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Cecilia vol. 3 by Frances (Fanny) Burney (Madame d\'Arblay)

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



Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and the people at DP




CECILIA

OR

Memoirs of an Heiress

by

FRANCES BURNEY

VOL. III.



BOOK VIII. _Continued_.



CHAPTER ii.

AN EVENT.

Scarce less unhappy in her decision than in her uncertainty, and every
way dissatisfied with her situation, her views and herself, Cecilia was
still so distressed and uncomfortable, when Delvile called the next
morning, that he could not discover what her determination had been,
and fearfully enquired his doom with hardly any hope of finding favour.

But Cecilia was above affectation, and a stranger to art. "I would not,
Sir," she said, "keep you an instant in suspense, when I am no longer
in suspense myself. I may have appeared trifling, but I have been
nothing less, and you would readily exculpate me of caprice, if half
the distress of my irresolution was known to you. Even now, when I
hesitate no more, my mind is so ill at ease, that I could neither
wonder nor be displeased should you hesitate in your turn."

"You hesitate no more?" cried he, almost breathless at the sound of
those words, "and is it possible--Oh my Cecilia!--is it possible your
resolution is in my favour?"

"Alas!" cried she, "how little is your reason to rejoice! a dejected
and melancholy gift is all you can receive!"

"Ere I take it, then," cried he, in a voice that spoke joy; pain, and
fear all at once in commotion, "tell me if your reluctance has its
origin in _me_, that I may rather even yet relinquish you, than merely
owe your hand to the selfishness of persecution?"

"Your pride," said she, half smiling, "has some right to be alarmed,
though I meant not to alarm it. No! it is with myself only I am at
variance, with my own weakness and want of judgment that I quarrel,--
in _you_ I have all the reliance that the highest opinion of your
honour and integrity can give me."

This was enough for the warm heart of Delvile, not only to restore
peace, but to awaken rapture. He was almost as wild with delight, as he
had before been with apprehension, and poured forth his acknowledgments
with so much fervour of gratitude, that Cecilia imperceptibly grew
reconciled to herself, and before she missed her dejection,
participated in his contentment.

She quitted him as soon as she had power, to acquaint Mrs Charlton with
what had passed, and assist in preparing her to accompany them to the
altar; while Delvile flew to his new acquaintance, Mr Singleton, the
lawyer, to request him to supply the place of Mr Monckton in giving her
away.

All was now hastened with the utmost expedition, and to avoid
observation, they agreed to meet at the church; their desire of
secrecy, however potent, never urging them to wish the ceremony should
be performed in a place less awful.

When the chairs, however, came, which were to carry the two ladies
thither, Cecilia trembled and hung back. The greatness of her
undertaking, the hazard of all her future happiness, the disgraceful
secrecy of her conduct, the expected reproaches of Mrs Delvile, and the
boldness and indelicacy of the step she was about to take, all so
forcibly struck, and so painfully wounded her, that the moment she was
summoned to set out, she again lost her resolution, and regretting the
hour that ever Delvile was known to her, she sunk into a chair, and
gave up her whole soul to anguish and sorrow.

The good Mrs Charlton tried in vain to console her; a sudden horror
against herself had now seized her spirits, which, exhausted by long
struggles, could rally no more.

In this situation she was at length surprised by Delvile, whose uneasy
astonishment that she had failed in her appointment, was only to be
equalled by that with which he was struck at the sight of her tears. He
demanded the cause with the utmost tenderness and apprehension; Cecilia
for some time could not speak, and then, with a deep sigh, "Ah!" she
cried, "Mr Delvile! how weak are we all when unsupported by our own
esteem! how feeble, how inconsistent, how changeable, when our courage
has any foundation but duty!"

Delvile, much relieved by finding her sadness sprung not from any new
affliction, gently reproached her breach of promise, and earnestly
entreated her to repair it. "The clergyman," cried he, "is waiting; I
have left him with Mr Singleton in the vestry; no new objections have
started, and no new obstacles have intervened; why, then, torment
ourselves with discussing again the old ones, which we have already
considered till every possible argument upon them is exhausted?
Tranquillize, I conjure you, your agitated spirits, and if the truest
tenderness, the most animated esteem, and the gratefullest admiration,
can soften your future cares, and ensure your future peace, every
anniversary of this day will recompense my Cecilia for every pang she
now suffers!"

Cecilia, half soothed and half ashamed, finding she had in fact nothing
new to say or to object, compelled herself to rise, and, penetrated by
his solicitations, endeavoured to compose her mind, and promised to
follow him.

