, in a tone that implied something like making a merit of this concession; for Mrs. Vere immediately answered, There's a good child! that, to oblige its mamma, will accept
September 20.—
How will you plume yourself on your sagacity, Cecilia, when you read this account of my love, which you so wisely foretold? I can tell you I am trying to like Mr. Arnold as fast as I can; I make him sing and play for this purpose from morning till night, for he is here every day, and all day. Lady Grimston holds her head a quarter of a yard higher than she did before; and looks, as who should say, it was I that brought this about. The dean is as frolick as May-day upon it; for he is very fond of Mr. Arnold; but tells him he will not forgive him for robbing him of his second wife; for such he says he intended me. I think his daughter (a pretty girl of about seventeen) looks a little grave of late. I hope she does not like
Lady Grimston has given my mother such a character of Mr. Arnold, that if you will take her word for it, there is not a man like him in the world; and my mother firmly believes every syllable she says. She told me to-day she would write to Sir George, to give him an account of the matter, and desire his advice. This is a compliment she would not omit paying for any consideration, tho' I know my brother's judgment has now lost all credit with her; and that, let his opinion be what it will, she is firmly resolved on her new plan. Knowing as you do my mother's firmness when once she is possessed with a thing, you will not wonder that I did not make attempts to alter her mind, which I knew would be fruitless. She likes Mr. Arnold prodigiously; she
September 23.—
We have received two letters from Sir George; one in answer to my mother's, the other to me. I will give them both to you: the following is a copy of that to my mother.
Dorothy George
I thank you for the honour you do me in asking my advice, in regard to the proposal of marriage you have received for my sister; but I am intirely disqualified from giving you any, as I am an absolute stranger both to the person and character of the gentleman you mention; and know no more of him, than that I have heard there is such a person, who has some estate in the county where you now are.
As you are absolute mistress of your daughter's will, as well as of her person,
Your affectionate son,
and most obedient servant,
London
GEORGE BIDULPH.
Sept. 22.
My mother was exceedingly displeased with this letter. She said Sir George had a haughtiness in him that was very offensive to her. I have acquitted myself in applying to him, and shall give myself no farther trouble about him or his opinion. As for Miss B. I think she can hardly be under a necessity of coming to town as yet, and that affair may keep cold, for I have but little curiosity to hear
Sidney George
I received with concern (though I own not with surprize) an account from my mother of a new treaty of marriage that is on foot between you and a Mr. Arnold, of whom I know nothing. Instead of congratulating you on this occasion, I cannot help condoling with you; for I have a better opinion of your heart than to suppose it can have so soon renounced poor Faulkland. I do not reproach you for your acquiescence in giving him up: I know you could not do otherwise; but why in the name of precipitancy are you to be hurried into wedlock already? You went into the country to recover your health, I thought; prithee, how comes this new husband into your way? I know, child, it is not of your seeking, and do from my heart pity you.
I would by no means have you guilty of a breach of duty to our mother: but for heaven's sake, why don't you try your influence over her, to have this sudden scheme of matrimony suspended, till she sees and talks to this girl that Faulkland refers her to? If the wench owns that he was not to blame so much as she herself was, and relinquishes all pretensions to him, don't you think she (my mother I mean) would in that case remain bound in honour to yield you to his prior claim?
Indeed, Sidney, I must blame you for this part of your conduct; it looks like a strange insensibility in you.
I know you will urge your perfect submission to your mother's will; and I know too, that will is as absolute as that of an Eastern monarch. I therefore repeat it, I do not mean to reproach you with your compliance, but I am vexed to the heart, and must give it vent.
I see plainly that old piece of formality, lady Grimston's infernal shrivelled pay in all this. For my mother of herself,
I wish Miss B. were come to town, but she is not yet arrived. I inquired for her of Faulkland's housekeeper, by the name of Jefferis. The woman is at the house at Putney waiting to receive her, but does not know how soon she will come. Would she had been buried before Faulkland saw her!
I shall expect a letter from you soon. How comes it that you never mentioned Mr. Arnold to me in any that you have writ? But I excuse you, and am
London, Sept. 22.
G.B.
You see this is Sir George himself, my dear; a mixture of petulancy and indelicacy. There is one thing in him, however,
I will now give you my answer to this letter, which I wrote by the return of the post.
George Sidney
I thank you for your condolements, but can assure you my heart is not in such a situation as to require any. I own I had all the esteem for Mr. Faulkland which I thought his merit deserved. Duty to my good mother, and an undeniable blemish in his character, first wrought a change in my sentiments towards him:
You do me justice in supposing that I should never think of seeking a husband; and you have formed as right a judgment in regard to lady Grimston's being the promoter of this union. As for Mr. Arnold, though perhaps (had I never known your friend) he might not have been the man of my choice, yet have I no dislike to him. I believe him to be a very worthy gentleman; and that my mother has not been partial in her representations. I am sure, at least, she has said nothing of him but what she has seen or been told, and has good reason to believe.
I wish, dear brother, you had writ with more caution, that I might have laid before my mother what you said in relation to Miss B. It may have its weight with me, though I cannot answer for its having any with her. Do you forget her having told me, that she conceived a sort of horror at the thoughts of my marrying Mr. Faulkland? She cannot but be
I am, &c.
September 25.—
Mr. Arnold has so many advocates here, that his interest cannot fail of being promoted. Mrs. Vere
Things are now gone so far, that my mother and lady Grimston talked to-day of settlements. Mr. Arnold receives but twelve hundred pounds a year from his estate; his brother's widow, as I have already told you, having a jointure upon it of three hundred pounds a year. She lives intirely in London, and is, I am told, a very imprudent woman, and not at all esteemed by the family. The elder Mr. Arnold and she were married several years, but never had a child; the last two years of his life his wife and he lived separate, her conduct having given room for some suspicions very injurious to her husband's honour.
The Arnold estate was originally a very considerable one, but has been dissipated by the extravagance of the successive possessors. What remains, however, is quite clear, and is likely to be kept so by the good management of the present owner. His late brother was exceedingly remiss in his affairs, and spent most of his time in London; and if it had not been for Mr. Arnold, the mansion-house would have fallen to the ground; but his brother lent it to him, and he kept it in repair for his own use, as he is fond of the place: though he has a pretty house in Kent, belonging to another estate of abut three hundred pounds a year, which came to him by his mother, for he is the son of a second marriage. And this, till his brother's death, was the whole of his income; but he is so good an oeconomist, that he always made a genteeller figure on his three hundred pounds a year, than his brother did on twelve.
My mother, who you know is integrity itself, thinks that I ought not to have more settled on me than the widow of Mr.
She purposes going to town next week, that the wedding—(bless me! whose wedding is it that I am talking of so coolly?) well—that it may be celebrated in her own house. This to be sure will send Sir George directly out of it. I cannot help it; I am born to give, and to receive vexation.
Mr. Arnold speaks of taking a house in London, where my mother is to have an apartment whenever she chooses to be in town. This is a pleasing circumstance to me; and she likewise proposes our being sometimes with her at Sidney Castle. That is a prospect which loses much of its charms, by the reflection that my dear Cecilia is not there.
October 1.—
All preliminaries are settled. There has been a fuss with parchments
October(?) 2/—
This morning my mother, lady Grimston, the dean, and Mr. Arnold (who is the idol of them all) took a rumbling together in the old coach, by way of taking the air, in a dusty road,
What a tormenting old woman is this lady Grimston! I hoped, at least, for the respite of a month, by getting to London. I thought first to have delayed the time of our going to town, and then to have faddled away a good while longer under pretence of preparations; though there is but little room for that now, as all my fineries, destined I thought to another purpose, are lying quietly in my trunks at home. But then one might
My mother purposes writing again to Sir George, to desire his presence at my marriage. I hope he will behave respectfully to every one here, if he should come.
October(?) 5/—
Mr. Arnold has writ to town, to bespeak a new chariot; he will do nothing in regard to the house, till I am on the spot to please myself. I intend sending Patty to town to bring me down my bridal trappings.
Mr. Arnold has given some necessary orders for the new decking of his person, as well as some of the apartments in the
October 9.—
My mother's last letter to Sir George has produced the following answer, which he sent by Patty, when she returned down here with my cloaths.
