July 27.—
After a fortnight's, a dreadful
fortnight's intermission, I reassume
my pen. I have often told you, Cecilia,
I was not born to be happy. Oh! I
prophesied when I said so, though I
knew not why I said it.
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
tears by my bedside. I was in the utmost
danger, but it pleased God to restore me
to the ardent prayers of my dear parent.
In about ten days I began to shew some
symptoms of amendment, and inquired
how Mr. Faulkland did. My mother
answered, he is well, my dear, and gone
out of town, but I believe will return in
a day or two. Gone out of town, said
I, and leave me dying! Indeed that was
not kind of Mr. Faulkland, and I shall
tell him so. My mother was sitting on
the bedside, and had hold of my hand;
my brother was standing with his back to
the fire-place. I observed they looked at
one another, but neither made me any
answer. Pray, Sir George, I cried, would
you serve the woman so whom you were
so near making your wife? My brother
was gong to reply, but my mother
frowned at him; he looked displeased,
and went out of the room. Dear madam,
said I, there is something the matter with
Mr. Faulkland; don't keep me in suspence.
I
know there is something, which
you and my brother would conceal from
me. Is Mr. Faulkland sick? Not that I
know of, I assure you, answered my mother;
he was well yesterday, for we had
a message from him to enquire after your
health, as we have had every day, for he
is but at Richmond; and you know, if
he were in town, he could receive no other
satisfaction than hearing from you, as you
are too ill to admit of any visits. My
mother rang the bell immediately, and
asked me to take something; I saw she
wanted to turn the conversation. My
maid Ellen came into the room, and I
asked no more questions.
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.
Faulkland. The poor girl looked concerned,
and seemed to study for an answer.
Lord Bless me, madam! what should I
know of him more than my lady has told
you? When did you see him? said I:
Not for several days, she answered.
Where is he? At Richmond, I heard Sir
George say; but I suppose he will come
to town as soon as he hears you are well
enough to receive him. I catched hold
of her hand; 'Ellen, I know there is
something, relative to Mr. Faulkland,
which you all want to hide from me;
don't attempt to deceive me; you may
be sure, whatever it be, I must soon
be informed of it; in the mean while,
my doubts make me very unhappy.'
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
with that little word!' I know nothing,
madam, answered Ellen, but what I gathered
from Sir George's loud angry talk
with my lady; and I should be undone if
her ladyship were to know I mentioned it
to you. I assured her my mother should
not know it. Why then, madam (speaking
lower) I am afraid that Mr. Faulkland
has misbehaved, or has been belied
to my lady—She stopped at this—How?
how? cry'd I eagerly; what has she heard
of him? Something of another courtship,
she replied; but I hope it is all false—You
trifle with me—speak out, and say all you
know. The poor creature started at my
impatience: 'I know no more, madam,
than that I heard my lady say to Sir
George, I had rather Sidney were in her
grave than married to him. Sir George
said, But why will you not let Mr.
Faulkland justify himself, madam? Justify
himself! my lady answered; what
can he say? Is it not plain that
he is false to another woman? They
talked lower; but at last Sir George
raised his voice, and said, he would
give half his estate to have the villain
punished;—And this, madam, I overheard
by mere accident. Sir George
was going abroad; his linen was lying
ready for him in his dressing-room; and his man desired me to put
a stitch in one of his master's point
ruffles, which was a little ripped in the
gathering. I had come up the back
stairs into the dressing-room, just as my
lady (who was with Sir George in the
bed chamber) said the words I first repeated;
and while I stood doing the
ruffle, I heard the rest. There was a
great deal more said, but I could not
distinguish any thing besides, except a
word here and there, which Sir George
seemed to speak in a very angry tone.
This was the second day of your illness.
Mr. Faulkland had been here in the
morning to inquire how you did; my
lady saw him, and I thought they parted
very friendly. I met Mr. Faulkland
coming down stairs; he looked full of
grief; my lady stood at the dining-room door, and wished him a good
morning. About an hour after came
a letter directed to you; it was brought
by a porter, who said it required no
answer. As you were too ill to read
it, I gave it to my lady; and it was
soon after this, that I heard the conversation
between Sir George and her
ladyship. Mr. Faulkland came again
in the evening. Sir George was not
at home; but my lady had him above
an hour in the drawing-room; and
the footman, who let him out, said,
he looked as if he were in sad trouble.
He has never been here since, but sends
constantly every day to know how you
do. My lady ordered me, if any letters
came for you, to deliver them to
her.' 'And has there any come to me?'
No, madam, word was always sent to
Mr. Faulkland of your being so ill,
that to be sure he thought it would be
in vain for him to write to you.'
