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
Mr. Faulkland a little before dinner-time,
and presented him to my mother and
me, with that kind of freedom that almost
look'd as if he were already one of the
family.
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
graces?) attend on his motions; that
Minerva presides over his lips, and every
feature has its attendant Cupid.—But I
will acknowledge that his voice in speaking
is inexpressibly pleasing (you know
how I admire an agreeable voice); that
his air and motions are easy, genteel,k and
graceful; his conversation sensible and
polite, and without the least tincture of
affectation, that thing, which of all others,
would to
me destroy the charms of an
angel.—In short, without hyperbole, that
he is, what every one must allow, a perfectly
handsome and accomplished young
man.
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
me in discourse now-and-then, and seemed
pleased with me; at least I fancied so.
My brother endeavoured to draw me
out, as he said afterwards. The intention
was kind, but poor Sir George is not delicate
enough in those matters; I should
have done better if he had let me alone.
I thought of the conversations we had so
often had about Mr. Faulkland, and could
not help considering myself like a piece
of goods that was to be shewn to the best
advantage to a purchaser. This reflection
threw a sort of constraint over my behaviour,
that (fool as I was) I had not courage
enough to shake off, and I did not
acquit myself at all to my own mind. I
had, notwithstanding, the good fortune to
please my mother infinitely. She told me,
after our visitor was gone, that my behaviour
had been
strictly proper; and
blamed Sir George for his wanting to
engage me too often in conversation.
You may assure yourself, son, she said,
that a man of Mr. Faulkland's understanding
will not like a young lady the
worse for her silence. She spoke enough
to shew that it was not for want of knowing
what to say that she held her tongue.
The man who does not reckon a modest
reserve amongst the chief recommendations
of a woman, should be no husband
for Sidney. I am sure, when I married
Sir Robert, he had never heard me speak
twenty sentences. Sir George agreed
with her as to the propriety of her observation,
in regard to a modest reserve;
but said, people now-a-days did not
carry their ideas of it quite so far as they
did when his father's courtship began
with her; and added, that a young lady
might
speak with as much modesty as she
could hold her tongue.
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:
She was quite astonished,
and owned she almost despaired of finding
a young gentleman, of the present
mode of education, so
very unexceptionable
in his behaviour. If his morals
answered to his outward deportment,—
there she stopped; or rather Sir George
interrupted her. I hope you'll believe,
madam, that my knowledge of mankind
is not so circumscribed, but that I can
distinguish between a real and an assumed
character; and I will venture to assert,
that, int he whole circle of my acquaintance,
I do not know
one so unobjectionable,
even in your strict sense of the word
morals, as Mr. Faulkland.
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,
if matters are brought to bear;
eh, Sidney?' (I need not tell you whose
speech this was.)—Brother, that is going
a little too far, for the first time of my
seeing him. A great
deal too far, my
mother said; let us first know Mr. Faulkland's
mind from himself, before we say
a word more of the matter.
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.