Dorothy George
I am sorry I cannot accept of the invitation you favour me with, to be present at my sister's nuptials. Some affairs in Wiltshire require my immediate attendance; and I had settled matters before I received your summons, so as to set out as on this day. I wish you all imaginable satisfaction in your new son-in-law, and my sister abundance of happiness in her spouse.
I am, Madam, &c.
London, Oct. 8.
I am glad Sir George does not come down? I am sure is he did, his behaviour
A week, but a short week, to come, before my fate is irrevocably fixed; or revocable only by the hand of death! This reflection, solemn as it is, does not alarm me; because, after again calling my heart to the strictest account, I think I can pronounce it intirely free. Mr. Arnold will soon have an indisputable right to it; and it is my firm purpose to use my utmost endeavours to give him intire possession of it. He every day gains upon my esteem. If his talents are not so glittering as I have seen some others possessed of, he is nevertheless master of an exceedingly good understanding, which a sort of diffidence in his manner does not suffer him to shew at once to the best advantage. His temper is extremely sweet, and he seems to have an openness of heart (when he throws off a little shyness which he has contracted) that is exceedingly engaging. His love for me appears as fervent as I believe it sincere; and I should
October 14.—
How precipitate has been my fortune? Twice within these three months have I been almost at the even of my intended nuptials. Those which were to have been, I thought as certain as those which are now to be solemnized within two days. Who knows what may still happen to frustrate our present designs?—No—there is not another Miss B. to interpose. Mr. Arnold seems to be one of those who are born to pass quietly through life. He has already attained to the age of thirty, without one event ever happening to him, but such as happen to every man every day. May no future storm ever interrupt his or my tranquility; for they will soon be one and the same thing.
October 16.—
The die is thrown, my Cecilia, and thy Sidney is the wife of Mr. Arnold! This day we were married; the good Dean joined our hands, and his
Lady Grimston was downright tiresome with her compliments; and preached an hour long about the duty of children to their parents; and how good a wife that woman was likely to make, who had always been exemplary in her filial obedience. Ah! lady Grimston, thought I, by what I have heard of you, you did not seem to number obedience among wife-like virtues in your own case, though you
We have no company here besides the family of the house, my dear good old Dean, his lady and daughter, one young lady more, and a relation of Mr. Arnold's; a gentleman who came from London on purpose to be present on this (as it is called) joyful occasion.
We shall leave this house to-morrow, Mr. Arnold and I, I mean. I am to be put into possession of the old mansion of Arnold-abbey. Mr mother is to continue
I believe I shall remain in the country while the weather continues pleasant, but am not yet determined.
October 17.—
We took leave of lady Grimston this morning, or rather of her house; for her ladyship, my dear mother, and all the good folks that were our guests at Grimston-hall, are to dine with us today at Arnold-abbey. I desired I might be permited to go home without any parade, and in as private a manner as possible; for you know how I hate a bustle. Mr. Arnold very obligingly indulged me in this request, and conducted my sweet Mrs. Vere and me home in his own coach, at eight of the clock this morning. I found every thing in exact order at Arnold-abbey. The house is very spacious and convenient, though very old-
17031021
October 21.—Visitors still in abundance: all the gentry in the neighbourhood for some miles about have been to pay us their compliments; at least, I hope by this time they have all been here, for we have not had a minute to ourselves these three days. It will take me up ten to return them, as many of the families live at a good distance from hence.
Mr. Arnold, whose mourning has been laid aside since our wedding-day, seems to have a very good taste in dress; he is perfectly well shaped, and appears to great advantage in colours; in short he is more amiable than I thought he was. It is with great pleasure that I observe my young acquaintance, on whose heart I feared Mr. Arnold had made an impression, has recovered her usual vivacity. With people extremely full of spirits, love is not apt to sink very deep, or last long, when it does not meet with a return.
October 30.—
My Mother sets out for London to-morrow, and Mr. Arnold has proposed to me, that he and I should accompany her. He says, he wants to look out for a house, and should like to fix in one before the winter advances; and that we may take up our abode at my mother's till our house is ready for us. My mother is charmed at this proposal: she dreads the thoughts of parting with me; and as she intends going (after
October 31.—
Once more returned to London in very good spirits, after a stay of little more than two months in Essex, in which time so material and unexpected a change has been made in my condition.
Lady Grimston took a most affectionate leave of my mother, and asked her, with more tenderness than I thought her capable
My bother is still in Wiltshire; but I find he did not leave town at the time he mentioned in his letter to my mother, nor for some days after. This Patty learnt from the servants; but I hope it will not come to my mother's ears, for she would take it extremely ill of him.
Mr. Arnold, for the first time, mentioned, that he was very much disappointed in not having had the honour of seeing Sir George at his house in the country; but he hoped, when he came to town, his brother and he should make up for this, by being the more together. I wish Sir
November 2.—
My mother drove out in my new chariot to-day (a very fine gay one it is) and went to Putney to inquire after Miss B. by the name of Mrs. Jefferis. She soon found the house, a very neat box, with a pretty garden behind it. The door was opened by a servant maid; and my mother being told the lady was at home, sent in her name; and was immediately conducted up stairs into a very elegant little dressing-room, where the lady was sitting at her toilet; and Mr. Faulkland's housekeeper (whom my mother had seen before) assisting to dress her head. On my mother's entering the room, Miss B. Rose off her chair, and soon discovered by her shape (for she was without her stays) that it was high time for her to seek a place of concealment. The housekeeper immediately withdrew; and the young lady seemed in the utmost confusion; my mother says, she herself
My mother place herself by her. Madam, said she, Mr. Faulkland made it a point with me before he left England, that I should see you, and afford you all the assistance in my power, or that you should stand in need of. You seem to be commodiously situated here, and I understand have a very careful good woman to attend you.
I have so, madam, she answered; but the most material circumstance is wanting to my relief: Mr. Faulkland!—He is not here: Tears started into her eyes as she spoke. You were apprised of his absence, said my mother, before you came to town. I was, madam, and with the cause of it; she hung down her head, and was silent.
My mother reassumed the conversation. She told her, she thought it a most providential discovery, that had given her the knowledge of Mr. Faulkland's ill behaviour time enough to prevent his marriage with her daughter; assuring her, she would not, for the universe, have had me the wife of a man under such ties, as she must consider Mr. Faulkland to be. Miss B. brightened up a little upon my mother's saying this. Did Mr. Faulkland ever tell you, madam, how the unhappy affair happened? Mr. mother told her, she knew not particulars; that she had been referred to her for a full explanation; that Mr. Faulkland had always endeavoured to excuse himself, and went so far as to say, He was sure the lady herself wold acquit him in a great measure. Ah, madam! Miss B. cried, and shook her head. 'Tis as I expected, said my mother; Mr. Faulkland is an ungenerous man. A young lady of your modest appearance, I am sure, he just have taken more pains to seduce, than he will acknowlege. Miss B. blushed exceedingly—
She then asked my mother, if Mr. Faulkland had acquainted her with her real name, or that of her relation. My mother, who had once or twice called her by the name of Jefferis, assured her he had not. That was generous in him, said she; he can be generous in sine points. But I have no reason to conceal it from so prudent and worthy a lady as you are; my real name is Burchell; that of my cruel relation I will forbear to mention, out of respect to my good uncle, whose wife she is. Mr. Faulkland, she added, left a bill of five hundred pounds with his housekeeper, to provide every thing for me that I should want; with assurances that he would take the tenderest care of—the poor young creature hesitated, and could proceed no farther; but my mother said she understood her meaning. They had a good deal more discourse: my mother promised to see
She tells me, she is exceedingly pretty, and has such an air of innocence and simplicity, as very much engages one in her favour.
I have set down this whole conversation, with every other particular, exactly as my mother related it.
She, who has a most circumstantial memory, repeated it word for word, and I, from a custom of throwing upon paper every thing that occurs to me, have habituated myself to retain the minutest things.
I know not, my dear, whether you will be of my opinion; but I cannot help thinking, that there was something like art in miss Burchells' behaviour, far from that candour which Mr. Faulkland seemed to expect from her. My mother mentioned the pains that she supposed had been taken to seduce her; he deep blush at this hint, makes me suspect that her answer was not dictated by sincerity. She saw my mother was not acquainted with particulars, and that she was willing to
November 10.—
We have at length fixed upon a house to our liking, a handsome convenient one in St. James's-street. We are preparing to get it furnished as fast as we can, that we may go into it; for if my brother should come to town, I know our being with my mother will be an objection to his lodging in her house: this I should be sorry for, as she told him he might make use of it while it remained in her hands.