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
into bed. She slept soundly; how I envied
her tranquillity! If I forgot myself
for a few minutes, my slumbers were
distracted, and I started at the recollection
of what I had already heard, and the dread
of what I had
still to hear. Mr. Faulkland
absenting himself from the house so long;
my mother wishing me in the grave, rather
than be his wife; my brother denouncing
vengeance on the
villain! These were the
terrible ideas that haunted me till morning.
What can he have done? I cried
aloud several times. I summoned to my
aid all the fortitude I was mistress of, and
resolved not to sink under the calamity,
be it of what nature it would.
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
things, and said, she hoped I should
soon be able to go into the country for a
few days, to recover a little strength. I
answered, I hope so too, madam. We
were both silent for a while; my mother
had her indulgent eyes fixed upon me;
mine were cast down: at last I resolved to
speak out. Madam, said I, looking
stedfastly at her, what is the cause of
your coldness towards Mr. Faulkland?
'Tis in vain for you to hide it longer;
you say he is
well, and gone out of town.
If he has shewn any slight towards me,
tell me so at once; and do not entertain
so mean an opinion of your daughter, as
to suppose she cannot bear the news.
Your tenderness, I see, would conceal
something from me; but believe me, madam,
I am prepared for the worst.
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
ever had of your patience; but I have no
doubt that your goodness and discretion
will teach you to act as becomes your character.
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
Madam,
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.
I am, madam,
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
colour of going to Bath, or to London,
for better advice than I can have
here. But what will this avail me? I
have no relations, no friends, nor acquaintance,
that I can trust with the secret
of my miserable situation. To whom
then can I fly, but to you, the cause of all
my sorrow? I beseech you, for heaven's
sake, write to me, and tell me, if indeed
you are going to give yourself away for
ever! If you are, your intended bride,
perhaps may have no other advantage of
me, but what you in an evil hour deprived
me of. Write to me, dear, though cruel,
as you are; and think of some place of
refuge for your unhappy
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
so slender a twig; you may be sure I am
but too well convinced that the letter is
genuine, or you should never have had
a moment's uneasiness by the knowledge of
it. Mr. Faulkland himself does not deny
it, and it is with his permission that I
kept it. I promised to return it, but desired
leave to retain it for a few days. He
could not refuse me this, though he might
easily imagine I designed to shew it to
you. That, indeed, was my intention, when
I desired to keep it a little while in my
hands, and I did so, that I might have
your judgment on the letter itself, as well
as fully to justify my own proceedings in
what I have done. Ah! dear madam,
cry'd I, scarce knowing what I said, I
rely on your maternal goodness; I am
sure you have done what is proper. Yet
has Mr. Faulkland nothing to say for
himself?—But I will ask no more
questions—I know too much already—
My love, said my mother, you have a
right to know every thing relative to
this affair.
I shewed the letters to your brother, as
soon as I received them. Sir George at
first seemed quite confounded, but afterwards,
to my very great surprize, he
smiled and said, he knew of that foolish
business before. I asked him if he knew
of it before, how he could answer it to
his honour, his conscience, or the love
he ought to bear his sister, not to divulge
it immediately? Why, said he, I assure
you it is a trivial affair, that ought not to
make you uneasy.
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
him? Why, the girl was silly,
and she was thrown in his way by a vile
designing woman that had the care of her.
'And was he (again stopping him) to
take advantage of her folly, and join
with that
vile designing woman, to destroy
a poor young creature's honour?'
The
best men, said he confidently, may
fall into an error; and if you expect to
find a man intirely free from them, you
look for what is not possible in human
nature.
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
fact alledged, of which I could not conceive
it possible for him to acquit himself.
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
perhaps, at not getting a better booty
(for he found but twenty moidores besides)
joined to his malice against his master,
incited him to make the use he did
of this letter. Now, continued my mother,
though the fellow is undoubtedly a
vile creature, yet, my dear, I think
we
are obliged to him for this discovery,
providentially as it has come, to save
you from what, in my opinion, would
be the worst of misfortunes.
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
back. The advertisement, which, to be
sure, the fellow either did not see at all, or
had not time enough to avail himself of
it, shews you to what sad resources people
are driven, who, having done unwarrantable
actions, are often in the power
of the lowest wretches. I own this circumstance
gave me a very ill impression
of Mr. Faulkland. Your brother says,
he remembers this man was one of the servants
he took with him to Bath, and, without
doubt, he knew of his amour. The
advertisement has since been changed, by
Sir George's advice. I find the man is
named, his person described, and a reward
of fifty pounds offered for the apprehending
him; but I take it for granted
he has got out of reach.
