Cecilia vol. 3

F >> Frances (Fanny) Burney (Madame d'Arblay) >> Cecilia vol. 3

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"Let every man speak his own maxim, Sir," cried Hobson; "for that's
what I call fair arguing: but as to one person's speaking, and then
making an answer for another into the bargain, why it's going to work
no-how; you may as well talk to a counter, and think because you make a
noise upon it with your own hand, it gives you the reply."

"Why, Mr Hobson," cried Mrs Belfield, "I am quite ashamed of you for
being so dull! don't you see my son has something to say to the lady
that you and I have no business to be meddling with?"

"I'm sure, ma'am, for my part," said Mr Simkins, "I'm very agreeable to
going away, for as to putting the young lady to the blush, it's what I
would not do in no shape."

"I only mean," said Mr Hobson, when he was interrupted by Mrs Belfield,
who, out of all patience, now turned him out of the room by the
shoulders, and, pulling Mr Simkins after, followed herself, and shut
the door, though Cecilia, much provoked, desired she would stay, and
declared repeatedly that all her business was public.

Belfield, who had, looked ready to murder them all during this short
scene, now approached Cecilia, and with an air of mingled spirit and
respect, said, "I am much grieved, much confounded, madam, that your
ears should be offended by speeches so improper to reach them; yet if
it is possible I can have the honour of being of any use to you, in me,
still, I hope, you feel you may confide. I am too distant from you in
situation to give you reason to apprehend I can form any sinister views
in serving you; and, permit me to add, I am too near you in mind, ever
to give you the pain of bidding me remember that distance."

Cecilia then, extremely unwilling to shock a sensibility not more
generous than jealous, determined to continue her enquiries, and, at
the same time, to prevent any further misapprehension, by revealing her
actual situation.

"I am sorry, Sir," she answered, "to have occasioned this disturbance;
Mrs Belfield, I find, is wholly unacquainted with the circumstance
which now carries me abroad, or it would not have happened."

Here a little noise in the passage interrupting her, she heard Mrs
Belfield, though in a low voice, say, "Hush, Sir, hush! you must not
come in just now; you've caught me, I confess, rather upon the
listening order; but to tell you the truth, I did not know what might
be going forward. However, there's no admittance now, I assure you, for
my son's upon particular business with a lady, and Mr Hobson and Mr
Simkins and I, have all been as good as turned out by them but just
now."

Cecilia and Belfield, though they heard this speech with mutual
indignation, had no time to mark or express it, as it was answered
without in a voice at once loud and furious, "_You_, madam, may be
content to listen here; pardon me if I am less humbly disposed!" And
the door was abruptly opened by young Delvile!

Cecilia, who half screamed from excess of astonishment, would scarcely,
even by the presence of Belfield and his mother, have been restrained
from flying to meet him, had his own aspect invited such a mark of
tenderness; but far other was the case; when the door was open, he
stopt short with a look half petrified, his feet seeming rooted to the
spot upon which they stood.

"I declare I ask pardon, ma'am," cried Mrs Belfield, "but the
interruption was no fault of mine, for the gentleman would come in;
and--"

"It is no interruption, madam;" cried Belfield, "Mr Delvile does me
nothing but honour."

"I thank you, Sir!" said Delvile, trying to recover and come forward,
but trembling violently, and speaking with the most frigid coldness.

They were then, for a few instants, all silent; Cecilia, amazed by his
arrival, still more amazed by his behaviour, feared to speak lest he
meant not, as yet, to avow his marriage, and felt a thousand
apprehensions that some new calamity had hurried him home: while
Belfield was both hurt by his strangeness, and embarrassed for the sake
of Cecilia; and his mother, though wondering at them all, was kept
quiet by her son's looks.

Delvile then, struggling for an appearance of more ease, said, "I seem
to have made a general confusion here:--pray, I beg"--

"None at all, Sir," said Belfield, and offered a chair to Cecilia.

"No, Sir," she answered, in a voice scarce audible, "I was just going."
And again rang the bell.

"I fear I hurry you, madam?" cried Delvile, whose whole frame was now
shaking with uncontrollable emotion; "you are upon business--I ought to
beg your pardon--my entrance, I believe, was unseasonable."--

"Sir!" cried she, looking aghast at this speech.

"I should have been rather surprised," he added, "to have met you here,
so late,--so unexpectedly,--so deeply engaged--had I not happened to
see your servant in the street, who told me the honour I should be
likely to have by coming."