He would not trust her, however, from his sight, but seizing the very
instant of her renewed consent, he dismissed the chairs, and ordering a
hackney-coach, preferred any risk to that of her again wavering, and
insisted upon accompanying her in it himself.

Cecilia had now scarce time to breathe, before she found herself at the
porch of----church. Delvile hurried her out of the carriage, and then
offered his arm to Mrs Charlton. Not a word was spoken by any of the
party till they went into the vestry, where Delvile ordered Cecilia a
glass of water, and having hastily made his compliments to the
clergyman, gave her hand to Mr Singleton, who led her to the altar.

The ceremony was now begun; and Cecilia, finding herself past all power
of retracting, soon called her thoughts from wishing it, and turned her
whole attention to the awful service; to which though she listened with
reverence, her full satisfaction in the object of her vows, made her
listen without terror. But when the priest came to that solemn
adjuration, _If any man can shew any just cause why they may not
lawfully be joined together_, a conscious tear stole into her eye, and
a sigh escaped from Delvile that went to her heart: but, when the
priest concluded the exhortation with _let him now speak, or else
hereafter for-ever hold his peace_, a female voice at some distance,
called out in shrill accents, "I do!"

The ceremony was instantly stopt. The astonished priest immediately
shut up the book to regard the intended bride and bridegroom; Delvile
started with amazement to see whence the sound proceeded; and Cecilia,
aghast, and struck with horror, faintly shriekt, and caught hold of Mrs
Charlton.

The consternation was general, and general was the silence, though all
of one accord turned round towards the place whence the voice issued: a
female form at the same moment was seen rushing from a pew, who glided
out of the church with the quickness of lightning.

Not a word was yet uttered, every one seeming rooted to the spot on
which he stood, and regarding in mute wonder the place this form had
crossed.

Delvile at length exclaimed, "What can this mean?"

"Did you not know the woman, Sir?" said the clergyman.

"No, Sir, I did not even see her."

"Nor you, madam?" said he, addressing Cecilia.

"No, Sir," she answered, in a voice that scarce articulated the two
syllables, and changing colour so frequently, that Delvile,
apprehensive she would faint, flew to her, calling out, "Let _me_
support you!"

She turned from him hastily, and still, holding by Mrs Charlton, moved
away from the altar.

"Whither," cried Delvile, fearfully following her, "whither are you
going?"

She made not any answer; but still, though tottering as much from
emotion as Mrs Charlton from infirmity, she walked on.

"Why did you stop the ceremony, Sir?" cried Delvile, impatiently
speaking to the clergyman.

"No ceremony, Sir," he returned, "could proceed with such an
interruption."

"It has been wholly accidental," cried he, "for we neither of us know
the woman, who could not have any right or authority for the
prohibition." Then yet more anxiously pursuing Cecilia, "why," he
continued, "do you thus move off?--Why leave the ceremony unfinished?
--Mrs Charlton, what is it you are about?--Cecilia, I beseech you
return, and let the service go on!"

Cecilia, making a motion with her hand to forbid his following her,
still silently proceeded, though drawing along with equal difficulty
Mrs Charlton and herself.

"This is insupportable!" cried Delvile, with vehemence, "turn, I
conjure you!--my Cecilia!--my wife!--why is it you thus abandon me?--
Turn, I implore you, and receive my eternal vows!--Mrs Charlton, bring
her back,--Cecilia, you _must_ not go!--"

He now attempted to take her hand, but shrinking from his touch, in an
emphatic but low voice, she said, "Yes, Sir, I must!--an interdiction
such as this!--for the world could I not brave it!"

She then made an effort to somewhat quicken her pace.

"Where," cried Delvile, half frantic, "where is this infamous woman?
This wretch who has thus wantonly destroyed me!"

And he rushed out of the church in pursuit of her.

The clergyman and Mr Singleton, who had hitherto been wondering
spectators, came now to offer their assistance to Cecilia. She declined
any help for herself, but gladly accepted their services for Mrs
Charlton, who, thunderstruck by all that had past, seemed almost robbed
of her faculties. Mr Singleton proposed calling a hackney coach, she
consented, and they stopt for it at the church porch.

The clergyman now began to enquire of the pew-opener, what she knew of
the woman, who she was, and how she had got into the church? She knew
of her, she answered, nothing, but that she had come in to early
prayers, and she supposed she had hid herself in a pew when they were
over, as she had thought the church entirely empty.