November 15.—
Thank my stars! I have got over the fatigue of receiving and paying a second round of bridal visits, and I am really so tired of it, that uninviting as the season is, I could wish myself in quiet at Arnold-Abbey; but I cannot think of leaving London while my mother continues in it, and she is now resolved to do so till Miss Burchell, or
She told my mother, that her altered looks, and frequent sicknesses, gave her aunt (who was privy to the cause of it all) a pretence for asking her uncle's permission for miss to go to Bath, which she told him would do her more good
November 20.—
We have just received a very odd piece of news, that I own has a little alarmed me. It is, that the widow of Mr. Arnold's brother is found to be with child. There was o mention of this at the time her husband died, nor indeed any cause to suspect it;
As his wife had been very obnoxious to the family, there was little notice taken of her by them, more than what common forms require. She seemed as indifferent about the death of her husband, as she had been towards him in his life-time; and did not then hint a word of this reconciliation between them, or of her having had an interview with him. I am told, she is a very weak, as well as a very loose woman; and Mr. Arnold thinks she has got
November 25.—
Our house is intirely fitted up, and we shall remove into it this evening; my mother chooses to continue in her own, though Mr. Arnold presses her to accept of an apartment in ours; but we shall be near neighbours, and she does not like to change.
We have received the opinion of our lawyers, who tell us, that in case the child should be born within such a
December 10.—
I am more and more reconciled to my lot, my dear Cecilia, every day that I live. Mr. Arnold's assiduity and tenderness towards me deserve the gratefullest return my heart can make him; and I am convinced it is not necessary to be passionately in love with the man we marry, to make us happy. Constancy, good sense, and a sweet temper, must form a basis for a durable felicity. The two latter I am sure Mr. Arnold possesses;
December 11.—
My brother arrived in town last night; and came this morning in company with my mother (and I am sure at her request) to make us a formal visit. My kind Mr. Arnold received him with tenderness; Sir George was coldly polite. He owned, however, to my mother, upon her asking him his opinion of his brother-in-law, that he seemed to be a good clever sort of a fellow. I wish I could cultivate a friendship between them; it will not be Mr. Arnold's fault if there is not; but Sir George, you know, is not of a very pliant disposition.
He asked my mother, when they were alone, Whether she had yet seen Miss B. or Mrs. Jefferis (for he knew her by no other name) and what she had to say for herself? My mother told him, he had better not touch upon that string. I will be
December 20.—
I congratulate you, my sister, my friend, my ever beloved Cecilia. Happy! happy may you be in your nuptials! but in the midst of my joy for your being so nobly and worthily bestowed, self love forces a sigh from me. I have lost the pleasing hope of seeing you at the time fixed for your return. The station your husband holds at the court of Vienna, will, I fear, long detain my beloved in a foreign land. But you are not amongst strangers; a husband, a brother, and tender parent, must make every part of the globe equally your
January 10, 1703-4.—
I begin to find my thoughts so much dissipated, that I am angry with myself; Mr. Arnold's excessive indulgence will spoil me; he is always contriving new scenes of pleasure, and hurries me from one to the other. I do not wish to be perpetually fluttering about. The calm domestic life you know was always my choice; but I will not oppose my kind Mr. Arnold in his fond desire of pleasing me: besides, I find that by his constantly gallanting me to public places, he begins himself to acquire a sort of relish for them, which he did not use to have: at least his prudence made him so to conform to the necessity of his circumstances, while his fortune was small, that he never indulged himself in any of the fashionable expensive amusements; nor does he now in any but such as I partake of with him. I
Sir George hardly ever comes near us but by formal invitation, and then his behaviour to Mr. Arnold is so very civil, and so very distant, that it mortifies me exceedingly. Mr. Arnold cannot but perceive it; but either his tenderness for me makes him take no notice of it, or else, not being well enough acquainted with my brother to know his disposition, he may impute his coldness to his natural temper.
My mother says, he never names Mr. Faulkland or Miss Burchell to her. I wish Sir George could intirely forget that unhappy affair.
February 1.—
There is a story propagated by the widow Arnold about the meeting between her and her husband; the circumstances of which are as follow.
She says, she had dined one day in the city, and was returning home to her lodgings in York-building in a hackney-coach; that the driver, by his carelessness in coming along the Strand, had one of his forewheels take of by a waggon, which accident obliged her to alight: the foot-boy, who was behind the coach, had by the jolt been thrown off and received a hurt, which made it necessary to have him carried into s hop for assistance. That the lady herself, being no otherwise injured than by a little fright, found that she was so near home, that she did not think it worth while to wait for another carriage, but pursued her way on foot. It was fine dry evening, about nine o'clock: and though there was no light but what the lamps afforded, yet as the streets were full of people, she had no apprehensions of danger.
In this situation she was accosted by two gentlemen, who, seeing a lady well dressed and alone, insisted on seeing her safe to her lodgings. However disagreeable such an encounter was, she said she did not give herself much concern about it, as she was so near home, and expected to shake off her new acquaintance at the door of the house where she lodged; and accordingly, when she got there, she told them she was at home, and wished them a good night; but the impertinents were not so easily to be put off. The door having been opened by the maid of the house, they both rushed in; her landlady, a single woman, happened to be abroad, and there was not man in the house.
Mrs. Arnold thought she had no way left, but to run up to her dining-room, and lock herself in; but in this she was prevented, as the gentlemen, whom the servant of the house vainly endeavoured to oppose, got up stairs almost as soon as she did. Her own maid, on hearing the rap at the door, had lighted candles in the dining-room; the two sparks entered
The astonishment that they both were in, and the exclamation that each made in their turn, soon informed the companion of Mr. Arnold who the lady was. He congratulated them both on this fortunate mistake, and saying, since chance had been so propitious to Mr. Arnold as to throw him into the arms of so charming a woman, he hoped his discovering her to be his wife would not render her the less agreeable to him; but that this unexpected meeting might be a means of re-uniting them in their former amity.
Mr. Arnold, she says, in the presence of this gentleman, advanced with open arms to embrace her, which she not declining, his friend having again felicitated
That at parting, which was not till late (as she would not, on account of her reputation, permit him to pass the night at her lodgings) he promised to bring her home to his house in a day or two; but unfortunately for her he was taken ill in the interim, which she did not know of, till she had an account that Mr. Arnold had lost his senses. The reason she assigned for not inquiring after him sooner was that her pride would not suffer her to make any advances to a man, who had been so injurious as to part with her; and she thought it his duty to recal her, without her taking any step towards it.
This story seems plausible; yet none of our friends believe a word of it, and imagine somebody has contrived it for her. The gentleman, who was the companion of Mr. Arnold that night, she says, can, at a proper time, be produced as a witness, as also her own maid, who can testify the truth of this story. In
I am delighted at the sweetness of Mr. Arnold's temper: vexatious as this affair is likely to be, even at the best, he does not suffer it to interrupt our pleasures or his own good humour. On the contrary, he is the more studious of promoting every thing which he thinks will entertain me.
February 28.—
At length the poor Miss Burchell is happily rid of her burthen; a pretty little boy, my mother says it is: it was, immediately after his birth, at which my mother was present, privately baptized by the name of Orlando, and sent away with its nurse, a careful body, who had been before provided for it. It passes for the son of a captain Jefferis, abroad with the army. Miss Burchell would never suffer the nurse to see her; for as she intends to reassume her own name, as soon as she shall be in a
My mother says, that as soon as Miss Burchell (to whom she considers herself as a kind of patroness) is tolerably recovered, she will go down to Sidney Castle; for she thinks herself in a strange land any where but there. And would you believe it, my dear, she has taken such a fancy to Miss Burchell, that she talks of inviting her down with her, if she can obtain her uncle's leave. The girl must certainly have some very amiable qualities, so to captivate my mother, or she has an immensity of art. I dare say the young lady will gladly accept of her invitation; it will undoubtedly be a most eligible situation for her. I do not know what Sir George may say to her carrying her humanity so
March 26, 1704.—
I am told the widow Arnold computes the time of her lying-in about the latter end of the next month; if it should happen, she saves her distance, as her husband died in July, a little before we went to Grimston-hall. Mr. Arnold treats the affair very lightly, and is only concerned at seeing my mother so much affected by it. For my part, I form my behaviour upon Mr. Arnold's conduct; and a long as he appears easy, I shall certainly be so too.