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
me to find, that a young man, educated
as Sir George was, in the early part of
life, in the strictest principles of virtue,
and the son of parents, who, thank God,
always gave him the best example, should
have so far deviated from the sober paths
he was brought up in, as to treat the most
glaring vices with a levity that shocked
me. But, I suppose, the company he kept
abroad, among whom this hypocrite
Faulkland was his chief, has quite perverted
him. He gave me the letter to
read, which he had received from his friend
whilst he was at Bath; and which, he said,
was to convince me that it was such a
trifling affair, that we ought not to take
the least notice of it. And all his reason
for this was, truly, because that loose
man treats the subject as lightly as he
does. I am afraid Sir George is no better
than himself, or he would not have
ventured to make him the confident of
his wild amours; and that at a time too
when he was encouraged to address you.
He tells him of a very pretty young lady
(innocent he says too) that he got acquainted
with, who came to Bath under
the care of an aunt and uncle; he talks
some idle stuff of avoiding her, when he
found she like him, and that the aunt
(wicked woman!) contrived to leave them
together one evening, when, I understand,
the poor young creature fell into the snare
that was prepared for her. For, would
you believe it, my dear, the monstrous
libertine, notwithstanding his pretences,
owned that he had paid a price for the
girl to her aunt. The betrayed creature
herself knew not of this.
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
her and such a rake. He answered,
if I kept you unmarried till I found such
a man as
I should
not call a rake, you
were likely to live and die a maid. That
for his part, he was very sorry, as well
for Mr. Faulkland's sake as yours, he had
ever proposed an union, which he found
was likely to be overthrown by unseasonable
scruples. And the gentleman, in a
violent passion, flung out of the room,
without deigning even to take up the
letter, which had fallen on the floor.
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
him short at once, by saying, Mr. Faulkland,
I am extremely concerned and
shocked at what has happened; I will
say but a few words to you; and desire
to hear nothing more than answers to
my questions: he bowed, and remained
silent.
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
use so severe an expression—Sir, I can
use no other: How can you extenuate
the fault, by which you merit so severe an
appellation? To a lady of your rigid delicacy,
madam, said he, perhaps what
youth could offer, in extenuation of the
fault, might appear but a weak plea: yet
'tis most certain, that I was surprized into
the fatal error: I ;am under no promises,
no ties, no engagements whatsoever
to the lady. No ties, Sir! (interrupting
him) Is your own honour no tie
upon you, supposing you free from any
other obligation? You see the Consequence
of this fatal error, as you call it: here is
a young person, of fashion, perhaps (I
don't inquire who she is, but she seems to
have had no mean education) who is likely
to bring a child into the world, to the
disgrace of herself and her family. ON
you, Sir, she charges her dishonour, and
mentions your marrying another, as the
blow which is to complete her ruin. Mr.
Faulkland, is not all this truth? Be so good
as to give me a direct answer. Madam,
I cannot deny it; you have the proof of
it in your hands: from all that appears
to you, I am indeed very blameable; nay,
I do not pretend to vindicate my folly;
but, madam, do not aggravate my fault
in your own thoughts, by considering the
affair in a more unfavourable light than
what even her letter puts it. I conjure
you, madam, to suffer Sir George to be
my advocate on this occasion; he is acquainted
with every particular of the
transaction, and can give you a detail that
I will not presume to do. Be pleased,
Sir, replied I, to tell me what you mean
to do in regard to this lady? I mean to
do all that I
can do, answered he; I shall
provide a place of retreat for her, where
she will meet with the utmost care, tenderness,
and respect; and where she may
continue with privacy till she is in a condition
to return home again to her friends.
You may be sure, madam, as to the rest,
I shall acquit myself consistently with honour.
That is as much as to say, Sir,
said I, that you will take care of the maintenance
of your poor babe. He looked
as if he had a mind to smile, forward
man! but constrained it. Doubtless, madam,
I shall do all that is now in my power to do,
in every circumstance relating
to her.
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
to utter. All I can find by either you or
him, is, that you think the loss of honour
to a young woman is a trifle, which
a man is not obliged to repair, because
truly he did not
promise to do so. This
young creature, I understand, is a gentlewoman,
very charming in her person, by
your own account; one who loves you tenderly,
and will shortly make you a father.
Is not all this so? I grant, it, madam, said
the criminal. Then, Sir, what reason can
you urge in your conscience for not doing
her justice? None—but your own
inconstant inclinations, which happen now
to be better pleased with another woman,
whom, perhaps, you might forsake in a
few months.
