This generous foible was, however, kept somewhat in subjection by the watchfulness of two grand-daughters, who, fearing the injury they might themselves receive from it, failed not to point out both its inconvenience and its danger.
These ladies were daughters of a deceased and only son of Mrs Charlton; they were single, and lived with their grand-mother, whose fortune, which was considerable, they expected to share between them, and they waited with eagerness for the moment of appropriation; narrow-minded and rapacious, they wished to monopolize whatever she possessed, and thought themselves aggrieved by her smallest donations. Their chief employment was to keep from her all objects of distress, and in this though they could not succeed, they at least confined her liberality to such as resembled themselves; since neither the spirited could brook, nor the delicate support the checks and rebuffs from the granddaughters, which followed the gifts of Mrs Charlton. Cecilia, of all her acquaintance, was the only one whose intimacy they encouraged, for they knew her fortune made her superior to any mercenary views, and they received from her themselves more civilities than they paid.
Mrs Charlton loved Cecilia with an excess of fondness, that not only took place of the love she bore her other friends, but to which even her regard for the Miss Charltons was inferior and feeble. Cecilia when a child had reverenced her as a mother, and, grateful for her tenderness and care, had afterwards cherished her as a friend. The revival of this early connection delighted them both, it was balm to the wounded mind of Cecilia, it was renovation to the existence of Mrs Charlton.
Early the next morning she wrote a card to Mr Monckton and Lady Margaret, acquainting them with her return into Suffolk, and desiring to know when she might pay her respects to her Ladyship. She received from the old lady a verbal answer, when she pleased, but Mr Monckton came instantly himself to Mrs Charlton’s.
His astonishment, his rapture at this unexpected incident were almost boundless; he thought it a sudden turn of fortune in his own favour, and concluded, now she had escaped the danger of Delvile Castle, the road was short and certain that led to his own security.
Her satisfaction in the meeting was as sincere, though not so animated as his own: but this similarity in their feelings was of short duration, for when he enquired into what had passed at the castle, with the reasons of her quitting it, the pain she felt in giving even a cursory and evasive account, was opposed on his part by the warmest delight in hearing it: he could not obtain from her the particulars of what had happened, but the reluctance with which she spoke, the air of mortification with which she heard his questions, and the evident displeasure which was mingled in her chagrin, when he forced her to mention Delvile, were all proofs the most indisputable and satisfactory, that they had either parted without any explanation, or with one by which Cecilia had been hurt and offended.
He now readily concluded that since the fiery trial he had most apprehended was over; and she had quitted in anger the asylum she had sought in extacy, Delvile himself did not covet the alliance, which, since they were separated, was never likely to take place. He had therefore little difficulty in promising all success to himself.
She was once more upon the spot where she had regarded him as the first of men, he knew that during her absence no one had settled in the neighbourhood who had any pretensions to dispute with him that pre-eminence, he should again have access to her, at pleasure, and so sanguine grew his hopes, that he almost began to rejoice even in the partiality to Delvile that had hitherto been his terror, from believing it would give her for a time, that sullen distaste of all other connections, to which those who at once are delicate and fervent are commonly led by early disappointment. His whole solicitude therefore now was to preserve her esteem, to seek her confidence, and to regain whatever by absence might be lost of the ascendancy over her mind which her respect for his knowledge and capacity had for many years given him. Fortune at this time seemed to prosper all his views, and, by a stroke the most sudden and unexpected, to render more rational his hopes and his plans than he had himself been able to effect by the utmost craft of worldly wisdom.
The day following Cecilia, in Mrs Charlton’s chaise, waited upon Lady Margaret. She was received by Miss Bennet, her companion, with the most fawning courtesy; but when conducted to the lady of the house, she saw herself so evidently unwelcome, that she even regretted the civility which had prompted her visit.
She found with her nobody but Mr Morrice, who was the only young man that could persuade himself to endure her company in the absence of her husband, but who, in common with most young men who are assiduous in their attendance upon old ladies, doubted not but he ensured himself a handsome legacy for his trouble.
Almost the first speech which her ladyship made, was “So you are not married yet, I find; if Mr Monckton had been a real friend, he would have taken care to have seen for some establishment for you.”
“I was by no means,” cried Cecilia, with spirit, “either in so much haste or distress as to require from Mr Monckton any such exertion of his friendship.”
“Ma’am,” cried Morrice, “what a terrible night we had of it at Vauxhall! poor Harrel! I was really excessively sorry for him. I had not courage to see you or Mrs Harrel after it. But as soon as I heard you were in St James’s-square, I tried to wait upon you; for really going to Mr Harrel’s again would have been quite too dismal. I would rather have run a mile by the side of a race-horse.”
“There is no occasion for any apology,” said Cecilia, “for I was very little disposed either to see or think of visitors.”
“So I thought, ma’am;” answered he, with quickness, “and really that made me the less alert in finding you out. However, ma’am, next winter I shall be excessively happy to make up for the deficiency; besides, I shall be much obliged to you to introduce me to Mr Delvile, for I have a great desire to be acquainted with him.”
Mr Delvile, thought Cecilia, would be but too proud to hear it! However, she merely answered that she had no present prospect of spending any time at Mr. Delvile’s next winter.
“True, ma’am, true,” cried he, “now I recollect, you become your own mistress between this and then; and so I suppose you will naturally chuse a house of your own, which will be much more eligible.”
“I don’t think that,” said Lady Margaret, “I never saw anything eligible come of young women’s having houses of their own; she will do a much better thing to marry, and have some proper person to take care of her.”
“Nothing more right, ma’am!” returned he; “a young lady in a house by herself must be subject to a thousand dangers. What sort of place, ma’am, has Mr Delvile got in the country? I hear he has a good deal of ground there, and a large house.”
“It is an old castle, Sir, and situated in a park.”
“That must be terribly forlorn: I dare say, ma’am, you were very happy to return into Suffolk.”
“I did not find it forlorn; I was very well satisfied with it.”
“Why, indeed, upon second thoughts, I don’t much wonder; an old castle in a large park must make a very romantic appearance; something noble in it, I dare say.”
“Aye,” cried Lady Margaret, “they said you were to become mistress of it, and marry Mr Delvile’s son and I cannot, for my own part, see any objection to it.”
“I am told of so many strange reports,” said Cecilia, “and all, to myself so unaccountable, that I begin now to hear of them without much wonder.”
“That’s a charming young man, I believe,” said Morrice; “I had the pleasure once or twice of meeting him at poor Harrel’s, and he seemed mighty agreeable. Is not he