"Good God!--" exclaimed she, involuntarily; but, checking herself as
well as she could, she courtsied to Mrs Belfield, unable to speak to
her, and avoiding even to look at Belfield, who respectfully hung back,
she hastened out of the room: accompanied by Mrs Belfield, who again
began the most voluble and vulgar apologies for the intrusion she had
met with.

Delvile also, after a moment's pause, followed, saying, "Give me leave,
madam, to see you to your carriage."

Cecilia then, notwithstanding Mrs Belfield still kept talking, could no
longer refrain saying, "Good heaven, what does all this mean?"

"Rather for _me_ is that question," he answered, in such agitation he
could not, though he meant it, assist her into the chaise, "for mine, I
believe, is the greater surprise!"

"What surprise?" cried she, "explain, I conjure you!"

"By and bye I will," he answered; "go on postilion."

"Where, Sir?"

"Where you came from, I suppose."

"What, Sir, back to Rumford?"

"Rumford!" exclaimed he, with encreasing disorder, "you came then from
Suffolk hither?--from Suffolk to this very house?"

"Good heaven!" cried Cecilia, "come into the chaise, and let me speak
and hear to be understood!"

"Who is that now in it?"

"My Maid."

"Your maid?--and she waits for you thus at the door?"--

"What, what is it you mean?"

"Tell the man, madam, whither to go."

"I don't know myself--any where you please--do you order him."

"I order him!--you came not hither to receive orders from _me_!--where
was it you had purposed to rest?"

"I don't know--I meant to go to Mrs Hill's--I have no place taken."--

"No place taken!" repeated he, in a voice faultering between passion
and grief; "you purposed, then, to stay here?--I have perhaps driven
you away?"

"Here!" cried Cecilia, mingling, in her turn, indignation with
surprise, "gracious heaven! what is it you mean to doubt?"

"Nothing!" cried he, with emphasis, "I never have had, I never _will_
have a doubt! I will know, I will have _conviction_ for every thing!
Postilion, drive to St James's-square!--to Mr Delvile's. There, madam,
I will wait upon you."

"No! stay, postilion!" called out Cecilia, seized with terror
inexpressible; "let me get out, let me speak with you at once!"

"It cannot be; I will follow you in a few minutes--drive on,
postilion!"

"No, no!--I will not go--I dare not leave you--unkind Delvile!--what is
it you suspect."

"Cecilia," cried he, putting his hand upon the chaise-door, "I have
ever believed you spotless as an angel! and, by heaven! I believe you
so still, in spite of appearances--in defiance of every thing!--Now
then be satisfied;--I will be with you very soon. Meanwhile, take this
letter, I was just going to send to you.--Postilion, drive on, or be at
your peril!"

The man waited no further orders, nor regarded the prohibition of
Cecilia, who called out to him without ceasing; but he would not listen
to her till he got to the end of the street; he then stopt, and she
broke the seal of her letter, and read, by the light of the lamps,
enough to let her know that Delvile had written it upon the road from
Dover to London, to acquaint her his mother was now better, and had
taken pity of his suspense and impatience, and insisted upon his coming
privately to England, to satisfy himself fully about Mr Monckton,
communicate his marriage to his father, and give those orders towards
preparing for its being made public, which his unhappy precipitation in
leaving the kingdom had prevented.

This letter, which, though written but a few hours before she received
it, was full of tenderness, gratitude and anxiety for her happiness,
instantly convinced her that his strange behaviour had been wholly the
effect of a sudden impulse of jealousy; excited by so unexpectedly
finding her in town, at the very house where his father had assured him
she had an improper connexion, and alone, so suspiciously, with the
young man affirmed to be her favourite. He knew nothing of the
ejectment, nothing of any reason for her leaving Suffolk, every thing
had the semblance of no motive but to indulge a private and criminal
inclination.

These thoughts, which confusedly, yet forcibly, rushed upon her mind,
brought with them at once an excuse for his conduct, and an alarm for
his danger; "He must think," she cried, "I came to town only to meet Mr
Belfield!" then, opening the chaise-door herself, she jumpt out, and
ran back into Portland-street, too impatient to argue with the
postilion to return with her, and stopt not till she came to Mrs
Belfield's house.

She knocked at the door with violence; Mrs Belfield came to it herself;
"Where," cried she, hastily entering as she spoke, "are the gentlemen?"

"Lack-a-day! ma'am," answered Mrs Belfield, "they are both gone out."

"Gone out?--where to?--which way?"

"I am sure I can't tell, ma'am, no more than you can; but I am sadly
afraid they'll have a quarrel before they've done."

"Oh heaven!" cried Cecilia, who now doubted not a second duel, "tell
me, shew me, which way they went?"