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
opinion; and added, that as your illness
made it very improper to let you know
any thing of the matter for the present, I
should take it as a favour if he would permit
me to retain the lady's letter to him
for a few days, or till you were in a condition
to have the matter broke to you.
In the mean while, I requested that he
would dispense with my receiving any
more visits from him.
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
he is full of anger and vexation
on the occasion. You are now, my dear,
God be praised, in a hopeful way of recovery,
and I expect that George (who has,
by espousing this man's interests so warmly,
very much offended me) that George, I
say, will renew his solicitations in his favour.
What do you say, my child? I should
be glad to know your thoughts, with regard
to the part I have acted, as well as
with respect to Mr. Faulkland's conduct.
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
perhaps by female pride (for I will not
answer for the feelings of my heart at that
instant) was so agreeable to my mother,
that she threw her arms about my neck,
and kissed me several times; blessing, and
calling me by the most endearing names
]at every interval. Her tenderness overcame
me; or, to deal with sincerity, I
believe I was willing to make it an excuse
for weeping. Oh! my dear mother, cry'd
I, I have need of your indulgence; but
indeed your goodness quite overpowers
me. My dear love, said she, you deserve
it all, and more than it is in your mother's
power to shew you. What a blessed escape
have you had, my sweet child, of that
wild man! Little did I think, my
Sidney, when I told you the story of my
first disappointment, that a case so parallel
would soon be your own. With
respect to you and me indeed, the incidents
are nearly alike; but there is a wide difference
between the two men. My lover
had the grace to repent, and would have
returned to his first engagements, if a
dreadful malady had not overtaken him;
but this graceless Faulkland persists in his
infidelity, and would make you as culpable
as himself. I own to you daughter,
that the recollection of that melancholy
event which happened to me, has given
me a sort of horror at the very thoughts of
an union between you and Mr. Faulkland.
You remember the sad consequences
which I related to you of an infidelity
of this kind; the poor forsaken
woman died of grief, and the dishonest
lover ran mad. Think of this, my child,
and let in encourage you to banish such an
unworthy man from your heart. I
was afraid your regard for him might
make this a difficult task; but I rejoice
to find your virtue is stronger than your
passion.
I loved as well as you, but I
overcame it when I found it a duty to do
so; and I see your mother's example is not
lost upon you.
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;
but she was entirely easy as to that, now
she knew that
my sentiments corresponded
with her own.
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
to turn her from them. The integrity
of her own heart makes her liable
to be imposed on by a plausible outside;
and yet the dear good woman takes a sort
of pride in her sagacity. She had admired
and esteemed Mr. Faulkland prodigiously;
her vexation was the greater,
in finding her expectations disappointed;
and could I have been so unjust to the
pretensions of another, or so indelicate in
regard to myself, as to have overlooked
Mr. Faulkland's fault, I knew my mother
would be inflexible. I therefore resolved
in earnest to banish him from my thoughts.
I found my mother was mightily pleased
with her own management of the conversation
she had held with Mr. Faulkland.
I think I talked pretty
roundly to him, said
she; but there was no other way; he is
an artful man, and I was resolved not to
let him wind me about. He would make
a merit of having
formed no designs upon
the young lady; why, possibly, he did
not, till he found the poor soul was so
smitten with him, that he thought she
would be an easy prey. Sir George impudently
insinuated, that a man
must not
reject a lady upon these occasions. I was
ashamed to hint to Mr. Faulkland at the
circumstance of his having actually paid a
price for the girl; it was too gross; and
I think, had I mentioned it, must have
struck him dumb: though very likely he
might have had some subterfuge, even for
that aggravating part of the story.
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
averse to Mr. Faulkland as my mother
is? I replied, Brother, I wonder you can
ask me that question, after what you have
been just now told. I always said, answered
he, that you did not know the
value of the man, and now I am convinced
of it. I wish he had never seen
you! I wish so too, said I. Sir George
walked about the room, and seemed vexed
to death. For heaven's sake, madam,
(turning to my mother) now my sister is
tolerably recovered, suffer her to see Mr.
Faulkland; let her hear what he has to
say in his own vindication: I think you
may trust to her honour, and her discretion;
and if the affair appears to her in
so heinous a light as it does to you, I
will be contented to give Mr. Faulkland
up; but don't shut your own ears, and
your daughter's too, against conviction.
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
been able to urge on the occasion; and I
am sorry to tell you, that I think myself
bound never to have any farther correspondence
with him; therefore you must
excuse me for not seeing him. And so
the match is broke off, cry'd Sir George.
