Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress. Volume 2

“When I want a pupil,” answered Cecilia, “I shall think that an admirable recommendation; but were I to marry, I would rather find a tutor, of the two.”

“I am sure I should not,” cried Lady Honoria, carelessly, “for one has enough to do with tutors before hand, and the best thing I know of marrying is to get rid of them. I fancy you think so too, only it’s a pretty speech to make. Oh how my sister Euphrasia would adore you!—Pray are you always as grave as you are now?”

“No,—yes,—indeed I hardly know.”

“I fancy it’s this dismal place that hurts your spirits. I remember when I saw you in St James’s-square I thought you very lively. But really these thick walls are enough to inspire the vapours if one never had them before.”

“I don’t think they have had a very bad effect upon your ladyship!”

“O yes they have; if Euphrasia was here she would hardly know me. And the extreme want of taste and entertainment in all the family is quite melancholy; for even if by chance one has the good fortune to hear any intelligence, Mrs Delvile will hardly let it be repeated, for fear it should happen to be untrue, as if that could possibly signify! I am sure I had as lieve the things were false as not, for they tell as well one way as the other, if she would but have patience to hear them. But she’s extremely severe, you know, as almost all those very clever women are; so that she keeps a kind of restraint upon me whether I will or no. However, that’s nothing compared to her caro sposo, for he is utterly insufferable; so solemn, and so dull! so stately and so tiresome! Mortimer, too, gets worse and worse; O ‘tis a sad tribe! I dare say he will soon grow quite as horrible as his father. Don’t you think so?”

“Why indeed,—no,—I don’t think there’s much resemblance,” said Cecilia, with some hesitation.

“He is the most altered creature,” continued her ladyship, “I ever saw in my life. Once I thought him the most agreeable young man in the world; but if you observe, that’s all over now, and he is getting just as stupid and dismal as the rest of them. I wish you had been here last summer; I assure you, you would quite have fallen in love with him.”

“Should I?” said Cecilia, with a conscious smile.

“Yes, for he was quite delightful; all spirit and gaiety, but now, if it was not for you, I really think I should pretend to lose my way, and instead of going over that old draw-bridge, throw myself into the moat. I wish Euphrasia was here. It’s just the right place for her. She’ll fancy herself in a monastery as soon as she comes, and nothing will make her half so happy, for she is always wishing to be a Nun, poor little simpleton.

“Is there any chance that Lady Euphrasia may come?”

“O no, she can’t at present, because it would not be proper; but I mean if ever she is married to Mortimer.”

“Married to him!” repeated Cecilia, in the utmost consternation.

“I believe, my dear,” cried Lady Honoria, looking at her very archly, “you intend to be married to him yourself?”

“Me? no, indeed!”

“You look very guilty, though,” cried she laughing, “and indeed when you came hither, every body said that the whole affair was arranged.”

“For shame, Lady Honoria!” said Cecilia, again changing colour, “I am sure this must be your own fancy,—invention,—”

“No, I assure you; I heard it at several places; and every body said how charmingly your fortune would build up all these old fortifications; but some people said they knew Mr Harrel had sold you to Mr Marriot, and that if you married Mortimer, there would be a lawsuit that would take away half your estate; and others said you had promised your hand to Sir Robert Floyer, and repented when you heard of his mortgages, and he gave it out every where that he would fight any man that pretended to you; and then again some said that you were all the time privately married to Mr Arnott, but did not dare own it, because he was so afraid of fighting with Sir Robert.”

“O Lady Honoria!” cried Cecilia, half laughing, “what wild inventions are these! and all I hope, your own?”

“No, indeed, they were current over the whole town. But don’t take any notice of what I told you about Euphrasia, for perhaps, it may never happen.”

“Perhaps,” said Cecilia, reviving by believing it all fiction, “it has never been in agitation?”

“O yes; it is negociating at this very moment, I believe, among the higher powers; only Mr Delvile does not yet know whether Euphrasia has fortune enough for what he wants.”

Ah, thought Cecilia, how do I rejoice that my independent situation exempts me from being disposed of for life, by thus being set up to sale!

“They thought of me, once, for Mortimer,” continued Lady Honoria, “but I’m vastly glad that’s over, for I never should have survived being shut up in this place; it’s much fitter for Euphrasia. To tell you the truth, I believe they could not make out money enough; but Euphrasia has a fortune of her own, besides what we shall have together, for Grandmama left her every thing that was in her own power.”

“Is Lady Euphrasia your elder sister?”

“O no, poor little thing, she’s two years younger. Grandmama brought her up, and` she has seen nothing at all of the world, for she has never been presented yet, so she is not come out, you know; but she’s to come out next year. However, she once saw Mortimer, but she did not like him at all.”

“Not like him!” cried Cecilia, greatly surprised.

“No, she thought him too gay,—Oh dear, I wish she could see him now! I am sure I hope she would find him sad enough! she is the most formal little grave thing you ever beheld; she’ll preach to you sometimes for half an hour together. Grandmama taught her nothing in the world but to say her prayers, so that almost every other word you say, she thinks is quite wicked.”

The conversation was now interrupted by their separating to dress for dinner. It left Cecilia in much perplexity; she knew not what wholly to credit, or wholly to disbelieve; but her chief concern arose from the unfortunate change of countenance which Lady Honoria had been so quick in observing.

The next time she was alone with Mrs Delvile, “Miss Beverley,” she said, “has your little rattling tormentor acquainted you who is coming?”

“Lord Derford, do you mean, ma’am?”

“Yes, with his father; shall you dislike to see them?”

“Not if, as I hope, they come merely to wait upon you and Mr Delvile.”

“Mr Delvile and myself,” answered she smiling, “will certainly have the honour of receiving them.”

“Lord Ernolf,” said Cecilia, “can never suppose his visit will make any change in me; I have been very explicit with him, and he seemed equally rational and well bred in forbearing any importunity upon the subject.”

“It has however been much believed in town,” said Mrs Delvile, “that you were strangely shackled by Mr Harrel, and therefore his lordship may probably hope that a change in your situation may be followed by a change in his favour.”

“I shall be sorry if he does,” said Cecilia, “for he will then find himself much deceived.”

“You are right, very right,” cried Mrs Delvile, “to be difficult in your choice, and to take time for looking around you before you make any. I have forborn all questions upon this subject, lest you should find any reluctance in answering them; but I am now too deeply interested in your welfare to be contented in total ignorance of your designs; will you, then, suffer me to make a few enquiries?”

Cecilia gave a ready, but blushing assent.

“Tell me, then, of the many admirers who have graced your train, which there is you have distinguished with any intention of future preference?”

“Not one, madam!”

“And, out of so many, is there not one that, hereafter, you mean to distinguish?”

“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, shaking her head, “many as they may seem, I have little reason to be proud of them; there is one only who, had my fortune been smaller, would, I believe, ever have thought of me, and there is one only, who, were it now diminished, would ever think of me more.”

“This sincerity,” cried Mrs Delvile, “is just what I expected from you. There is, then, one?”

“I believe there is,—and the worthy Mr Arnott is the man; I am much indeed deceived, if his partiality for me is not truly disinterested, and I almost wish”—

“What, my love?”

“That I could return it more gratefully!”

“And do you not?”

“No!—I cannot! I esteem him, I have the truest regard for his character, and were I now by any fatal necessity, compelled to belong to any one of those who have been pleased to address me, I should not hesitate a moment in shewing him my gratitude; but yet, for some time at least, such a proof of it would render me very miserable.”

“You may perhaps think so now,” returned Mrs Delvile; “but with sentiments so strongly in his favour, you will probably be led hereafter to pity—and accept him.”