My brother throws out some unkind
March 27.—
My mother is preparing to leave town. Miss Burchell is quite recovered, and purposes going down to the country to obtain her uncle's consent for the intended visit. She says, she can easily tell him she made an acquaintance with lady Bidulph in her late excursion to Bath, from whom she received an invitation, and she is sure he will not refuse to let her accept it.
Sir George laughs exceedingly at this plan. He says his mother ought not to be surprized at Faulkland's falling into the girl's snares, since she herself has done the same; but he supposes my mother thinks she is doing a very meritorious action, in affording an asylum to this injured innocence. I give you my brother's words for I assure you, as to myself, I approve of my mother's kindness to her, and think it may be a means of preserving the girl from future mischief.
April 2.—
Miss Burchell is gone into the country; and this morning, for the first time, severed me from the best of mothers. I cannot recover my spirits; I have wept all day. Mr. Arnold, ever good and obliging, would needs accompany her some miles on her journey; you may be sure I was not left behind. Sir George was so polite as to say, He would escort her down to Sidney Castle. I was surprized at it; for he does not often do obliging things. My mother gladly accepted of his company, and said, she would
April 5.—
I have been so cast down since my mother's departure, that Mr. Arnold's obliging tender assiduity to please and entertain me seems redoubled; but indeed I am wearied with a continual round of noisy pleasures, and long to get back to Arnold-abbey. I hope to be there in about three weeks, or a month at farthest. My mother has dispensed with our going down to her this summer. She thinks it might be attended with inconveniencies to me, and talks of coming to town again in a few months; but I shall insist on her not giving herself the fatigue of so long a journey, unless she comes to stay all the next winter with us.
April 20.—
My mother writes me word that Miss Burchell has obtained leave of her uncle, and is coming to Sidney
May 6.—
An important birth, my Cecilia! the widow Arnold has produced a young miss. I assure you the little damsel has been ushered into life with all the ceremony due to a young heiress; and her mother introduces her as one whom an unjust uncle debars of her right. Now you must know, that upon an exact calculation, this little girl has made her appearance just twelve days later than she ought to have done, to prove her legitimacy, dating the possibility of her being Mr. Arnold's, from the very day whereon he took that illness of which he died, and which confined him for five days to his bed. In all that time his servants never left him for a minute; this has occasioned various speculations; our lawyers say that
It is a very unlucky affair, and has involved us in a law-suit. Who the person is that secretly abets the widow, we cannot find out; but it is certain she has somebody; every one believes this is an infamous and unjust claim; and the woman's folly almost frees her from the suspicion of its being of her own contriving.
May 10.—
You cannot imagine, my Cecilia, how happy I think myself, after such a hurrying winter as I have had, to find ;myself once more restored to my favourite pleasures, the calm delights of solitude. Arnold-abbey seems a paradise to me now.
Lady Grimston shewed me a specimen of her humour this morning, in talking of the widow Arnold. She said she was
My chearful old dean says, he is now completely happy, having lived to see his daughter married (while we were in town) very much to his and her satisfaction. I am heartily glad of it; neither am I sorry (for her sake) that she has left the country.
May 11.—
Mrs. Vere is come to spend a few weeks with me according to her promise. She is a truly amiable creature; her disposition so gentle, her temper so mild, such a sweet humility in her whole deportment, that it astonishes me her mother can still persist in her unkindness to her. But the eldest daughter was always her darling, who I understand is pretty much of her moth's own cast, and makes a very termagant wife to a very turbulent husband. So that notwithstanding their title (for he is a baronet) and immense riches, they are a very miserable pair.
They were lately to pay lady Grimston a visit; but there happened such a fracas, that probably it may be the last she will ever receive from them. The husband it seems, though very rough and surly in his nature, is, notwithstanding, a well-meaning man, and not void of humanity; which had induced him to give a small portion to a young girl, a distant relation of his own, who had been left an orphan. She was beloved by the son of a substantial farmer, a tenant of the baronet's, and had an equal affection for him; but the young man, depending intirely on his father for his future prospects, durst not take a wife without something to begin the world with; for his father had just put him into the management of one of his farms. The young lady and her mother (who was a widow, and is but lately dead) had boarded for some years at this honest farmer's house, and in that time's mutual love had been contracted between the young people. The old man himself liked the girl so well for a daughter-in-law, that his only objection was her want of
The rough honesty of the farmer pleased his landlord so well, that he gave the young woman five hundred pounds, to set them a-going, as the old yeoman termed it. Though this sum was but a trifle to a man of his fortune, and the giving it was a praise-worthy action, yet did it exceedingly displease his lady, especially as he had not thought proper to consult her on the occasion. She was not contented with venting her indignation on her husband at home, but she renewed the quarrel, by complaining to lady Grimston, that her opinion and advice were not only despised, but that Sir William was lavishing away the fortune she had brought him upon a tribe of poor relations of his own. Lady Grimston immediately took fire; she could not bear the thoughts of having her daughter's authority of less weight in his family than her own had been, and she attacked her son-in-law with acrimony on the subject. His answer to her was short. Look
I confess I am not sorry for this breach; it may be the better for poor Mrs. Vere; for though her mother's jointure reverts to a male relation, on whom the estate was settled, yet as lady Grimston has a large personal fortune, it is in her power to make her daughter full amends for the injury she did her.
May 20.—
Mr. Arnold is improving
Editor's note
[The following is writ in the hand of the lady who gave the editor these papers: "Here follows an interval of "four months; in which time, though "the Journal was regularly continued, "nothing material to her story occurred "but the birth of a daughter; after "which she proceeds."]
The JOURNAL
September 25.—
How delightful are the new sensations, my dear Cecilia, that I feel hourly springing in my heart! Surely the tenderness of a mother can never be sufficiently repaid; and I now more than ever rejoice in having, by an obedience, which perhaps I once thought had some little merit in it, contributed so
September 28.—
I informed you before that Miss Burchell had been summoned home by her uncle, who was then very ill. She has lately written an account to my mother of his death; and that as she has now her fortune in her own hands, she intends immediately to quit her aunt, and look out for some
My mother, in her letter to me, expresses great satisfaction at her resolution to leave her aunt, but is not without her fears, that so pretty a young woman, left to her own guidance, may be liable to danger; though she thinks both her natural disposition, and her good sense, sufficient to guard her against actual evil.
Our lawyer writes us word, that he has had an offer of a composition, proposed by the widow Arnold's people: he says, though the sum they mention is a very round one, yet it plainly indicates the weakness of their hopes; and concludes with telling Mr. Arnold, that if six-pence would buy them off, he should not, with his consent, give it to them; as it would tacitly admit the legality of their claim, and might be productive of troublesome consequences hereafter; and therefore he would by all means have the issue fairly tried. Mr. Arnold laughs heartily at the proposal,
I wish we were rid of this troublesome affair, as it must hurry us to town sooner than we intended, and the country is still delightful.
London, October 1.—
Again, we have quitted our sweet retirement for the noise and bustle of London; but this law business, it seems, must be closely pursued, though our antagonist's motions seem a little dilatory. We cannot find out the secret spring that sets the machine a-going; the wheels however do not seem to move with such alacrity as they did; though the widow still talks big, and says, we shall repent of having rejected her offer.
October 3.—
My brother is arrived in town, but took care to settle himself
October 7.—
I am disapointed in my hopes of seeing my dear mother in town this winter. Her apartment was ready for her, and I delighted myself with the thoughts of seeing her in possession of it, at least for a few months; but she writes me word that her old rheumatic complaint is returned on her with such violence, that she cannot think of undertaking the journey. Sadly am I grieved at this news, and shall long to have the winter over, that Mr. Arnold and I may fly to Sidney Castle; he has promised me this satisfaction early in the summer.
My mother informs me that Miss Burchell constantly corresponds with her:
Editor's note
[Here ensues another interval of nine months, in which nothing particular is related, but that Mrs. Arnold became mother to a second child. This last circumstance, with a few others preceding and succeeding that event, are related in the Journal by her maid Patty; after which Mrs. Arnold herself proceeds.]
