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,
and what do you think was the result of
their deliberations in this jaunt? Why
truly lady Grimston, proud of her handywork,
would needs see it accomplished;
and nothing will serve her, but I must be
married at her house. My mother opposed
it at first; but the Dean seconded
the proposal, that he might have (as he
expressed himself) the satisfaction of contributing
himself to make Mr. Arnold
happy; and Mr. Arnold (audaciously expecting,
I suppose, that this would hasten
the ceremony) joined his intreaties so effectually,
that my mother was obliged to
yield.
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
have contrived many little occasions of
delay. There was a house to be fixed
upon, and I had twenty things to do;
and, as my mother says, many things fall
out between the cup and the lip. But all
my expectations are blown away, and I
have but one poor fortnight given me to
recollect my scattered thoughts, when
they are all to be centered in Mr. Arnold.
I am not merry, my Cecilia, but I am
determined not to appear sad; neither
am I so; I hope I have no reason.
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.