"Why, ma'am, to let you into the secret," answered Mrs Belfield, "only
I beg you'll take no notice of it to my son, but, seeing them so much
out of sorts, I begged the favour of Mr Simkins, as Mr Hobson was gone
out to his club, just to follow them, and see what they were after."

Cecilia was much rejoiced this caution had been taken, and determined
to wait his return. She would have sent for the chaise to follow her;
but Mrs Belfield kept no servant, and the maid of the house was
employed in preparing the supper.

When Mr Simkins came back, she learnt, after various interruptions from
Mrs Belfield, and much delay from his own slowness and circumlocution,
that he had pursued the two gentlemen to the * * coffee-house.

She hesitated not a moment in resolving to follow them: she feared the
failure of any commission, nor did she know whom to entrust with one:
and the danger was too urgent for much deliberation. She begged,
therefore, that Mr. Simkins would walk with her to the chaise; but
hearing that the coffee-house was another way, she desired Mrs Belfield
to let the servant run and order it to Mrs Roberts, in Fetterlane, and
then eagerly requested Mr Simkins to accompany her on foot till they
met with an hackney-coach.

They then set out, Mr Simkins feeling proud and happy in being allowed
to attend her, while Cecilia, glad of any protection, accepted his
offer of continuing with her, even after she met with an hackney-
coach.

When she arrived at the coffee-house, she ordered the coachman to
desire the master of it to come and speak with her.

He came, and she hastily called out, "Pray, are two gentlemen here?"

"Here are several gentlemen here, madam."

"Yes, yes,--but are two upon any business--any particular business--"

"Two gentlemen, madam, came about half an hour ago, and asked for a
room to themselves."

"And where are they now?--are they up stairs?--down stairs?--where are
they?"

"One of them went away in about ten minutes, and the other soon after."

Bitterly chagrined and disappointed, she knew not what step to take
next; but, after some consideration, concluded upon obeying Delvile's
own directions, and proceeding to St James's-square, where alone, now,
she seemed to have any chance of meeting with him. Gladly, however, she
still consented to be accompanied by Mr Simkins, for her dread of being
alone, at so late an hour, in an hackney-coach, was invincible. Whether
Delvile himself had any authority for directing her to his father's, or
whether, in the perturbation of his new--excited and agonising
sensations of jealousy, he had forgotten that any authority was
necessary, she knew not; nor could she now interest herself in the
doubt: a second scene, such as had so lately passed with Mr Monckton,
occupied all her thoughts: she knew the too great probability that the
high spirit of Belfield would disdain making the explanation which
Delvile in his present agitation might require, and the consequence of
such a refusal must almost inevitably be fatal.

CHAPTER vii.

A PURSUIT.

The moment the porter came to the door, Cecilia eagerly called out from
the coach, "Is Mr Delvile here?"

"Yes, madam," he answered, "but I believe he is engaged."

"Oh no matter for any engagement!" cried she, on the door,--I must
speak to him this moment!"

"If you will please to step into the parlour, madam, I will tell his
gentleman you are here; but he will be much displeased if he is
disturbed without notice."

"Ah heaven!" exclaimed she, "what Mr Delvile are you talking of?"

"My master, madam."

Cecilia, who had got out of the coach, now hastily returned to it, and
was some time in too great agony to answer either the porter, who
desired some message, or the coachman, who asked whither he was to
drive. To see Mr Delvile, unprotected by his son, and contrary to his
orders, appeared to her insupportable; yet to what place could she go?
where was she likely to meet with Delvile? how could he find her if she
went to Mrs Hill's? and in what other house could she at present claim
admittance?

After a little recovering from this cruel shock, she ventured, though
in a faultering voice, to enquire whether young Mr Delvile had been
there?

"Yes, madam," the porter answered; "we thought he was abroad, but he
called just now, and asked if any lady had been at the house. He would
not even stay to go up to my master, and we have not dared tell him of
his arrival."

This a little revived her; to hear that he had actually been enquiring
for her, at least assured her of his safety from any immediate
violence, and she began to hope she might now possibly meet with him
time enough to explain all that had past in his absence, and occasioned
her seemingly strange and suspicious situation at Belfield's. She
compelled herself, therefore, to summon courage for seeing his father,
since, as he had directed her to the house, she concluded he would
return there to seek her, when he had wandered elsewhere to no purpose.

She then, though with much timidity and reluctance, sent a message to
Mr Delvile to entreat a moment's audience.

An answer was brought her that he saw no company so late at night.

Losing now all dread of his reproaches, in her superior dread of
missing Delvile, she called out earnestly to the man, "Tell him, Sir, I
beseech him not to refuse me! tell him I have something to communicate
that requires his immediate attention!"