The JOURNAL
July 1, 1705.—
Again, my dear Cecilia, I am able to reassume my pen. I have read what Patty has writ, and find she is admirable at the anecdotes of a nursery. Am I not rich, think you? Two daughters, and both perfect beauties, and great wits you may be sure!
The new-born damsel was baptized this day by the dear-loved name of Cecilia.
Our antagonist is grown alert again, and has renewed her efforts, which we thought began to flag a little, with fresh vigour. Whence she derives those revived hopes is still a mystery; but she now says, she would not accept of a composition if it were offered. My poor Mr. Arnold begins to fret a little; it now-and-then makes him thoughtful; not that, he says, he has the least doubt about his success, but he has been much harassed with the necessary attendance that the cause requires, and downright tired with dangling after lawyers; besides, they say the cause cannot come to an hearing in the ensuing term, though they before made us hope that it would be at an end long before this time.
July 3.—
I am mortified exceedingly, my
But that I have laid it down as a rule never to oppose so good, so indulgent a husband as Mr. Arnold is, in any instance wherein I do not think a superior duty requires me to do so, I should certainly shew some disapprobation of what he now purposes doing. It will be attended with so much trouble, so much expence too—he has ordered the house at South-park to be completely furnished, and says, he hopes I shall like it so well as to be induced to pass the remainder of the summer there. Most sure it is, every place will be delightful to me where I can enjoy his company, and have my dear little babes with me; but methinks two country houses are an unnecessary charge, and more than suits our fortune. I pray God this tender husband may not have a strong and prudent reason for this conduct, which out of kindness he conceals;
July 8.—
We are to set out to-morrow, my Cecilia, for our place in Kent. I have made the best apology that I could to my mother, and Mr. Arnold too has writ to her; but I know she will be extremely disapointed at not seeing us.
July 12.—
We are safely arrived at South-park, Mr. Arnold in high spirits;
I am not surprized that Mr. Arnold liked the old family-seat better than this. I cannot say I am much charmed with it, but I will not let him see that. I affect to admire, and seem pleased with every thing that affords me the least opportunity of commendation. The house is a very neat one; it has not been many years built, and is in perfectly good repair. It is genteely, though plainly furnished, and we have tolerable garden; but as the whole domain is let, we are obliged to take a few fields from one of our tenants, to supply our immediate wants. we are in a very genteel and populous neighbourhood, and within a mile of a good market town.
July 20.—
I have regretted nothing so much in my absence from Arnold-abbey, as the being cut off from the hope of seeing my amiable Mrs. Vere. We can have but one friend to share our heart, to whom we have no reserve,
I was visited to-day by two ladies that I am charmed with, though it is the first time I have seen either of them. The one is Lady V. of whom you have formerly heard. Her lord and she came together; their seat is within a mile of us, and Mr. Arnold has a slight acquaintance with lord V. before. My lady is about forty, and has that kind of countenance that at once invites your confidence; I never saw integrity, benevolence, and good sense, more strongly pictured in a face; her address is so plain, so perfectly free from affectation, or any of the little supercilious forms of ceremony, that a person, ignorant of what true politeness consists in, would imagine she wanted breeding;
She spoke this with so frank an air, that, flattering as the compliment appeared, I could not help believing her sincere; and thought myself, that my appearance did not diminish that good opinion which she said she had conceived of me from report.
Lord V—is many years older than his lady; a robust man, as plain in his way as my lady is in her's; though his way
The other lady whom I mentioned is a widow; her name is Gerrarde, and she lives upon a little estate she has in this neighbourhood. I think I never beheld so fine a creature; she is about six-and-twenty; her stature, which is much above the common size, is rendered perfectly graceful and majestic by one of the finest shapes in the world; if her face is not altogether so regularly beautiful as her person, it is, however, handsome enough to render any woman charming who had nothing else to boast of. Whether her understanding be of a piece with the rest, I have not yet been able to discover. Her visit to me was but short, for she had not sat with me an hour, when lady V—came in, and she then took her leave; but by what I could observe in that little time, she seems to have as much vivacity and agreeable humour, as I ever met with in any one. She pressed me to dine with her at her cottage, as she calls it, to-morrow,
These two charming women, I think, I shall single out for my chief intimates, from the crowd which have been to compliment me on my coming into this country.
Mr. Arnold is mightily pleased with them both; but he gives the preference to lady V—, whom, though he had a slight acquaintance with her lord, he never saw before. But he is almost as great a stranger in this place as I am: he is highly delighted at my having met with people who are likely to render it agreeable to me.
July 21.—
We dined to-day according to appointment with Mrs. Gerrarde. A cottage she called her house, nor does it appear much better at the out-side, but within it is a fairy palace. Never was any thing so neat, so elegant, so perfectly well fancied, as the fitting up of all her rooms. Her bedchambers are furnished with fine chintz, and her drawing-room with the
Our entertainment was splendid almost to profusion, though there was no company but Mr. Arnold and I. I told her, if she always gave such dinners, it would frighten me away from her: indeed it was the only circumstance in her whole conduct that did not please me, for I was charmed with the rest of her behaviour. They must surely be of a very churlish disposition, who are not pleased where a manifest desire to oblige is conspicuous in every word and action. If Mrs. Gerrarde is not as highly polished as some women are, who, perhaps, have had a more enlarged education, she makes full amends for it by a perfect good humour, a sprightliness always entertaining, and a quickness of thought that gives her conversation an
July 24.—
I have returned lady V—'s visit, and am more delighted with her than before. Mr. Arnold went with me; but my lord not being at home, he went to ramble about the grounds, so that I had a long tête-à-tête with lady V—. She is an admirable woman, so fine an understanding, such delicacy of sentiment, and such an unaffected complaisance in her manner, that I do not wonder my lord perfectly adores her. There is a tenderness, a maternal kindness in her behaviour towards me, that fills me at once with love and reverence for her; and, next to my Cecilia, I think I never met with any woman whom I could so highly esteem as lady V—. She is an admirable mistress of her needle, and every room in her house exhibits some production of a very fine genius, united with very great industry: for there are beds, chairs, and carpets, besides some very pretty rural
I am rejoiced now that Mr. Arnold thought of coming to South-park. How valuable is the acquaintance of such a woman as lady V—! and I might never have known her, but for a circumstance to which I was at first so averse. And then my agreeable lively Mrs. Gerrarde! My accquaintance at Arnold-abbey begin to fade upon my memory: to say the truth, I think of none of them with pleasure, but Mrs. Vere, and my good humoured old dean.
August 4.—
Mrs. Gerrarde is a little saucy monopolist; she grumbles if I do not see her every day, and is downright jealous of my intimacy with lady V—. They are acquainted, but I don't find there is a very close intercourse between them: Mrs. Gerrarde says, her ladyship is too good a housewife for her; and as
August 12.—
I never was so disconcerted as I have been this day: you will be surprized when I tell you, it was by my good lady V—. She came to pass the day with me, Mr. Arnold being engaged abroad.
We were both sitting at work in the parlour: lady V—had continued silent for a good while; at last looking at me with a most benign smile, for I had at the same instant cast my eyes at her; I was just then thinking, my dear Mrs. Arnold, said she, that I once (though perhaps you did not know it) flattered myself with the hopes of being related to you. Her words threw me into confusion, though I did not know their meaning. It would have been both an honour and a happiness to me, madam, I replied, though I don't know by what means I was ever likely to possess it. She continued smiling, but seemed in suspence whether she should proceed. You will pardon my curiosity, my dear, said she, but give me leave to ask, whether Mr. Arnold was not once near losing the happiness he now enjoys? I felt my face
When my lord returned to V—hall, which he was obliged to do very soon after Mr. Faulkland had made this discovery
This was the substance of what he wrote to us: we have heard from him since a few times, but he never cleared up the matter to us, nor ever so much as mentioned it. I have not been in London since; my lord has; but he never could get any light into the mystery: he heard from some of our friends, who knew of the intended match, that it was broke off nobody knew why. There were, however, several idle surmises thrown
Though my lady gave me this kind opportunity of evading her question, I did not lay hold of it: I did not indeed choose to reveal the whole of this affair, because I did not think myself at liberty to divulge Miss Burchell's secret, however I might discover my own. I told my lady in general terms, that though Mr. Faulkland might pretend to a lady every way my superior, yet there was an objection to him of no small weight with us; that my mother had been informed of a very recent piece of gallantry he had had with a person of some condition, and that it had disgusted her so much, she could not think of uniting me with a
She presently turned the discourse: but made me happy the whole day, by that inexhaustible fund of good sense and improving knowledge of which she is mistress.
