“Dear madam, that is very unnatural,” cried Lady Honoria, “for I am sure you must long to know who I mean.”
“I do, at least,” said Lord Ernolf.
“Why then, my lord, you must know, Miss Beverley has two companions, and I am one, and Fidel is the other; but Fidel was with her all this morning, and she would not admit me to the conference. I suppose she had something private to say to him of his master's journey.”
“What rattle is this?” cried Mrs Delvile; “Fidel is gone with my son, is he not?” turning to the servants.
“No, madam, Mr Mortimer did not enquire for him.”
“That's very strange,” said she, “I never knew him quit home without him before.”
“Dear ma'am, if he had taken him,” cried Lady Honoria, “what could poor Miss Beverley have done? for she has no friend here but him and me, and really he's so much the greater favourite, that it is well if I do not poison him some day for very spite.”
Cecilia had no resource but in forcing a laugh, and Mrs Delvile, who evidently felt for her, contrived soon to change the subject; yet not before Lord Ernolf, with infinite chagrin, was certain by all that passed of the hopeless state of affairs for his son.
The rest of the day, and every hour of the two days following, Cecilia passed in the most comfortless constraint, fearful of being a moment alone, lest the heaviness of her heart should seek relief in tears, which consolation, melancholy as it was, she found too dangerous for indulgence; yet the gaiety of Lady Honoria lost all power of entertainment, and even the kindness of Mrs Delvile, now she imputed it to compassion, gave her more mortification than pleasure.
On the third day, letters arrived from Bristol; but they brought with them nothing of comfort, for though Mortimer wrote gaily, his father sent word that his fever seemed threatening to return.