It is, said my mother peremptorily. It
is, echoed I faintly. Why then, replied
Sir George (and he swore), you will never
get such another whilst you live. A
pretty figure you'll make in the world,
when you give it for a reason that you
refused
such a man, after every thing was
concluded upon, because truly you found
that he had had an intrigue! Why, Sidney,
you'll be so laugh'd at! He addressed
himself to me, though I knew he
meant the reproof for my mother. Sir,
answered she, neither your sister nor I
shall trouble ourselves much about the
opinion of people who
can laugh at such
things. You may put the matter into as
ridiculous a light as you please; but this
was no common intrigue; you
know it
was not, however you may affect to speak
of it. I don't suppose
any of you are
saints, but, I trust in Heaven, some are
better than others. Oh! madam, madam,
said my brother, if you knew the world
as well as
I do, you would think that Mr.
Faulkland is one of the best. God forbid!
my mother answered coolly. Well,
well, madam, cry'd Sir George, I see it
is to no purpose to argue; there are many
families of more consequence than ours,
and ten times the fortune, that will be very
proud of Faulkland's alliance; and will
hardly make it an objection to him, that
he was led into a foolish scrape by the
wickedness of one woman, and the folly
of another. If you make my sister wait
for a husband, till you find a man who
never offended in that way, I think mother,
you had better take a little boy
from his nurse, breed him up under your
own eye, and by the time Sidney is a
good motherly gentlewoman, you may
give her the baby to make a play-thing
of. For my own part, I am heartily
sorry I ever interfered.—People of such
nice scruples had better chuse for themselves;
but I cannot help thinking, that
both Faulkland and I are very ill used.
I told you (said my mother to me) how
he would behave. Sir George, I desire
you will not distress your sister thus. (She
saw me sadly cast down: I was ill and
weak): if you have no respect for
me, have
a little tenderness for her.—I beg your
pardon, child, said he, I did not mean
to distress you, I pity
you, indeed Sidney.
I could have cry'd at his using that expression,
it humbles one so. Madam (to
my mother), you shall be troubled no farther
by my friend or myself; all I shall
say is this, that whenever my sister gets
a husband of your ladyship's chusing, I
wish he may have half the worth of the
poor rejected Faulkland.
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
in upon by the unlucky difference between
my mother and my brother. My near
prospect of—of—oh! let me be
ingenuous, and say Happiness, vanished—
Poor Mr. Faulkland!
Poor do I call him?
for shame, Sidney—but let the word go;
I will not blot it. Mr. Faulkland forbid
the house, myself harrassed by a cruel disorder,
and hardly able to crawl out of
bed. All this has fallen on me within
these last fourteen black days. Then I dread
the going abroad, or seeing company,
I shall look so silly; for the intended
wedding began to be talked of;—and the
curiosity of people to know the cause of
it's being broke off—What wild guesses
will be made by some, and what lies invented
by others! Then the ill-natured mirth of
one half of the girls of my acquaintance,
and the
as provoking condolements of the
other half—I am fretted at the thoughts
of it—but it cannot be helped; I must
bear it all—I wish I were well enough to
get into the country, to be out of the reach
of such impertinence.
I long to know who this ill-fated girl
is, that has been the cause of all this.
A
gentlewoman, and very pretty; one that loves
Mr. Faulkland, and will shortly make him
a parent. Thus my mother described her
to Mr. Faulkland, and he assented to it.
Oh! fie, fie, Mr. Faulkland, how could
you be so cruel to
her? How could you
use
me so ill? and Sir George knew of all
this, and makes light of it! it is a strange
story! My mother is severe in her virtue,
but she is in the right—My brother
would sacrifice every consideration to
aggrandize his family—To make a purchase
of the unhappy creature, and that
without her knowledge too, it is horrid!
Away, away from my thoughts, thou
vile intruder—Return to your Bath mistress,
she has a better right to you than
I have; she implores your pity; she has
no refuge but you;a nd she may be every
way preferable to me—I wish I knew
her name, but what is it to me;
mine will
never be Faulkland,
hers ought. Perhaps
Mr. Faulkland may be induced to
marry her, when he sees her in her present
interesting situation. He says he will
provide a retreat for her; to be sure he
will have the compassion to visit her: and
then who knows what may happen? If I
know my own heart, I think I do most
sincerely wish he may make her his wife;
but then I would not chuse to have it
known suddenly; that might look as if he
forsook me for her.
That, I own, would
a little hurt my pride. I wish not the
truth to be known, for mr. Faulkland's
sake; but then I should not like to have a
slur thrown on me.
I will add no more to this, but send
the packet off at all events; I think I
will find you at Paris.