Mr. Arnold came not home till very late; he complains that he is got into a know of acquaintance that like the bottle too well; but I am sure his natural sobriety is such, that it will not be in the power of example to lead him into intemperance; though I am vexed he has fallen into such acquaintance, because I know drinking is disagreeable to him: yet a country gentleman must sometimes give a little into it, to avoid the character of being singular.
August 22.—
Surprized I was not, because I came prepared; but I own I was abashed at seeing Mr. Faulkland to-day. Mr. Arnold and I were invited to dine at lord V—'s, and his lordship, and his guest, came in from the fields, where they had been walking, just as we were ready to sit down to table.
There happened to be a good deal more company; Mr. Faulkland was not introduced; so that there was no room for any thing constrained or improper of either side. I presently recovered the little embarrassment, that his first entrance into the room occasioned. I am sure nobody took notice of it; for dinner being immediately served, there was a sort of bustle in hurrying out of the drawing-room. The crowd we had at table destroyed all conversation; and nothing particular was said during dinner. Lady V— soon with drew, and all her female friends followed her. I observed she frequently glanced her penetrating eyes at Mr. Faulkland, while we were at table, but I did not choose to make any observations
I can with the utmost sincerity assure my Cecilia, that I now behold Mr. Faulkland with as much indifference as I do any other man of my acquaintance. Time, joined to my own efforts, must, without any other help, have intirely subdued an inclination which was always restrained by prudential motives, and rendered subservient to my duty; but I have, besides this, now acquired a shield that must render me invulnerable; I mean the perfect and tender affection I bear my husband: this has completely secured me against the most distant apprehensions of being alarmed from any other quarter; yet notwithstanding all this, I can't say that I am quite satisfied at this renewal of my acquaintance with Mr. Faulkland. I hope, and indeed it is reasonable to suppose, that I have now as little interest in his heart as he has in mind: it is but natural to believe that a gay young man, like him, should not be so weak as to nourish a hopeless passion for more than tow years, especially as he has never once seen the object of it in all that time; and must
Mr Arnold's ignorance of our former connections makes it still worse. At the time I was so averse to his knowing any thing of this affair, I flattered myself I should never see Mr. Faulkland more, or at least never be obliged to have any intercourse with him; but I know lament that I did not take my mother's advice, and disclose the whole affair at first. Oh, my Cecilia! when the smallest deviations from candor (which we suppose discretion) are thus punished with remorse, what must
You will laugh perhaps when I tell you that I have not courage to mention it first: Mr. Faulkland is reckoned a very fine gentleman, and I think it would have such an air of vanity to tell my husband that I refused him: then it would bring on such a train of explanations, and poor Miss Burchell's history must come out; for a husband on such a subject might be disgusted with concealments of any kind; and I doubt whether even some circumstances in my particular share of this story
August 26.—
Oh, my dear! I am mortified to the last degree, lest Mr. Arnold should, from some indiscreet tongue, have received a hint of my former engagement; he may think me disingenuous for never having mentioned it, especially since Mr. Faulkland has been in the neighbourhood: I think his nature is too open to entertain any suspicions essentially injurious to me; yet may this affair, circumstanced as it is, make an unfavourable impression on him. I wish I had been before-hand with any officious whisperer: he has got so much abroad, that the story may have reached his ears. God forbid it should affect his mind with causeless uneasiness; I would Mr. Faulkland were a thousand miles from V—hall. I think Mr. Arnold is altered since his arrival
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August 30.—That which was ever the terror of my thoughts is come upon me—Mr. Arnold—Ah, my dear Cecilia! Mr. Arnold is no longer the same! Coldness and indifference have at length succeeded to love, to complacency, and the fondest attention—What a change! but, the cause, my dear! that remains a secret locked up in his own breast. It cannot be that a whisper, an idle rumour should affect him thus. What if he has heard
September 1.—
I am no longer in doubt.—The cause, the fatal cause of Mr. Arnold's change, is discovered. This miserable day has disclosed the secret to me: a black, a complicated scene of mischief.
Mr. Arnold rode out this morning. He told me he was to dine with a gentleman at some miles distance, and should not return till late in the evening.
He was but just gone, when a lady of my acquaintance called in upon me, to request I would go with her to a play that was to be performed at night. You must know we have had a company of players in the neighbourhood for some time past, and it was to one of those
The lady and her husband called upon me at the appointed hour, and I went with them in their coach. The place which the players had fitted up for their purpose, had formerly been a pretty large school-room, and could, with the addition of a gallery (which they had made) with ease contain above three hundred people. The play had been bespoke by some of the principal ladies in the neighbourhood, who had used all their interest for the performer, so that the house was as full as it could hold. The audience consisting chiefly of fashionable people, it was with difficulty that we reached the places which were kept for us in the pit, as they happened to be on the bench next the stage, and the door was at the other end of the house. The first object that I observed on my coming in was Mr. Faulkland; he bowed to me at a distance, but made no attempts to
It happened that the carpenters, who had been employed in fitting up this ex-tempore theatre, had left a heap of shavings in a little place behind the stage, which had been converted into a dressing-room; a little boy belonging to the company had found a candle in it, and having piled up the shavings, set them on fire, and left them burning: the flame communicated itself to some dry boards which lay in the room, and in a few minutes the whole was in a blaze. Some persons who heard the crackling of wood, opened the door, when the flame burst out with such violence, that the scenes were presently on fire, and the curtain, which as I told you was dropt, soon caught it.
The consternation and terror or the poor people, whose all was destroying, is not to be described: the women skrieking,
The audience were in little less confusion than they; for as the house was composed chiefly of wood, every one expected it would soon be consumed to ashes.
The horror and distraction of my mind almost deprived me of the power of motion. My life was in imminent danger; for I was scorched with the fire, before I could get at any distance form the stage, though the people were rushing out as fast as they could.
The lady who was with me was exceedingly frightened; but being under her husband's care, had a little more courage than I had. He caught her round the waist, and lifted her over the benches, which were very high, giving me what assistance he could with his other hand. But the terror and hurry I was in occasioned my foot to slip, and I fell between two of the benches, and sprained my ancle.
Some people pushing to get out, rushed between me and my company; the excessive pain I felt, joined to my fright, made me faint away; in this condition Mr. Faulkland found me, and carried me out in his arms; for my companion was too anxious for her own safety, to suffer her husband to stay to give me any assistance, so that he had only time to beg of the men about him not to let me perish.
I soon recovered, upon being carried into the open air, and found myself seated on some planks, at a little distance from the booth, Mr. Faulkland supporting me, and two or three other people about me, whom he had called to my assistance.
Indebted to him as I was for saving my life, my spirits were at that time too much agitated to thank him as I ought.
He told me he had stepped behind the scenes to speak to somebody, and was there when the stage took fire; that he then ran to give what assistance he could to the ladies that were in the house (observe he distinguished not me in particular)
I now began to recollect myself; I was uneasy at Mr. Faulkland's presence; I wished him away. I beseeched him to return once more to the booth, to see if every one had got out safe, for I told him I had seen several of my female acquaintance there, for whom I was alarmed. With the assistance of the people who were about me, I said I could make a shift to get to the nearest house, which was not above a hundred yards off, from whence I should send home for my chariot, which I had ordered to come to me after the play. He begged I would give him leave to see me safe to that house, but I would not permit him; and he left me in the care of two women and a man, who had come to be spectators of the fire.
With the help of these people, I contrived
While the woman went to execute my instructions, I had thrown myself into a chair that stood close to the wainscot. I heard a bell ring, and presently a waiter entered, and asked if I wanted any thing; I told him, No. He ran hastily out of the room, and entering the next to that where I was sitting, I heard a voice, which I knew to be Mr. Arnold's, ask, Were the servants found? The man replying that they were not; Then, said Mr. Arnold, tell your mistress she will oblige me if she will let me have her chaise to carry this lady home. The waiter presently withdrew,
I had heard enough to convince me that my presence would be very unacceptable both to Mr. Arnold and his companion, and I resolved not to interrupt them; nor, if possible, ever let Mr. Arnold know that I had made a discovery so fatal to my own peace, and so disadvantageous to him and his friend.