The servant obeyed; but soon returning, said his master desired him to
acquaint her he was engaged every moment he stayed in town, and must
positively decline seeing her.

"Go to him again," cried the harassed Cecilia, "assure him I come not
from myself, but by the desire of one he most values: tell him I
entreat but permission to wait an hour in his house, and that I have no
other place in the world whither I can go!"

Mr Delvile's own gentleman brought, with evident concern, the answer to
this petition; which was, that while the Honourable Mr Delvile was
himself alive, he thought the desire of any other person concerning his
house, was taking with him a very extraordinary liberty; and that he
was now going to bed, and had given orders to his servants to carry him
no more messages whatsoever, upon pain of instant dismission.

Cecilia now seemed totally destitute of all resource, and for a few
dreadful minutes, gave herself up to utter despondency: nor, when she
recovered her presence of mind, could she form any better plan than
that of waiting in the coach to watch the return of Delvile.

She told the coachman, therefore, to drive to a corner of the square,
begging Mr Simkins to have patience, which he promised with much
readiness, and endeavoured to give her comfort, by talking without
cessation.

She waited here near half an hour. She then feared the disappointment
of Delvile in not meeting her at first, had made him conclude she meant
not to obey his directions, and had perhaps urged him to call again
upon Belfield, whom he might fancy privy to her non-appearance. This
was new horror to her, and she resolved at all risks to drive to
Portland-street, and enquire if Belfield himself was returned home.
Yet, lest they should mutually be pursuing each other all night, she
stopt again at Mr Delvile's, and left word with the porter, that if
young Mr Delvile should come home, he would hear of the person he was
enquiring for at Mrs Roberts's in Fetter-lane. To Belfield's she did
not dare to direct him; and it was her intention, if there she procured
no new intelligence, to leave the same message, and then go to Mrs
Roberts without further delay. To make such an arrangement with a
servant who knew not her connection with his young master, was
extremely repugnant to her; but the exigence was too urgent for
scruples, and there was nothing to which she would not have consented,
to prevent the fatal catastrophe she apprehended.

When she came to Belfield's, not daring to enter the house, she sent in
Mr Simkins, to desire that Mrs Belfield would be so good as to step to
the coach door.

"Is your son, madam," she cried, eagerly, "come home? and is any body
with him?"

"No, ma'am; he has never once been across the threshold since that
gentleman took him out; and I am half out of my wits to think"--

"Has that gentleman," interrupted Cecilia, "been here anymore?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's what I was going to tell you; he came again just
now, and said"--

"Just now?--good heaven!--and which way is he gone?"

"Why he is after no good, I am afraid, for he was in a great passion,
and would hardly hear any thing I said."

"Pray, pray answer me quick!--where, which way did he go?"

"Why, he asked me if I knew whither my son was come from the * *
coffee-house; why, says I, I'm sure I can't tell, for if it had not
been for Mr Simkins, I should not so much as have known he ever went to
the * * coffee-house; however, I hope he a'n't come away, because if he
is, poor Miss Beverley will have had all that trouble for nothing; for
she's gone after him in a prodigious hurry; and upon my only saying
that, he seemed quite beside himself, and said, if I don't meet with
your son at the * * coffee-house myself, pray, when he comes in, tell
him I shall be highly obliged to him to call there; and then he went
away, in as great a pet as ever you saw."

Cecilia listened to this account with the utmost terror and misery; the
suspicions of Delvile would now be aggravated, and the message he had
left for Belfield, would by him be regarded as a defiance. Again,
however, to the * * coffee-house she instantly ordered the coach, an
immediate explanation from herself seeming the only possible chance for
preventing the most horrible conclusion to this unfortunate and
eventful evening.

She was still accompanied by Mr Simkins, and, but that she attended to
nothing he said, would not inconsiderably have been tormented by his
conversation. She sent him immediately into the coffee-room, to enquire
if either of the gentlemen were then in the house.

He returned to her with a waiter, who said, "One of them, madam, called
again just now, but he only stopt to write a note, which he left to be
given to the gentleman who came with him at first. He is but this
moment gone, and I don't think he can be at the bottom of the street."

"Oh drive then, gallop after him!"--cried Cecilia; "coachman! go this
moment!"

"My horses are tired," said the man, "they have been out all day, and
they will gallop no further, if I don't stop and give them a drink."

Cecilia, too full of hope and impatience for this delay, forced open
the door herself, and without saying another word, jumped out of the
carriage, with intention to run down the street; but the coachman
immediately seizing her, protested she should not stir till he was
paid.

