A chaise, therefore, was ordered; and with posthorses
for speed, and two servants on horseback, the moment
Mrs Charlton was ready, they set out on their journey.
Scarce had they proceeded two miles on their way,
when they were met by Mr Monckton, who was hastening
to their house.
Amazed and alarmed at a sight so unexpected, he stopt
the chaise to enquire whither they were going.
Cecilia, without answering, asked if her letter had
yet been received?
“I could not,” said Mr Monckton, “deliver
it to a man who was not to be found: I was at
this moment coming to acquaint how vainly I had sought
him; but still that your journey is unnecessary unless
voluntary, since I have left it at the house where
you told me you should meet to-morrow morning, and
where he must then unavoidably receive it.”
“Indeed, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “to-morrow
morning will be too late,—in conscience,
in justice, and even in decency too late! I must,
therefore, go to town; yet I go not, believe me, in’
opposition to your injunctions, but to enable myself,
without treachery or dishonour, to fulfil them.”
Mr Monckton, aghast and confounded, made not any answer,
till Cecilia gave orders to the postilion to drive
on: he then hastily called to stop him, and began
the warmest expostulations; but Cecilia, firm when
she believed herself right, though wavering when fearful
she was wrong, told him it was now too late to change
her plan, and repeating her orders to the postilion,
left him to his own reflections: grieved herself
to reject his counsel, yet too intently occupied by
her own affairs and designs, to think long of any
other.
A TORMENT.
At——they stopt for dinner; Mrs Charlton
being too much fatigued to go on without some rest,
though the haste of Cecilia to meet Delvile time enough
for new arranging their affairs, made her regret every
moment that was spent upon the road.
Their meal was not long, and they were returning to
their chaise, when they were suddenly encountered
by Mr Morrice, who was just alighted from his horse.
He congratulated himself upon the happiness of meeting
them with the air of a man who nothing doubted that
happiness being mutual; then hastening to speak of
the Grove, “I could hardly,” he cried,
“get away; my friend Monckton won’t know
what to do without me, for Lady Margaret, poor old
soul, is in a shocking bad way indeed; there’s
hardly any staying in the room with her; her breathing
is just like the grunting of a hog. She can’t
possibly last long, for she’s quite upon her
last legs, and tumbles about so when she walks alone,
one would swear she was drunk.”
“If you take infirmity,” said Mrs Charlton,
who was now helped into the chaise, “for intoxication,
you must suppose no old person sober.”
“Vastly well said, ma’am,” cried
he; “I really forgot your being an old lady
yourself, or I should not have made the observation.
However, as to poor Lady Margaret, she may do as well
as ever by and bye, for she has an excellent constitution,
and I suppose she has been hardly any better than
she is now these forty years, for I remember when I
was quite a boy hearing her called a limping old puddle.”