The messenger who had been dispatched for my chariot met it by the way, and was now returned with it; I was told that it was at the door; and it was
I found Mr. Faulkland at the door; he saw that I wished to disengage myself from him after he had carried me out of the booth; and though probably he did not take the trouble to execute the sham commission I gave him, which was indeed with no other view than to get him away, yet I believe he had too much respect to intrude on me; and came then with no other design than to inquire if my chariot had come for me, and how I was after the terrible condition he had left me in, sitting at night in the open air, with nobody but two or three ordinary people about me, and those strangers. This was a piece of civility which humanity, had politeness been out of the question, would have obliged him to. He told me the fire was extinguished, and happily nobody had received any hurt; and that he had only called at that house to know if I were safe, and recovered from the fright and pain he had left me in. I thanked him, and was just
The light which the servant, who attended me out, held in his hand, immediately discovered Mr. Arnold and me to each other. I could easily distinguish surprize mixed with displeasure in his countenance. He asked me abruptly, How I came to that place? which I told him in a few words. The cold civility of a grave bow passed between him and Mr. Faulkland, who leaving me in my husband's hands, wished me a good night, and got into my lord V—'s coach, which waited for him.
Though I knew, from the discourse I had overheard, that Mr. Arnold did not mean to go home with me, yet as I was now seated in the chariot, I could not avoid asking him. He told me he was
I have thrown together the strange occurrences of this evening, as well as the tumult of my spirits would give me leave: I shall now lay down my pen to consider of them a little more calmly. My heart sinks in me—Oh, that I had remained in ignorance!—
Is it possible, my Cecilia, that Mr. Arnold, so good a man, one who married me too for love, and who for these two years has been the tenderest, the kindest husband, and to whom I never gave the most distant shadow of offence, should at last be led into—I cannot name it—dare not think of it—yet a hundred circumstances recur to my memory, which now convince me I am unhappy! If I had not been blind, I might have seen it sooner, I recollect some passages, which satisfy me that Mr. Arnold's acquaintance with Mrs. Gerrarde did not commence
'Tis one o'clock: I hear Mr. Arnold ring at the outer gate; I tremble all over, and feel as if I feared to see him. Yet why should I fear; I have not injured him.
September 2.—
Mr. Arnold staid long enough in his dressing-room after he came in last night, to give me time to go to-bed before he came up stairs. Not a word passed between us: I slept not the whole night; whether he did or not I cannot tell. He asked me this morning, when I rose, how I did: I told him in great pain. My ancle was prodigiously swelled, and turned quite black, for I
I am once more composed, and determined on my behaviour. I have not a doubt remaining of Mr. Arnold's infidelity; but let me not aggravate my own griefs, nor to a vicious world justify my husband's conduct, by bringing any reproach on my own. The silent sufferings of the injured must, to a mind not ungenerous, be a sharper rebuke than it is in the power of language to inflict.
But this is not all: I must endeavour, if possible, to skreen Mr. Arnold from
How Sir George would triumph at the knowledge of Mr. Arnold's deviating from virtue! How my poor mother would be amazed and afflicted! But I will, as far lies in my power, disappoint the malice of my stars; my mother shall have no cause to grieve, nor my brother to rejoice; the secret shall die with me in my own bosom, and I will wait patiently till the hand of time applies a remedy to my grief.—Mrs. Gerrarde sent a message to inquire how I did. Conscious woman! she would not come herself, though she knew not I had discovered her.
My dear good lady V— hurried to see me the instant she had breakfasted: Mr. Faulkland had told her of my disaster,
'Tis noon: I have not seen Mr. Arnold since morning; he has been abroad ever since he rose; Good God! is this the life I am condemned to lead?
A new scene of affliction opened to me: surely my fate is drawing towards a crisis.
After entering my room, he walked about for some minutes without speaking; at last stopping short, and fixing his eyes upon me, How long have you, said he, been acquainted with Mr. Faulkland? I told him my acquaintance began with him some months before I was married. He was once your lover I am informed. He was, and a treaty of marriage was concluded on between us. You would have been happier, perhaps, madam, if it had taken place. I do not think so Mr. Arnold; you have no reason to suppose I do. I had a very great objection to Mr. Faulkland, and obeyed my mother willingly, when she forbid me to see him. I ask not what that object was, said he; but I suppose, madam, you will without reluctance obey me, If I make the same request to you. Most chearfully;you cannot make a request with which I should more readily comply. But let me beseech you, Mr. Arnold, to tell me what part of my behaviour has given you cause to think such
My pride would not suffer me to inquire where he had got this information: I already knew it too well; and fearing he would rather descend to an untruth than tell me his author, I declined any farther questions. He seemed satisfied with my promise, but quickly left me, as if the whole end of his visit to me was accomplished in having obtained it.
September 8.—
What painful minutes am I obliged to sustain! Mrs. Gerrarde
September 9.—
I was born to sacrifice my own peace to that of other people; my life is become miserable, but I have no remedy for it but patience.
Mr. Arnold spends whole days abroad; at night we are seperated on account of my indisposition; so that we hardly ever converse together. What a dreadful prospect have I before me! O Cecilia, may you never experience the bitterness of having your husband's heart alienated from you!
Lady V—, that best of creatures, is with me constantly; she presses me to come to her house as my ancle is now pretty well, yet I am obliged to excuse myself. I am distressed to the last degree at the conduct I shall be forced to observe towards her, yet dare not explain the motive. Causeless jealousy is always the subject of ridicule, and at all events Mr. Arnold must not be exposed to this.
September 12.—
I am weary of inventing
September 15.—
Said I not that my fate was near its crisis? Where will this impending ruin end! Take, my Cecilia, the occurrences of this frightful day.
Mr. Arnold rode out this morning, and told me he should not return till night. He asked me, with that indifference
I went accordingly to her house a little before her hour of dining, which is much later than any body's else in this part of the world. I found her dressed out, and seemingly in perfect health. She looked surprized when she saw me; and I then supposed that she hoped to have received a denial from me, and was disappointed at my coming; though I wondered
Dinner was immediately served, and I sat down, but with a reluctance that prevented me from eating. I would have taken my leave soon after dinner, but Mrs. Gerrarde insisted on my staying, and told me if I refused her, she should think I had taken something amiss of her. She called for cards; I suffered myself to be persuaded, and we fell to piquet.
I played with disgust, and without attention, every minute wishing to break away. Coffee was at length brought in; I begged to be excused from staying, telling Mrs. Gerrarde, I was sure I prevented her from going abroad, but she would take no denial. I was constrained to take a dish of coffee, and was hastening to get it down when the parlour door flew open, and lo! Mr. Faulkland entered the room. If an object the most horrible to human nature had appeared before me, it could not at that instant have shocked me half so much. I let the cup and saucer drop from hand: to say I turned pale, trembled, and was ready to faint, would be too feeble a description of the
I am now able to walk, madam, said I; there is no occasion to give you that trouble. Mr. Arnold said, I should not walk by any means; and Mrs. Gerrarde immediately calling a servant to order
Mrs. Gerrarde stepped into the chariot to me, and ordered it to drive to my house, leaving Mr. Arnold standing motionless at her door.
A total silence prevailed on my side during our short journey home, except to answer in monosyllables Mrs. Gerrarde's repeated inquiries after my health. She set me down at my own door, and took
I am waiting here like a poor criminal, in expectation of appearing before my judge. I wish Mr. Arnold were come in, yet I dread to see him.
I might have spared myself the anxiety. Mr. Arnold is just returned, but he has locked himself into another chamber. I will not molest him to-night! to-morrow, perhaps, he may be in better temper, and I may be able to justify myself to him, and dispel this frightful gloom that hangs over us.
September 14.—
Hopes and fears are at an end, and the measure of my afflictions is filled up.
I went to bed last night, but slept not; the hours were passed in agonies not to be described. I think all griefs are magnified
Sidney
"You have broke your faith with me, in seeing the man whom I forbad you to see, and whom you so solemnly promised to avoid. As you have betrayed my confidence in this particular, I can no longer rely on your prudence or your fidelity. Whatever your designs may be, it will be less to my dishonour, if you prosecute them from under your husband's roof. I therefore give you till this day se'nnight to consider of a place for your future abode; for one house must no more contain two people whose hearts are divided. Our children remain with me, and the settlement which was made on you in marriage, shall be appropriated to your separate use.