In the utmost agony of mind at an hindrance by which she imagined
Delvile would be lost to her perhaps for ever, she put her hand in her
pocket, in order to give up her purse for her liberty; but Mr Simkins,
who was making a tiresome expostulation with the coachman, took it
himself, and declaring he would not see the lady cheated, began a
tedious calculation of his fare.

"O pay him any thing!" cried she, "and let us be gone! an instant's
delay may be fatal!"

Mr Simkins, too earnest to conquer the coachman to attend to her
distress, continued his prolix harangue concerning a disputed shilling,
appealing to some gathering spectators upon the justice of his cause;
while his adversary, who was far from sober, still held Cecilia, saying
the coach had been hired for the lady, and he would be paid by herself.

"Good God!" cried the agitated Cecilia,--"give him my purse at once!--
give him every thing he desires!"--

The coachman, at this permission, encreased his demands, and Mr
Simkins, taking the number of his coach, protested he would summons him
to the Court of Conscience the next morning. A gentleman, who then came
out of the coffee-house, offered to assist the lady, but the coachman,
who still held her arm, swore he would have his right.

"Let me go! let me pass!" cried she, with encreasing eagerness and
emotion; "detain me at your peril!--release me this moment--only let me
run to the end of the street,--good God! good Heaven! detain me not for
mercy!"

Mr Simkins, humbly desiring her not to be in haste, began a formal
apology for his conduct; but the inebriety of the coachman became
evident; a mob was collecting; Cecilia, breathless with vehemence and
terror, was encircled, yet struggled in vain to break away; and the
stranger gentleman, protesting, with sundry compliments, he would
himself take care of her, very freely seized her hand.

This moment, for the unhappy Cecilia, teemed with calamity; she was
wholly overpowered; terror for Delvile, horror for herself, hurry,
confusion, heat and fatigue, all assailing her at once, while all means
of repelling them were denied her, the attack was too strong for her
fears, feelings, and faculties, and her reason suddenly, yet totally
failing her, she madly called out, "He will be gone! he will be gone!
and I must follow him to Nice!"

The gentleman now retreated; but Mr Simkins, who was talking to the
mob, did not hear her; and the coachman, too much intoxicated to
perceive her rising frenzy, persisted in detaining her.

"I am going to France!" cried she, still more wildly, "why do you stop
me? he will die if I do not see him, he will bleed to death!"

The coachman, still unmoved, began to grow very abusive; but the
stranger, touched by compassion, gave up his attempted gallantry, and
Mr Simkins, much astonished, entreated her not to be frightened: she
was, however, in no condition to listen to him; with a strength
hitherto unknown to her, she forcibly disengaged herself from her
persecutors; yet her senses were wholly disordered; she forgot her
situation, her intention, and herself; the single idea of Delvile's
danger took sole possession of her brain, though all connection with
its occasion was lost, and the moment she was released, she fervently
clasped her hands, exclaiming, "I will yet heal his wound, even at the
hazard of my life!" and springing forward, was almost instantly out of
sight.

Mr Simkins now, much alarmed, and earnestly calling after her, entered
into a compromise with the coachman, that he might attend her; but the
length of his negociation defeated its purpose, and before he was at
liberty to follow her, all trace was lost by which he might have
overtaken her. He stopt every passenger he met to make enquiries, but
though they led him on some way, they led him on in vain; and, after a
useless and ill-managed pursuit, he went quietly to his own home,
determining to acquaint Mrs Belfield with what had happened the next
morning.

Mean while the frantic Cecilia escaped both pursuit and insult by the
velocity of her own motion. She called aloud upon Delvile as she flew
to the end of the street. No Delvile was there!--she turned the corner;
yet saw nothing of him; she still went on, though unknowing whither,
the distraction of her mind every instant growing greater, from the
inflammation of fatigue, heat, and disappointment. She was spoken to
repeatedly; she was even caught once or twice by her riding habit; but
she forced herself along by her own vehement rapidity, not hearing what
was said, nor heeding what was thought. Delvile, bleeding by the arm of
Belfield, was the image before her eyes, and took such full possession
of her senses, that still, as she ran on, she fancied it in view. She
scarce touched the ground; she scarce felt her own motion; she seemed
as if endued with supernatural speed, gliding from place to place, from
street to street; with no consciousness of any plan, and following no
other direction than that of darting forward where-ever there was most
room, and turning back when she met with any obstruction; till quite
spent and exhausted, she abruptly ran into a yet open shop, where,
breathless and panting, she sunk upon the floor, and, with a look
disconsolate and helpless, sat for some time without speaking.

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