An hackney coach now drew up, and while the gentlemen were assisting
Mrs Charlton into it, Delvile returned.

"I have pursued and enquired," cried he, "in vain, I can neither
discover nor hear of her.--But what is all this? Whither are you
going?--What does this coach do here?--Mrs Charlton, why do you get
into it?--Cecilia, what are you doing?"

Cecilia turned away from him in silence. The shock she had received,
took from her all power of speech, while amazement and terror deprived
her even of relief from tears. She believed Delvile to blame, though
she knew not in what, but the obscurity of her fears served only to
render them more dreadful.

She was now getting into the coach herself, but Delvile, who could
neither brook her displeasure, nor endure her departure, forcibly
caught her hand, and called out, "You are _mine_, you are my _wife_!--I
will part with you no more, and go whithersoever you will, I will
follow and claim you!"

"Stop me not!" cried she, impatiently though faintly, "I am sick, I am
ill already,--if you detain me any longer, I shall be unable to support
myself!"

"Oh then rest on _me_!" cried he, still holding her; "rest but upon me
till the ceremony is over!--you will drive me to despair and to madness
if you leave me in this barbarous manner!"

A crowd now began to gather, and the words bride and bridegroom reached
the ears of Cecilia; who half dead with shame, with fear, and with
distress, hastily said "You are determined to make me miserable!" and
snatching away her hand, which Delvile at those words could no longer
hold, she threw herself into the carriage.

Delvile, however, jumped in after her, and with an air of authority
ordered the coachman to Pall-Mall, and then drew up the glasses, with a
look of fierceness at the mob.

Cecilia had neither spirits nor power to resist him; yet, offended by
his violence, and shocked to be thus publickly pursued by him, her
looks spoke a resentment far more mortifying than any verbal reproach.

"Inhuman Cecilia!" cried he, passionately, "to desert me at the very
altar!--to cast me off at the instant the most sacred rites were
uniting us!--and then thus to look at me!--to treat me with this
disdain at a time of such distraction!--to scorn me thus injuriously at
the moment you unjustly abandon me!"

"To how dreadful a scene," said Cecilia, recovering from her
consternation, "have you exposed me! to what shame, what indignity,
what irreparable disgrace!"

"Oh heaven!" cried he with horror, "if any crime, any offence of mine
has occasioned this fatal blow, the whole world holds not a wretch so
culpable as myself, nor one who will sooner allow the justice of your
rigour! my veneration for you has ever equalled my affection, and could
I think it was through _me_ you have suffered any indignity, I should
soon abhor myself, as you seem to abhor me. But what is it I have done?
How have I thus incensed you? By what action, by what guilt, have I
incurred this displeasure?

"Whence," cried she, "came that voice which still vibrates in my ear?
The prohibition could not be on _my_ account, since none to whom I am
known have either right or interest in even wishing it."

"What an inference is this! over _me_, then, do you conclude this woman
had any power?"

Here they stopt at the lodgings. Delvile handed both the ladies out.
Cecilia, eager to avoid his importunities, and dreadfully disturbed,
hastily past him, and ran up stairs; but Mrs Charlton refused not his
arm, on which she lent till they reached the drawing-room.

Cecilia then rang the bell for her servant, and gave orders that a
post-chaise might be sent for immediately.

Delvile now felt offended in his turn; but suppressing his vehemence,
he gravely and quietly said "Determined as you are to leave me,
indifferent to my peace, and incredulous of my word, deign, at least,
before we part, to be more explicit in your accusation, and tell me if
indeed it is possible you can suspect that the wretch who broke off the
ceremony, had ever from me received provocation for such an action?"

"I know not what to suspect," said Cecilia, "where every thing is thus
involved in obscurity; but I must own I should have some difficulty to
think those words the effect of chance, or to credit that their speaker
was concealed without design."

"You are right, then, madam," cried he, resentfully, "to discard me! to
treat me with contempt, to banish me without repugnance, since I see
you believe me capable of duplicity, and imagine I am better informed
in this affair than I appear to be. You have said I shall make you
miserable,--no, madam, no! your happiness and misery depend not upon
one you hold so worthless!"

"On whatever they depend," said Cecilia, "I am too little at ease for
discussion. I would no more be daring than superstitious, but none of
our proceedings have prospered, and since their privacy has always been
contrary both to my judgment and my principles, I know not how to
repine at a failure I cannot think unmerited. Mrs Charlton, our chaise
is coming; you will be ready, I hope, to set off in it directly?"

Delvile, too angry to trust himself to speak, now walked about the
room, and endeavoured to calm himself; but so little was his success,
that though silent till the chaise was announced, when he heard that
dreaded sound, and saw Cecilia steady in her purpose of departing, he
was so much shocked and afflicted, that, clasping his hands in a
transport of passion and grief, he exclaimed. "This, then, Cecilia, is
your faith! this is the felicity you bid me hope! this is the
recompense of my sufferings, and the performing of your engagement!"

Cecilia, struck by these reproaches, turned back; but while she
hesitated how to answer them, he went on, "You are insensible to my
misery, and impenetrable to my entreaties; a secret enemy has had power
to make me odious in your sight, though for her enmity I can assign no
cause, though even her existence was this morning unknown to me! Ever
ready to abandon, and most willing to condemn me, you have more
confidence in a vague conjecture, than in all you have observed of the
whole tenour of my character. Without knowing why, you are disposed to
believe me criminal, without deigning to say wherefore, you are eager
to banish me your presence. Yet scarce could a consciousness of guilt
itself, wound me so forcibly, so keenly, as your suspecting I am
guilty!"

"Again, then," cried Cecilia, "shall I subject myself to a scene of
such disgrace and horror? No, never!--The punishment of my error shall
at least secure its reformation. Yet if I merit your reproaches, I
deserve not your regard; cease, therefore, to profess any for me, or
make them no more."

"Shew but to them," cried he, "the smallest sensibility, shew but for
me the most distant concern, and I will try to bear my disappointment
without murmuring, and submit to your decrees as to those from which
there is no appeal: but to wound without deigning even to look at what
you destroy,--to shoot at random those arrows that are pointed with
poison,--to see them fasten on the heart, and corrode its vital
functions, yet look on without compunction, or turn away with cold
disdain,--Oh where is the candour I thought lodged in Cecilia! where
the justice, the equity, I believed a part of herself!"

"After all that has past," said Cecilia, sensibly touched by his
distress, "I expected not these complaints, nor that, from me, any
assurances would be wanted; yet, if it will quiet your mind, if it will
better reconcile you to our separation---"

"Oh fatal prelude!" interrupted he, "what on earth can quiet my mind
that leads to our separation?--Give to me no condescension with any
such view,--preserve your indifference, persevere in your coldness,
triumph still in your power of inspiring those feelings you can never
return,--all, every thing is more supportable than to talk of our
separation!"

"Yet how," cried she, "parted, torn asunder as we have been, how is it
now to be avoided?"

"Trust in my honour! Shew me but the confidence which I will venture to
say I deserve, and then will that union no longer be impeded, which in
future, I am certain, will never be repented!"

"Good heaven, what a request! faith so implicit would be frenzy."

"You doubt, then, my integrity? You suspect---"

"Indeed I do not; yet in a case of such importance, what ought to guide
me but my own reason, my own conscience, my own sense of right? Pain me
not, therefore, with reproaches, distress me no more with entreaties,
when I solemnly declare that no earthly consideration shall ever again
make me promise you my hand, while the terror of Mrs Delvile's
displeasure has possession of my heart. And now adieu."

"You give me, then, up?"

"Be patient, I beseech you; and attempt not to follow me; 'tis a step I
cannot permit."

"Not follow you? And who has power to prevent me?"

"_I_ have, Sir, if to incur my endless resentment is of any consequence
to you."

She then, with an air of determined steadiness, moved on; Mrs Charlton,
assisted by the servants, being already upon the stairs.

"O tyranny!" cried he, "what submission is it you exact!--May I not
even enquire into the dreadful mystery of this morning?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And may I not acquaint you with it, should it be discovered?"

"I shall not be sorry to hear it. Adieu."

She was now half way down the stairs; when, losing all forbearance, he
hastily flew after her, and endeavouring to stop her, called out, "If
you do not hate and detest me,--if I am not loathsome and abhorrent to
you, O quit me not thus insensibly!--Cecilia! my beloved Cecilia!--
speak to me, at least, one word of less severity! Look at me once more,
and tell me we part not for-ever!"

Cecilia then turned round, and while a starting tear shewed her
sympathetic distress, said, "Why will you thus oppress me with
entreaties I ought not to gratify?--Have I not accompanied you to the
altar,--and can you doubt what I have thought of you?"

"_Have_ thought?--Oh Cecilia!--is it then all over?"

"Pray suffer me to go quietly, and fear not I shall go too happily!
Suppress your own feelings, rather than seek to awaken mine. Alas!
there is little occasion!--Oh Mr Delvile! were our connection opposed
by no duty, and repugnant to no friends, were it attended by no
impropriety, and carried on with no necessity of disguise,--you would
not thus charge me with indifference, you would not suspect me of
insensibility,--Oh no! the choice of my heart would then be its glory,
and all I now blush to feel, I should openly and with pride
acknowledge!"

She then hurried to the chaise, Delvile pursuing her with thanks and
blessings, and gratefully assuring her, as he handed her into it, that
he would obey all her injunctions, and not even attempt to see her,
till he could bring her some intelligence concerning the morning's
transaction.

The chaise then drove off.



CHAPTER iii.

A CONSTERNATION.

The journey was melancholy and tedious: Mrs Charlton, extremely
fatigued by the unusual hurry and exercise both of mind and body which
she had lately gone through, was obliged to travel very slowly, and to
lie upon the road. Cecilia, however, was in no haste to proceed: she
was going to no one she wished to see, she was wholly without
expectation of meeting with any thing that could give her pleasure. The
unfortunate expedition in which she had been engaged, left her now
nothing but regret, and only promised her in future sorrow and
mortification.

Mrs Charlton, after her return home, still continued ill, and Cecilia,
who constantly attended her, had the additional affliction of imputing
her indisposition to herself. Every thing she thought conspired to
punish the error she had committed; her proceedings were discovered,
though her motives were unknown; the Delvile family could not fail to
hear of her enterprize, and while they attributed it to her temerity,
they would exult in its failure: but chiefly hung upon her mind the
unaccountable prohibition of her marriage. Whence that could proceed
she was wholly without ability to divine, yet her surmizes were not
more fruitless than various. At one moment she imagined it some frolic
of Morrice, at another some perfidy of Monckton, and at another an idle
and unmeaning trick of some stranger to them all. But none of these
suppositions carried with them any air of probability; Morrice, even if
he had watched their motions and pursued them to the church, which his
inquisitive impertinence made by no means impossible, could yet hardly
have either time or opportunity to engage any woman in so extraordinary
an undertaking; Mr Monckton, however averse to the connection, she
considered as a man of too much honour to break it off in a manner so
alarming and disgraceful; and mischief so wanton in any stranger,
seemed to require a share of unfeeling effrontery, which could fall to
the lot of so few as to make this suggestion unnatural and incredible.

Sometimes she imagined that Delvile might formerly have been affianced
to some woman, who having accidentally discovered his intentions, took
this desperate method of rendering them abortive: but this was a short-
lived thought, and speedily gave way to her esteem for his general
character, and her confidence in the firmness of his probity.

All, therefore, was dark and mysterious; conjecture was baffled, and
meditation was useless. Her opinions were unfixed, and her heart was
miserable; she could only be steady in believing Delvile as unhappy as
herself, and only find consolation in believing him, also, as
blameless.

Three days passed thus, without incident or intelligence; her time
wholly occupied in attending Mrs Charlton; her thoughts all engrossed
upon her own situation: but upon the fourth day she was informed that a
lady was in the parlour, who desired to speak with her.

She presently went down stairs,--and, upon entering the room, perceived
Mrs Delvile!

Seized with astonishment and fear, she stopt short, and, looking
aghast, held by the door, robbed of all power to receive so unexpected
and unwelcome a visitor, by an internal sensation of guilt, mingled
with a dread of discovery and reproach.

Mrs Delvile, addressing her with the coldest politeness, said, "I fear
I have surprised you; I am sorry I had not time to acquaint you of my
intention to wait upon you."

Cecilia then, moving from the door, faintly answered, "I cannot, madam,
but be honoured by your notice, whenever you are pleased to confer it."

They then sat down; Mrs Delvile preserving an air the most formal and
distant, and Cecilia half sinking with apprehensive dismay.

After a short and ill-boding silence, "I mean not," said Mrs Delvile,
"to embarrass or distress you; I will not, therefore, keep you in
suspense of the purport of my visit. I come not to make enquiries, I
come not to put your sincerity to any trial, nor to torture your
delicacy; I dispense with all explanation, for I have not one doubt to
solve: I _know_ what has passed, I _know_ that my son loves you."

Alex Ross: Winner of the Guardian first book award
Stuart Evers: They made a real difference to Britain's literary culture, and it would be a terrible shame if they got forgotten in the age of Amazon

Congratulations to Alex Ross, winner of the Guardian first book award
One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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