I have left home to avoid expostulations, nor shall I return to it till I hear you have removed yourself. Spare the attempt of a justification, which can only aggravate the resentment of your already too-much injured husband."
I have for a while suppressed the tumult in my soul, to give you this shocking letter.
O my Cecilia! what a wretched lot is thy unhappy friend's! To be neglected, forsaken, despised, by a husband that I love! Yet I could bear that: but to be suspected, accused too! to be at once the miserable object of jealousy and scorn! Surely they know nothing of the human heart, who say that jealousy cannot subsist without affection; I have a fatal proof to the contrary. Mr. Arnold loves me not, yet doubts my honour. Cruel, mean, detestable suspicion! Oh that vile woman! 'tis she has done this; like a persecuting daemon, she urges on the ruin which she set on foot.
What can I do? Whither can I fly? I cannot remain here any longer; my presence banishes Mr. Arnold from his home. If I go to my mother under such circumstances, it will break her heart; yet she must know it. I must not wait to be turned out of my own doors. That thought is not to be borne. I will go this instant, no matter whither.
September 15.—
God preserve me in my senses! I have passed two days and two nights I know not how; in silence and without food, Patty tells me. But I think I am a little recovered. I will write to my mother, and beg of her to open her arms to receive her miserable child. I am collected enough, and know what to say.
I had just dispatched my letter, incoherent as it is, and blotted with my tears, when Patty brought me one that had come by the post. I knew my dear mother's hand on the superscription, and kissed it before I opened it. See, my sister, how the tenderest of parents writes to her unhappy child, whom she fondly believes to be the darling of her husband, and blessed with domestic felicity.
Sidney Dorothy
I find age and infirmities are advancing a-pace upon me. My last illness shook me severely, and has left a memorandum of what I may expect in the next visit it makes me. Your family cares
If I am called from you, I shall have the comfort of my child's affectionate
My prayers for yours, and my dear son's prosperity, I never fail to offer up to heaven. Your brother George is with me, and desires to be remembered to you; he purposes staying here the greatest part of the winter.
As I hope to reach London by the latter end of the week, direct your next to me at your own house in town.
My dear love,
Your most sincerely
affectionate mother,
DOROTHY BIDULPH.
My heart is bursting—O Cecilia! What will become of my fond, my dear, venerable parent, when she finds this daughter, this comfort of her age, this beloved of her soul, a poor abandoned
So! I am relieved, and will endeavour to fortify my soul against the two events, that appear to me horrid as an approaching execution to a guilty wretch, the parting with my children, and the meeting with my mother. As the letter I wrote will miss of her at Sidney Castle, I shall write to London, to prepare her to receive the wretch whom her imagination has figured to her so happy.
Lady V—! I hear her coming up stairs —I cannot conceal my affliction, nor my disgrace.
Lady V— has left me: let me in astonishment and new horror. Mrs. Gerrarde! Who do you think Mrs. Gerrarde is? She is the aunt of Miss Burchell, that aunt who betrayed her to destruction. Sure this woman was sent into the world for a scourge!
I cannot collect myself to tell you with any method, the conversation that passed between Lady V— and me. She found me with the marks of tears on my face; they streamed again at the sight of her; I could not conceal the cause, and I put Mr. Arnold's letter into her hands, for I was not able to tell her the purport of it.
This is Mrs. Gerrarde's doing, said she: the detestable creature! How could she work on your infatuated husband, to drive him such horrid lengths? I know not, said I, but I hope my lady V— believes me innocent. Innocent! she exclaimed: My dear creature, your sufferings almost make me mad. Do you know that Mrs. Gerrarde has an intrigue with your husband? I fear so, madam, I replied, but I hoped it was not public. Poor child, said lady V—, his attachment to her has been no secret, ever since he came down to this country, though probably you were the last to suspect it. I have often dreaded the consequences of it, but never imagined it would have come
The name of Miss Burchell had struck me speechless. The clue was now unravelled. With what an unremitting zeal has this base woman gone on in her career of iniquity! Lady V—, who was intirely taken up with the thoughts of my unhappiness, took no notice of my silence or confusion. What do you mean to do, my dear Mrs. Arnold? said she. Do you think it is not possible, by the interposition of friends, to disabuse your unfortunate husband? For unfortunate he is in a higher degree than yourself, as you have conscious innocence to support you. Oh madam, said I, it is vain to think of it! Mrs. Gerrarde has struck the blow
I told lady V—, I depended on her friendship to keep this affair a secret from Mr. Faulkland, lest the heat of his temper should make him take such notice of it, as might render my separation from Mr. Arnold doubly injurious to my character. Lady V— saw the necessity of this caution, and promised to observe it. She expressed great surprize at Mr. Faulkland's visiting Mrs. Gerrarde, whom she said, she did not imagine he had been acquainted with. He is no stranger, said she, to your husband's amour with her, as it has often been a topic of discourse between my lord and me; and I can hardly think he would be so indelicate as to carry on a love-affair with such an abandoned creature; especially as I have
Lady V— acquiesced in my opinion, and said, she hoped a little time would chace away the dark cloud that now hung over me. She staid with me the whole day; it was a day of tears: the dear woman was quite subdued at parting with me. I shall see you no more, dear lady V—, said I; I shall go to London in two days—Preserve your fortitude, dearest Mrs. Arnold, she replied; the time will come when your husband will repent of the bitter distress he has occasioned to you: my lord and I will use our utmost endeavours to convince him of his error. —We shall meet in London, my dear; I shall go thither early in the winter on purpose—Have courage—Your innocence must be cleared. I answered her not, my heart was too full. We embraced, and lady V— parted from me in silence.
I have written to my mother, and directed my letter to St. James's-street. I would have her prepared for the shock before she sees me; a shock, which I fear she will not be able to sustain.
September 16.—
Mrs. Gerrarde has never called or sent to me since I was at her house. She has effected her purpose, and is contented without a triumph.
I am prepared for my departure. To-morrow I turn my back upon my husband's house, and upon my children. I have been weeping over them this hour as they lie asleep in their nurse's arms. But I will look at them no more.—Poor Patty is almost dead with grief; she would fain go with me, but I have persuaded her to stay: I can rely on her fidelity and her tenderness towards my children; she says, she will be as precious of them as the apple of her eye, and will give me an account of their welfare from time to time. Sure Mr. Arnold will not turn her out too; she is an excellent manager,
I have been debating with myself whether I should write to Mr. Arnold or not, and have at length determined to depart in silent. It is an easy matter for the guilty to make as bold asseverations as the innocent, and nothing which I could now assert would make an impression on him. Had I only his suspicions to combat, there might be hopes: but his heart is alienated from me; and while it continues attached to another, I despair of his listening to the voice of reason or of justice. If ever his eyes are opened, his error will prove sufficient punishment to him—Perhaps my mother or my brother may put me in a way—My conduct, in time, I hope, may justify me—Mean while I will not condescend to the weak justification of words.
September 18.—
I have bid adieu to South-park, and arrived this morning in London in a hired carriage; for I
My mother wept not all this time; I wished she had; her passionate looks and tones affected me more than tears could. My eyes began to run over, her's soon accompanied me, and it a little relieved the vehemence of her grief.
She then began to reproach herself for having listened to lady Grimston's suggestions in favour of Mr. Arnold, and for her own soliciting this fatal marriage. But I stopped her on a subject which I knew would so much torment her thoughts. I conjured her not to reflect on it in that manner; I told her I knew she had acted for the best, and that nothing but an extraordinary fatality, which could neither be foreseen nor avoided, had made me unhappy. I said I was sure Mr. Arnold had been seduced by the
I found it necessary to reconcile my mother to herself on this head; she seemed willing to lay hold on the hint, and turned all her indignation against Mrs. Gerrarde. A practiced sinner, she called her, for whom nothing could be said in extenuation of her crime.
We now turned our thoughts towards fixing on some other abode. You may be sure Mr. Arnold's house is no place for us; and my mother declared, she would not stay another night in it: accordingly we have dispatched her maid to take us lodgings immediately.
September 21.—
We have quickly shifted the scene, my dear Cecilia, and are settled, at least for the present, in very handsome lodgings in St. Alban's-street. We came to them last night, and my mother seems a little less disturbed than she was. I pray God spare her life, but I fear I
Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph | ||