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CECILIA
OR
Memoirs of an Heiress
by
FRANCES BURNEY
PREFACE
"Fanny's Cecilia came out last summer, and is as much liked and read,
I believe, as any book ever was," wrote Charlotte Burney in Jan.
1783. "She had 250 pounds for it from Payne and Cadell. Most people
say she ought to have had a thousand. It is now going into the third
edition, though Payne owns that they printed two thousand at the
first edition, and Lowndes told me five hundred was the common number
for a novel." [Footnote: _The Early Diary of Frances Burney, with a
selection from her correspondence, and from the journals of her
sisters Susan and Charlotte Burney._ Edited by Annie Raine Ellis.
1889. Vol. II. p. 307.]
The manuscript of _Cecilia_ was submitted to Dr Burney and Mr
Crisp during its composition, and their suggestions were in some
cases adopted, as we learn from the _Diary_. Dr Johnson was not
consulted, but a desire at once to imitate and to please him
evidently controlled the work.
Under these circumstances it is naturally less fresh and spontaneous
than _Evelina_, but it is more mature. The touch is surer and
the plot more elaborate. We cannot to-day fully appreciate the
"conflict scene between mother and son," for which, Miss Burney
tells us, the book was written; but the pictures of eighteenth
century affectations are all alive, and the story is thoroughly
absorbing, except, perhaps, in the last book.
Miss Burney often took the name of her characters from her
acquaintances, and it seems probable that some of the "types" in
_Cecilia_ are also drawn from real life. The title of Miss
Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ was borrowed from _Cecilia_,
and some points of resemblance may be traced between
the two novels.
The present edition is reprinted from:--
CECILIA, or, Memoirs of an Heiress. By the author of Evelina. In
five volumes. London: Printed for T. Payne and Son, at the Newsgate,
and T. Cadell in the Strand. MDCCLXXXII. R. B. J.
THE RIGHT HON. EDMUND BURKE TO MISS F. BURNEY. (AFTER READING
CECILIA.)
Madam,--I should feel exceedingly to blame if I could refuse to
myself the natural satisfaction, and to you the just but poor
return, of my best thanks for the very great instruction and
entertainment I have received from the new present you have bestowed
on the public. There are few--I believe I may say fairly there are
none at all--that will not find themselves better informed
concerning human nature, and their stock of observation enriched, by
reading your "Cecilia." They certainly will, let their experience in
life and manners be what it may. The arrogance of age must submit to
be taught by youth. You have crowded into a few small volumes an
incredible variety of characters; most of them well planned, well
supported, and well contrasted with each other. If there be any
fault in this respect, it is one in which you are in no great danger
of being imitated. Justly as your characters are drawn, perhaps they
are too numerous. But I beg pardon; I fear it is quite in vain to
preach economy to those who are come young to excessive and sudden
opulence.
I might trespass on your delicacy if I should fill my letter to you
with what I fill my conversation to others. I should be troublesome
to you alone if I should tell you all I feel and think on the
natural vein of humour, the tender pathetic, the comprehensive and
noble moral, and the sagacious observation, that appear quite
throughout that extraordinary performance.
In an age distinguished by producing extraordinary women, I hardly
dare to tell you where my opinion would place you amongst them. I
respect your modesty, that will not endure the commendations which
your merit forces from everybody.
I have the honour to be, with great gratitude, respect, and esteem,
madam, your most obedient and most humble servant,
EDM. BURKE
WHITEHALL, _July 19, 1782_.
My best compliments and congratulations to Dr Burney on the great
honour acquired to his family.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The indulgence shewn by the Public to Evelina, which, unpatronized,
unaided, and unowned, past through Four Editions in one Year, has
encouraged its Author to risk this SECOND attempt. The animation of
success is too universally acknowledged, to make the writer of the
following sheets dread much censure of temerity; though the
precariousness of any power to give pleasure, suppresses all vanity
of confidence, and sends CECILIA into the world with scarce more
hope, though far more encouragement, than attended her highly-
honoured predecessor, Evelina.
July, 1782
CHAPTER i
A JOURNEY.
"Peace to the spirits of my honoured parents, respected be their
remains, and immortalized their virtues! may time, while it moulders
their frail relicks to dust, commit to tradition the record of their
goodness; and Oh, may their orphan-descendant be influenced through
life by the remembrance of their purity, and be solaced in death,
that by her it was unsullied!"
Such was the secret prayer with which the only survivor of the
Beverley family quitted the abode of her youth, and residence of her
forefathers; while tears of recollecting sorrow filled her eyes, and
obstructed the last view of her native town which had excited them.
Cecilia, this fair traveller, had lately entered into the one-and-
twentieth year of her age. Her ancestors had been rich farmers in
the county of Suffolk, though her father, in whom a spirit of
elegance had supplanted the rapacity of wealth, had spent his time
as a private country gentleman, satisfied, without increasing his
store, to live upon what he inherited from the labours of his
predecessors. She had lost him in her early youth, and her mother had
not long survived him. They had bequeathed to her 10,000 pounds, and
consigned her to the care of the Dean of ------, her uncle. With this
gentleman, in whom, by various contingencies, the accumulated
possessions of a rising and prosperous family were centred, she had
passed the last four years of her life; and a few weeks only had yet
elapsed since his death, which, by depriving her of her last
relation, made her heiress to an estate of 3000 pounds per annum;
with no other restriction than that of annexing her name, if she
married, to the disposal of her hand and her riches.
But though thus largely indebted to fortune, to nature she had yet
greater obligations: her form was elegant, her heart was liberal;
her countenance announced the intelligence of her mind, her
complexion varied with every emotion of her soul, and her eyes, the
heralds of her speech, now beamed with understanding and now
glistened with sensibility.
For the short period of her minority, the management of her fortune
and the care of her person, had by the Dean been entrusted to three
guardians, among whom her own choice was to settle her residence:
but her mind, saddened by the loss of all her natural friends,
coveted to regain its serenity in the quietness of the country, and
in the bosom of an aged and maternal counsellor, whom she loved as
her mother, and to whom she had been known from her childhood.
The Deanery, indeed, she was obliged to relinquish, a long repining
expectant being eager, by entering it, to bequeath to another the
anxiety and suspense he had suffered himself; though probably
without much impatience to shorten their duration in favour of the
next successor; but the house of Mrs Charlton, her benevolent
friend, was open for her reception, and the alleviating tenderness
of her conversation took from her all wish of changing it.
Here she had dwelt since the interment of her uncle; and here, from
the affectionate gratitude of her disposition, she had perhaps been
content to dwell till her own, had not her guardians interfered to
remove her.
Reluctantly she complied; she quitted her early companions, the
friend she most revered, and the spot which contained the relicks of
all she had yet lived to lament; and, accompanied by one of her
guardians, and attended by two servants, she began her journey from
Bury to London.
Mr Harrel, this gentleman, though in the prime of his life, though
gay, fashionable and splendid, had been appointed by her uncle to be
one of her trustees; a choice which had for object the peculiar
gratification of his niece, whose most favourite young friend Mr
Harrel had married, and in whose house he therefore knew she would
most wish to live.
Whatever good-nature could dictate or politeness suggest to dispel
her melancholy, Mr Harrel failed not to urge; and Cecilia, in whose
disposition sweetness was tempered with dignity, and gentleness with
fortitude, suffered not his kind offices to seem ineffectual; she
kissed her hand at the last glimpse a friendly hill afforded of her
native town, and made an effort to forget the regret with which she
lost sight of it. She revived her spirits by plans of future
happiness, dwelt upon the delight with which she should meet her
young friend, and, by accepting his consolation, amply rewarded his
trouble.
Her serenity, however, had yet another, though milder trial to
undergo, since another friend was yet to be met, and another
farewell was yet to be taken.
At the distance of seven miles from Bury resided Mr Monckton, the
richest and most powerful man in that neighbourhood, at whose house
Cecilia and her guardian were invited to breakfast in their journey.
Mr Monckton, who was the younger son of a noble family, was a man of
parts, information and sagacity; to great native strength of mind he
added a penetrating knowledge of the world, and to faculties the
most skilful of investigating the character of every other, a
dissimulation the most profound in concealing his own. In the bloom
of his youth, impatient for wealth and ambitious of power, he had
tied himself to a rich dowager of quality, whose age, though sixty-
seven, was but among the smaller species of her evil properties, her
disposition being far more repulsive than her wrinkles. An
inequality of years so considerable, had led him to expect that the
fortune he had thus acquired, would speedily be released from the
burthen with which it was at present incumbered; but his
expectations proved as vain as they were mercenary, and his lady was
not more the dupe of his protestations than he was himself of his
own purposes. Ten years he had been married to her, yet her health
was good, and her faculties were unimpaired; eagerly he had watched
for her dissolution, yet his eagerness had injured no health but his
own! So short-sighted is selfish cunning, that in aiming no further
than at the gratification of the present moment, it obscures the
evils of the future, while it impedes the perception of integrity
and honour.
His ardour, however, to attain the blessed period of returning
liberty, deprived him neither of spirit nor inclination for
intermediate enjoyment; he knew the world too well to incur its
censure by ill-treating the woman to whom he was indebted for the
rank he held in it; he saw her, indeed, but seldom, yet he had the
decency, alike in avoiding as in meeting her, to shew no abatement
of civility and good breeding: but, having thus sacrificed to
ambition all possibility of happiness in domestic life, he turned
his thoughts to those other methods of procuring it, which he had so
dearly purchased the power of essaying.
The resources of pleasure to the possessors of wealth are only to be
cut off by the satiety of which they are productive: a satiety which
the vigorous mind of Mr Monckton had not yet suffered him to
experience; his time, therefore, was either devoted to the expensive
amusements of the metropolis, or spent in the country among the
gayest of its diversions.
The little knowledge of fashionable manners and of the characters of
the times of which Cecilia was yet mistress, she had gathered at the
house of this gentleman, with whom the Dean her uncle had been
intimately connected: for as he preserved to the world the same
appearance of decency he supported to his wife, he was everywhere
well received, and being but partially known, was extremely
respected: the world, with its wonted facility, repaying his
circumspect attention to its laws, by silencing the voice of
censure, guarding his character from impeachment, and his name from
reproach.
Cecilia had been known to him half her life; she had been caressed
in his house as a beautiful child, and her presence was now
solicited there as an amiable acquaintance. Her visits, indeed, had
by no means been frequent, as the ill-humour of Lady Margaret
Monckton had rendered them painful to her; yet the opportunities
they had afforded her of mixing with people of fashion, had served
to prepare her for the new scenes in which she was soon to be a
performer.
Mr Monckton, in return, had always been a welcome guest at the
Deanery; his conversation was to Cecilia a never-failing source of
information, as his knowledge of life and manners enabled him to
start those subjects of which she was most ignorant; and her mind,
copious for the admission and intelligent for the arrangement of
knowledge, received all new ideas with avidity.
Pleasure given in society, like money lent in usury, returns with
interest to those who dispense it: and the discourse of Mr Monckton
conferred not a greater favour upon Cecilia than her attention to it
repaid. And thus, the speaker and the hearer being mutually
gratified, they had always met with complacency, and commonly parted
with regret.
This reciprocation of pleasure had, however, produced different
effects upon their minds; the ideas of Cecilia were enlarged, while
the reflections of Mr Monckton were embittered. He here saw an
object who to all the advantages of that wealth he had so highly
prized, added youth, beauty, and intelligence; though much her
senior, he was by no means of an age to render his addressing her an
impropriety, and the entertainment she received from his
conversation, persuaded him that her good opinion might with ease be
improved into a regard the most partial. He regretted the venal
rapacity with which he had sacrificed himself to a woman he
abhorred, and his wishes for her final decay became daily more
fervent. He knew that the acquaintance of Cecilia was confined to a
circle of which he was himself the principal ornament, that she had
rejected all the proposals of marriage which had hitherto been made
to her, and, as he had sedulously watched her from her earliest
years, he had reason to believe that her heart had escaped any
dangerous impression. This being her situation, he had long looked
upon her as his future property; as such he had indulged his
admiration, and as such he had already appropriated her estate,
though he had not more vigilantly inspected into her sentiments,
than he had guarded his own from a similar scrutiny.
The death of the Dean her uncle had, indeed, much alarmed him; he
grieved at her leaving Suffolk, where he considered himself the
first man, alike in parts and in consequence, and he dreaded her
residing in London, where he foresaw that numerous rivals, equal to
himself in talents and in riches, would speedily surround her;
rivals, too, youthful and sanguine, not shackled by present ties,
but at liberty to solicit her immediate acceptance. Beauty and
independence, rarely found together, would attract a crowd of
suitors at once brilliant and assiduous; and the house of Mr Harrel
was eminent for its elegance and gaiety; but yet, undaunted by
danger, and confiding in his own powers, he determined to pursue the
project he had formed, not fearing by address and perseverance to
ensure its success.
CHAPTER ii
AN ARGUMENT.
Mr Monckton had, at this time, a party of company assembled at his
house for the purpose of spending the Christmas holidays. He waited
with anxiety the arrival of Cecilia, and flew to hand her from the
chaise before Mr Harrel could alight. He observed the melancholy of
her countenance, and was much pleased to find that her London
journey had so little power to charm her. He conducted her to the
breakfast parlour, where Lady Margaret and his friends expected her.
Lady Margaret received her with a coldness that bordered upon
incivility; irascible by nature and jealous by situation, the
appearance of beauty alarmed, and of chearfulness disgusted her. She
regarded with watchful suspicion whoever was addressed by her
husband, and having marked his frequent attendance at the Deanery,
she had singled out Cecilia for the object of her peculiar
antipathy; while Cecilia, perceiving her aversion though ignorant of
its cause, took care to avoid all intercourse with her but what
ceremony exacted, and pitied in secret the unfortunate lot of her
friend.
The company now present consisted of one lady and several gentlemen.
Miss Bennet, the lady, was in every sense of the phrase, the humble
companion of Lady Margaret; she was low-born, meanly educated, and
narrow-minded; a stranger alike to innate merit or acquired
accomplishments, yet skilful in the art of flattery, and an adept in
every species of low cunning. With no other view in life than the
attainment of affluence without labour, she was not more the slave
of the mistress of the house, than the tool of its master; receiving
indignity without murmur, and submitting to contempt as a thing of
course.
Among the gentlemen, the most conspicuous, by means of his dress,
was Mr Aresby, a captain in the militia; a young man who having
frequently heard the words red-coat and gallantry put together,
imagined the conjunction not merely customary, but honourable, and
therefore, without even pretending to think of the service of his
country, he considered a cockade as a badge of politeness, and wore
it but to mark his devotion to the ladies, whom he held himself
equipped to conquer, and bound to adore.
The next who by forwardness the most officious took care to be
noticed, was Mr Morrice, a young lawyer, who, though rising in his
profession, owed his success neither to distinguished abilities, nor
to skill-supplying industry, but to the art of uniting suppleness to
others with confidence in himself. To a reverence of rank, talents,
and fortune the most profound, he joined an assurance in his own
merit, which no superiority could depress; and with a presumption
which encouraged him to aim at all things, he blended a good-humour
that no mortification could lessen. And while by the pliability of
his disposition he avoided making enemies, by his readiness to
oblige, he learned the surest way of making friends by becoming
useful to them.
There were also some neighbouring squires; and there was one old
gentleman, who, without seeming to notice any of the company, sat
frowning in a corner.
But the principal figure in the circle was Mr Belfield, a tall, thin
young man, whose face was all animation, and whose eyes sparkled
with intelligence. He had been intended by his father for trade, but
his spirit, soaring above the occupation for which he was designed,
from repining led him to resist, and from resisting, to rebel. He
eloped from his friends, and contrived to enter the army. But, fond
of the polite arts, and eager for the acquirement of knowledge, he
found not this way of life much better adapted to his inclination
than that from which he had escaped; he soon grew weary of it, was
reconciled to his father, and entered at the Temple. But here, too
volatile for serious study, and too gay for laborious application,
he made little progress: and the same quickness of parts and vigour
of imagination which united with prudence, or accompanied by
judgment, might have raised him to the head of his profession, being
unhappily associated with fickleness and caprice, served only to
impede his improvement, and obstruct his preferment. And now, with
little business, and that little neglected, a small fortune, and
that fortune daily becoming less, the admiration of the world, but
that admiration ending simply in civility, he lived an unsettled and
unprofitable life, generally caressed, and universally sought, yet
careless of his interest and thoughtless of the future; devoting his
time to company, his income to dissipation, and his heart to the
Muses.
"I bring you," said Mr Monckton, as he attended Cecilia into the
room, "a subject of sorrow in a young lady who never gave
disturbance to her friends but in quitting them."
"If sorrow," cried Mr Belfield, darting upon her his piercing eyes,
"wears in your part of the world a form such as this, who would wish
to change it for a view of joy?"
"She's divinely handsome, indeed!" cried the Captain, affecting an
involuntary exclamation.
Meantime, Cecilia, who was placed next to the lady of the house,
quietly began her breakfast; Mr Morrice, the young lawyer, with the
most easy freedom, seating himself at her side, while Mr Monckton
was elsewhere arranging the rest of his guests, in order to secure
that place for himself.
Mr Morrice, without ceremony, attacked his fair neighbour; he talked
of her journey, and the prospects of gaiety which it opened to her
view; but by these finding her unmoved, he changed his theme, and
expatiated upon the delights of the spot she was quitting. Studious
to recommend himself to her notice, and indifferent by what means,
one moment he flippantly extolled the entertainments of the town;
and the next, rapturously described the charms of the country. A
word, a look sufficed to mark her approbation or dissent, which he
no sooner discovered, than he slided into her opinion, with as much
facility and satisfaction as if it had originally been his own.
Mr Monckton, suppressing his chagrin, waited some time in
expectation that when this young man saw he was standing, he would
yield to him his chair: but the remark was not made, and the
resignation was not thought of. The Captain, too, regarding the lady
as his natural property for the morning, perceived with indignation
by whom he was supplanted; while the company in general, saw with
much surprize, the place they had severally foreborne to occupy from
respect to their host, thus familiarly seized upon by the man who,
in the whole room, had the least claim, either from age or rank, to
consult nothing but his own inclination.
Mr Monckton, however, when he found that delicacy and good manners
had no weight with his guest, thought it most expedient to allow
them none with himself; and therefore, disguising his displeasure
under an appearance of facetiousness, he called out, "Come, Morrice,
you that love Christmas sports, what say you to the game of move-
all?"
"I like it of all things!" answered Morrice, and starting from his
chair, he skipped to another.
"So should I too," cried Mr Monckton, instantly taking his place,
"were I to remove from any seat but this."
Morrice, though he felt himself outwitted, was the first to laugh,
and seemed as happy in the change as Mr Monckton himself.
Mr Monckton now, addressing himself to Cecilia, said, "We are going
to lose you, and you seem concerned at leaving us; yet, in a very
few months you will forget Bury, forget its inhabitants, and forget
its environs."
"If you think so," answered Cecilia, "must I not thence infer that
Bury, its inhabitants, and its environs, will in a very few months
forget me?"
"Ay, ay, and so much the better!" said Lady Margaret, muttering
between her teeth, "so much the better!" "I am sorry you think so,
madam," cried Cecilia, colouring at her ill-breeding.
"You will find," said Mr Monckton, affecting the same ignorance of
her meaning that Cecilia really felt, "as you mix with the world,
you will find that Lady Margaret has but expressed what by almost
every body is thought: to neglect old friends, and to court new
acquaintance, though perhaps not yet avowedly delivered as a precept
from parents to children, is nevertheless so universally recommended
by example, that those who act differently, incur general censure
for affecting singularity."
"It is happy then, for me," answered Cecilia, "that neither my
actions nor myself will be sufficiently known to attract public
observation."
"You intend, then, madam," said Mr Belfield, "in defiance of these
maxims of the world, to be guided by the light of your own
understanding."
"And such," returned Mr Monckton, "at first setting out in life, is
the intention of every one. The closet reasoner is always refined in
his sentiments, and always confident in his virtue; but when he
mixes with the world, when he thinks less and acts more, he soon
finds the necessity of accommodating himself to such customs as are
already received, and of pursuing quietly the track that is already
marked out."
"But not," exclaimed Mr Belfield, "if he has the least grain of
spirit! the beaten track will be the last that a man of parts will
deign to tread,
For common rules were ne'er designed
Directors of a noble mind."
"A pernicious maxim! a most pernicious maxim!" cried the old
gentleman, who sat frowning in a corner of the room.
"Deviations from common rules," said Mr Monckton, without taking any
notice of this interruption, "when they proceed from genius, are not
merely pardonable, but admirable; and you, Belfield, have a peculiar
right to plead their merits; but so little genius as there is in the
world, you must surely grant that pleas of this sort are very rarely
to be urged."
"And why rarely," cried Belfield, "but because your general rules,
your appropriated customs, your settled forms, are but so many
absurd arrangements to impede not merely the progress of genius, but
the use of understanding? If man dared act for himself, if neither
worldly views, contracted prejudices, eternal precepts, nor
compulsive examples, swayed his better reason and impelled his
conduct, how noble indeed would he be! _how infinite in faculties!
in apprehension how like a God!_" [Footnote: Hamlet.]
"All this," answered Mr Monckton, "is but the doctrine of a lively
imagination, that looks upon impossibilities simply as difficulties,
and upon difficulties as mere invitations to victory. But experience
teaches another lesson; experience shows that the opposition of an
individual to a community is always dangerous in the operation, and
seldom successful in the event;--never, indeed, without a
concurrence strange as desirable, of fortunate circumstances with
great abilities."
"And why is this," returned Belfield, "but because the attempt is so
seldom made? The pitiful prevalence of general conformity extirpates
genius, and murders originality; the man is brought up, not as if he
were 'the noblest work of God,' but as a mere ductile machine of
human formation: he is early taught that he must neither consult his
understanding, nor pursue his inclinations, lest, unhappily for his
commerce with the world, his understanding should be averse to
fools, and provoke him to despise them; and his inclinations to the
tyranny of perpetual restraint, and give him courage to abjure it."
"I am ready enough to allow," answered Mr Monckton, "that an
eccentric genius, such, for example, as yours, may murmur at the
tediousness of complying with the customs of the world, and wish,
unconfined, and at large, to range through life without any settled
plan or prudential restriction; but would you, therefore, grant the
same licence to every one? would you wish to see the world peopled
with defiers of order, and contemners of established forms? and not
merely excuse the irregularities resulting from uncommon parts, but
encourage those, also, to lead, who without blundering cannot even
follow?"
"I would have _all_ men," replied Belfield, "whether
philosophers or ideots, act for themselves. Every one would then
appear what he is; enterprize would be encouraged, and imitation
abolished; genius would feel its superiority, and folly its
insignificance; and then, and then only, should we cease to be
surfeited with that eternal sameness of manner and appearance which
at present runs through all ranks of men."
"Petrifying dull work this, _mon ami!_" said the Captain, in a
whisper to Morrice, "_de grace_, start some new game."
"With all my heart," answered he; and then, suddenly jumping up,
exclaimed, "A hare! a hare!"
"Where?--where?--which way?" and all the gentlemen arose, and ran to
different windows, except the master of the house, the object of
whose pursuit was already near him.
Morrice, with much pretended earnestness, flew from window to
window, to trace footsteps upon the turf which he knew had not
printed it: yet, never inattentive to his own interest, when he
perceived in the midst of the combustion he had raised, that Lady
Margaret was incensed at the noise it produced, he artfully gave
over his search, and seating himself in a chair next to her, eagerly
offered to assist her with cakes, chocolate, or whatever the table
afforded.
He had, however, effectually broken up the conversation; and
breakfast being over, Mr Harrel ordered his chaise, and Cecilia
arose to take leave.
And now not without some difficulty could Mr Monckton disguise the
uneasy fears which her departure occasioned him. Taking her hand, "I
suppose," he said, "you will not permit an old friend to visit you
in town, lest the sight of him should prove a disagreeable memorial
of the time you will soon regret having wasted in the country?"
"Why will you say this, Mr Monckton?" cried Cecilia; "I am sure you
cannot think it."
"These profound studiers of mankind, madam," said Belfield, "are
mighty sorry champions for constancy or friendship. They wage war
with all expectations but of depravity, and grant no quarter even to
the purest designs, where they think there will be any temptation to
deviate from them."
"Temptation," said Mr Monckton, "is very easy of resistance in
theory; but if you reflect upon the great change of situation Miss
Beverley will experience, upon the new scenes she will see, the new
acquaintance she must make, and the new connections she may form,
you will not wonder at the anxiety of a friend for her welfare."
"But I presume," cried Belfield, with a laugh, "Miss Beverley does
not mean to convey her person to town, and leave her understanding
locked up, with other natural curiosities, in the country? Why,
therefore, may not the same discernment regulate her adoption of new
acquaintance, and choice of new connections, that guided her
selection of old ones? Do you suppose that because she is to take
leave of you, she is to take leave of herself?"
"Where fortune smiles upon youth and beauty," answered Mr Monckton,
"do you think it nothing that their fair possessor should make a
sudden transition of situation from the quietness of a retired life
in the country, to the gaiety of a splendid town residence?"
"Where fortune _frowns_ upon youth and beauty," returned
Belfield, "they may not irrationally excite commiseration; but where
nature and chance unite their forces to bless the same object, what
room there may be for alarm or lamentation I confess I cannot
divine."
"What!" cried Mr Monckton, with some emotion, "are there not
sharpers, fortune-hunters, sycophants, wretches of all sorts and
denominations, who watch the approach of the rich and unwary, feed
upon their inexperience, and prey upon their property?"
"Come, come," cried Mr Harrel, "it is time I should hasten my fair
ward away, if this is your method of describing the place she is
going to live in."
"Is it possible," cried the Captain, advancing to Cecilia, "that
this lady has never yet tried the town?" and then, lowering his
voice, and smiling languishingly in her face, he added, "Can
anything so divinely handsome have been immured in the country? Ah!
_quelle honte!_ do you make it a principle to be so cruel?"
Cecilia, thinking such a compliment merited not any other notice
than a slight bow, turned to Lady Margaret, and said, "Should your
ladyship be in town this winter, may I expect the honour of hearing
where I may wait upon you?"
"I don't know whether I shall go or not," answered the old lady,
with her usual ungraciousness.
Cecilia would now have hastened away, but Mr Monckton, stopping her,
again expressed his fears of the consequences of her journey; "Be
upon your guard," he cried, "with all new acquaintance; judge nobody
from appearances; form no friendship rashly; take time to look about
you, and remember you can make no alteration in your way of life,
without greater probability of faring worse, than chance of faring
better. Keep therefore as you are, and the more you see of others,
the more you will rejoice that you neither resemble nor are
connected with them."
"This from you, Mr Monckton!" cried Belfield, "what is become of
your conformity system? I thought all the world was to be alike, or
only so much the worse for any variation?"
"I spoke," said Mr Monckton, "of the world in general, not of this
lady in particular; and who that knows, who that sees her, would not
wish it were possible she might continue in every respect exactly
and unalterably what she is at present?"
"I find," said Cecilia, "you are determined that flattery at least,
should I meet with it, shall owe no pernicious effects to its
novelty."
"Well, Miss Beverley," cried Mr Harrel, "will you now venture to
accompany me to town? Or has Mr Monckton frightened you from
proceeding any farther?"
"If," replied Cecilia, "I felt no more sorrow in quitting my
friends, than I feel terror in venturing to London, with how light a
heart should I make the journey!"
"Brava!" cried Belfield, "I am happy to find the discourse of Mr
Monckton has not intimidated you, nor prevailed upon you to deplore
your condition in having the accumulated misery of being young, fair
and affluent."
"Alas! poor thing!" exclaimed the old gentleman who sat in the
corner, fixing his eyes upon Cecilia with an expression of mingled
grief and pity.
Cecilia started, but no one else paid him any attention.
The usual ceremonies of leave-taking now followed, and the Captain,
with most obsequious reverence, advanced to conduct Cecilia to the
carriage; but in the midst of the dumb eloquence of his bows and
smiles, Mr Morrice, affecting not to perceive his design, skipped
gaily between them, and, without any previous formality, seized the
hand of Cecilia himself; failing not, however, to temper the freedom
of his action by a look of respect the most profound.
The Captain shrugged and retired. But Mr Monckton, enraged at his
assurance, and determined it should nothing avail him, exclaimed,
"Why how now, Morrice, do you take away the privilege of my house?"
"True, true;" answered Morrice, "you members of parliament have an
undoubted right to be tenacious of your privileges." Then, bowing
with a look of veneration to Cecilia, he resigned her hand with an
air of as much happiness as he had taken it.
Mr Monckton, in leading her to the chaise, again begged permission
to wait upon her in town: Mr Harrel took the hint, and entreated him
to consider his house as his own; and Cecilia, gratefully thanking
him for his solicitude in her welfare, added, "And I hope, sir, you
will honour me with your counsel and admonitions with respect to my
future conduct, whenever you have the goodness to let me see you."
This was precisely his wish. He begged, in return, that she would
treat him with confidence, and then suffered the chaise to drive
off.
CHAPTER iii
AN ARRIVAL.
As soon as they lost sight of the house, Cecilia expressed her
surprise at the behaviour of the old gentleman who sat in the
corner, whose general silence, seclusion from the company, and
absence of mind, had strongly excited her curiosity.
Mr Harrel could give her very little satisfaction: he told her that
he had twice or thrice met him in public places, where everybody
remarked the singularity of his manners and appearance, but that he
had never discoursed with anyone to whom he seemed known; and that
he was as much surprised as herself in seeing so strange a character
at the house of Mr Monckton.
The conversation then turned upon the family they had just quitted,
and Cecilia warmly declared the good opinion she had of Mr Monckton,
the obligations she owed to him for the interest which, from her
childhood, he had always taken in her affairs; and her hopes of
reaping much instruction from the friendship of a man who had so
extensive a knowledge of the world.
Mr Harrel professed himself well satisfied that she should have such
a counsellor; for though but little acquainted with him, he knew he
was a man of fortune and fashion, and well esteemed in the world.
They mutually compassionated his unhappy situation in domestic life,
and Cecilia innocently expressed her concern at the dislike Lady
Margaret seemed to have taken to her; a dislike which Mr Harrel
naturally enough imputed to her youth and beauty, yet without
suspecting any cause more cogent than a general jealousy of
attractions of which she had herself so long outlived the
possession.
As their journey drew near to its conclusion, all the uneasy and
disagreeable sensations which in the bosom of Cecilia had
accompanied its commencement, gave way to the expectation of quick
approaching happiness in again meeting her favourite young friend.
Mrs Harrel had in childhood been her playmate, and in youth her
school-fellow; a similarity of disposition with respect to sweetness
of temper, had early rendered them dear to each other, though the
resemblance extended no farther, Mrs Harrel having no pretensions to
the wit or understanding of her friend; but she was amiable and
obliging, and therefore sufficiently deserving affection, though
neither blazing with attractions which laid claim to admiration, nor
endowed with those superior qualities which mingle respect in the
love they inspire.
From the time of her marriage, which was near three years, she had
entirely quitted Suffolk, and had had no intercourse with Cecilia
but by letter. She was now just returned from Violet Bank, the name
given by Mr Harrel to a villa about twelve miles from London, where
with a large party of company she had spent the Christmas holidays.
Their meeting was tender and affectionate; the sensibility of
Cecilia's heart flowed from her eyes, and the gladness of Mrs
Harrel's dimpled her cheeks.
As soon as their mutual salutations, expressions of kindness, and
general inquiries had been made, Mrs Harrel begged to lead her to
the drawing-room, "where," she added, "you will see some of my
friends, who are impatient to be presented to you."
"I could have wished," said Cecilia, "after so long an absence, to
have passed this first evening alone with you."
"They are all people who particularly desired to see you," she
answered, "and I had them by way of entertaining you, as I was
afraid you would be out of spirits at leaving Bury."
Cecilia, finding the kindness of her intentions, forbore any further
expostulation, and quietly followed her to the drawing-room. But as
the door was opened, she was struck with amazement upon finding that
the apartment, which was spacious, lighted with brilliancy, and
decorated with magnificence, was more than half filled with company,
every one of which was dressed with gaiety and profusion.
Cecilia, who from the word friends, expected to have seen a small
and private party, selected for the purpose of social converse,
started involuntarily at the sight before her, and had hardly
courage to proceed.
Mrs Harrel, however, took her hand and introduced her to the whole
company, who were all severally named to her; a ceremonial which
though not merely agreeable but even necessary to those who live in
the gay world, in order to obviate distressing mistakes, or
unfortunate implications in discourse, would by Cecilia have been
willingly dispensed with, since to her their names were as new as
their persons, and since knowing nothing of their histories, parties
or connections, she could to nothing allude: it therefore served but
to heighten her colour and increase her embarrassment.
A native dignity of mind, however, which had early taught her to
distinguish modesty from bashfulness, enabled her in a short time to
conquer her surprise, and recover her composure. She entreated Mrs
Harrel to apologise for her appearance, and being seated between two
young ladies, endeavoured to seem reconciled to it herself.
Nor was this very difficult; for while her dress, which she had not
changed since her journey, joined to the novelty of her face,
attracted general observation, the report of her fortune, which had
preceded her entrance, secured to her general respect. She soon
found, too, that a company was not necessarily formidable because
full dressed, that familiarity could be united with magnificence,
and that though to her, every one seemed attired to walk in a
procession, or to grace a drawing-room, no formality was assumed,
and no solemnity was affected: every one was without restraint, even
rank obtained but little distinction; ease was the general plan, and
entertainment the general pursuit.
Cecilia, though new to London, which city the ill-health of her
uncle had hitherto prevented her seeing, was yet no stranger to
company; she had passed her time in retirement, but not in
obscurity, since for some years past she had presided at the table
of the Dean, who was visited by the first people of the county in
which he lived: and notwithstanding his parties, which were frequent
though small, and elegant though private, had not prepared her for
the splendour or the diversity of a London assembly, they yet, by
initiating her in the practical rules of good breeding, had taught
her to subdue the timid fears of total inexperience, and to repress
the bashful feelings of shamefaced awkwardness; fears and feelings
which rather call for compassion than admiration, and which, except
in extreme youth, serve but to degrade the modesty they indicate.
She regarded, therefore, the two young ladies between whom she was
seated, rather with a wish of addressing, than a shyness of being
attacked by them; but the elder, Miss Larolles, was earnestly
engaged in discourse with a gentleman, and the younger, Miss Leeson,
totally discouraged her, by the invariable silence and gravity with
which from time to time she met her eyes.
Uninterrupted, therefore, except by occasional speeches from Mr and
Mrs Harrel, she spent the first part of the evening merely in
surveying the company.
Nor was the company dilatory in returning her notice, since from the
time of her entrance into the room, she had been the object of
general regard.
The ladies took an exact inventory of her dress, and internally
settled how differently they would have been attired if blessed with
equal affluence.
The men disputed among themselves whether or not she was painted;
and one of them asserting boldly that she rouged well, a debate
ensued, which ended in a bet, and the decision was mutually agreed
to depend upon the colour of her cheeks by the beginning of April,
when, if unfaded by bad hours and continual dissipation, they wore
the same bright bloom with which they were now glowing, her champion
acknowledged that his wager would be lost.
In about half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss Larolles had been
talking, left the room, and then that young lady, turning suddenly
to Cecilia, exclaimed, "How odd Mr Meadows is! Do you know, he says
he shan't be well enough to go to Lady Nyland's assembly! How
ridiculous! as if that could hurt him."
Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, lent her a
civil, but silent attention.
"You shall be there, shan't you?" she added.
"No, ma'am, I have not the honour of being at all known to her
ladyship."
"Oh, there's nothing in that," returned she, "for Mrs Harrel can
acquaint her you are here, and then, you know, she'll send you a
ticket, and then you can go."
"A ticket?" repeated Cecilia, "does Lady Nyland only admit her
company with tickets?"
"Oh, lord!" cried Miss Larolles, laughing immoderately, "don't you
know what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card, with a name
upon it; but we all call them tickets now."
Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then Miss Larolles
enquired how many miles she had travelled since morning?
"Seventy-three," answered Cecilia, "which I hope will plead my
apology for being so little dressed."
"Oh, you're vastly well," returned the other, "and for my part, I
never think about dress. But only conceive what happened to me last
year! Do you know I came to town the twentieth of March! was not
that horrid provoking?"
"Perhaps so," said Cecilia, "but I am sure I cannot tell why."
"Not tell why?" repeated Miss Larolles, "why, don't you know it was
the very night of the grand private masquerade at Lord Darien's? I
would not have missed it for the whole universe. I never travelled
in such an agony in my life: we did not get to town till monstrous
late, and then do you know I had neither a ticket nor a habit! Only
conceive what a distress! well, I sent to every creature I knew for
a ticket, but they all said there was not one to be had; so I was
just like a mad creature--but about ten or eleven o'clock, a young
lady of my particular acquaintance, by the greatest good luck in the
world happened to be taken suddenly ill; so she sent me her ticket,
--was not that delightful?"
"For _her_, extremely!" said Cecilia, laughing.
"Well," she continued, "then I was almost out of my wits with joy;
and I went about, and got one of the sweetest dresses you ever saw.
If you'll call upon me some morning, I'll shew it you."
Cecilia, not prepared for an invitation so abrupt, bowed without
speaking, and Miss Larolles, too happy in talking herself to be
offended at the silence of another, continued her narration.
"Well, but now comes the vilest part of the business; do you know,
when everything else was ready, I could not get my hair-dresser! I
sent all over the town,--he was nowhere to be found; I thought I
should have died with vexation; I assure you I cried so that if I
had not gone in a mask, I should have been ashamed to be seen. And
so, after all this monstrous fatigue, I was forced to have my hair
dressed by my own maid, quite in a common way; was not it cruelly
mortifying?"
"Why yes," answered Cecilia, "I should think it was almost
sufficient to make you regret the illness of the young lady who sent
you her ticket."
They were now interrupted by Mrs Harrel, who advanced to them
followed by a young man of a serious aspect and modest demeanour,
and said, "I am happy to see you both so well engaged; but my
brother has been reproaching me with presenting everybody to Miss
Beverley but himself."
"I cannot hope," said Mr Arnott, "that I have any place in the
recollection of Miss Beverley, but long as I have been absent from
Suffolk, and unfortunate as I was in not seeing her during my last
visit there, I am yet sure, even at this distance of time, grown and
formed as she is, I should instantly have known her."
"Amazing!" cried an elderly gentleman, in a tone of irony, who was
standing near them, "for the face is a very common one!"
"I remember well," said Cecilia, "that when you left Suffolk I
thought I had lost my best friend."
"Is that possible?" cried Mr Arnott, with a look of much delight.
"Yes, indeed, and not without reason, for in all disputes you were
my advocate; in all plays, my companion; and in all difficulties, my
assistant."
"Madam," cried the same gentleman, "if you liked him because he was
your advocate, companion, and assistant, pray like me too, for I am
ready to become all three at once."
"You are very good," said Cecilia, laughing, "but at present I find
no want of any defender."
"That's pity," he returned, "for Mr Arnott seems to me very willing
to act the same parts over again with you."
"But for that purpose he must return to the days of his childhood."
"Ah, would to heaven it were possible!" cried Mr Arnott, "for they
were the happiest of my life."
"After such a confession," said his companion, "surely you will let
him attempt to renew them? 'tis but taking a walk backwards; and
though it is very early in life for Mr Arnott to sigh for that
retrograde motion, which, in the regular course of things, we shall
all in our turns desire, yet with such a motive as recovering Miss
Beverley for a playfellow, who can wonder that he anticipates in
youth the hopeless wishes of age?"
Here Miss Larolles, who was one of that numerous tribe of young
ladies to whom all conversation is irksome in which they are not
themselves engaged, quitted her place, of which Mr Gosport,
Cecilia's new acquaintance, immediately took possession.
"Is it utterly impossible," continued this gentleman, "that I should
assist in procuring Mr Arnott such a renovation? Is there no
subaltern part I can perform to facilitate the project? for I will
either _hide_ or _seek_ with any boy in the parish; and
for a _Q in the corner_, there is none more celebrated."
"I have no doubt, sir," answered Cecilia, "of your accomplishments;
and I should be not a little entertained with the surprize of the
company if you could persuade yourself to display them." "And what,"
cried he, "could the company do half so well as to rise also, and
join in the sport? it would but interrupt some tale of scandal, or
some description of a _toupee_. Active wit, however despicable
when compared with intellectual, is yet surely better than the
insignificant click-clack of modish conversation," casting his eyes
towards Miss Larolles, "or even the pensive dullness of affected
silence," changing their direction towards Miss Leeson.
Cecilia, though surprised at an attack upon the society her friend
had selected, by one who was admitted to make a part of it, felt its
justice too strongly to be offended at its severity.
"I have often wished," he continued, "that when large parties are
collected, as here, without any possible reason why they might not
as well be separated, something could be proposed in which each
person might innocently take a share: for surely after the first
half-hour, they can find little new to observe in the dress of their
neighbours, or to display in their own; and with whatever seeming
gaiety they may contrive to fill up the middle and end of the
evening, by wire-drawing the comments afforded by the beginning,
they are yet so miserably fatigued, that if they have not four or
five places to run to every night, they suffer nearly as much from
weariness of their friends in company, as they would do from
weariness of themselves in solitude."
Here, by the general breaking up of the party, the conversation was
interrupted, and Mr Gosport was obliged to make his exit; not much
to the regret of Cecilia, who was impatient to be alone with Mrs
Harrel.
The rest of the evening, therefore, was spent much more to her
satisfaction; it was devoted to friendship, to mutual enquiries, to
kind congratulations, and endearing recollections; and though it was
late when she retired, she retired with reluctance.
CHAPTER iv
A SKETCH OF HIGH LIFE.
Eager to renew a conversation which had afforded her so much
pleasure, Cecilia, neither sensible of fatigue from her change of
hours nor her journey, arose with the light, and as soon as she was
dressed, hastened to the breakfast apartment.
She had not, however, been more impatient to enter than she soon
became to quit it; for though not much surprized to find herself
there before her friend, her ardour for waiting her arrival was
somewhat chilled, upon finding the fire but just lighted, the room
cold, and the servants still employed in putting it in order.
At 10 o'clock she made another attempt: the room was then better
prepared for her reception, but still it was empty. Again she was
retiring, when the appearance of Mr Arnott stopped her.
He expressed his surprize at her early rising, in a manner that
marked the pleasure it gave to him; and then, returning to the
conversation of the preceding evening, he expatiated with warmth and
feeling upon the happiness of his boyish days, remembered every
circumstance belonging to the plays in which they had formerly been
companions, and dwelt upon every incident with a minuteness of
delight that shewed his unwillingness ever to have done with the
subject.
This discourse detained her till they were joined by Mrs Harrel, and
then another, more gay and more general succeeded to it.
During their breakfast, Miss Larolles was announced as a visitor to
Cecilia, to whom she immediately advanced with the intimacy of an
old acquaintance, taking her hand, and assuring her she could no
longer defer the honour of waiting upon her.
Cecilia, much amazed at this warmth of civility from one to whom she
was almost a stranger, received her compliment rather coldly; but
Miss Larolles, without consulting her looks, or attending to her
manner, proceeded to express the earnest desire she had long had to
be known to her; to hope they should meet very often; to declare
nothing could make her so happy; and to beg leave to recommend to
her notice her own milliner.
"I assure you," she continued, "she has all Paris in her disposal;
the sweetest caps! the most beautiful trimmings! and her ribbons are
quite divine! It is the most dangerous thing you can conceive to go
near her; I never trust myself in her room but I am sure to be
ruined. If you please, I'll take you to her this morning."
"If her acquaintance is so ruinous," said Cecilia, "I think I had
better avoid it."
"Oh, impossible! there's no such thing as living without her. To be
sure she's shockingly dear, that I must own; but then who can
wonder? She makes such sweet things, 'tis impossible to pay her too
much for them."
Mrs Harrel now joining in the recommendation, the party was agreed
upon, and accompanied by Mr Arnott, the ladies proceeded to the
house of the milliner.
Here the raptures of Miss Larolles were again excited: she viewed
the finery displayed with delight inexpressible, enquired who were
the intended possessors, heard their names with envy, and sighed
with all the bitterness of mortification that she was unable to
order home almost everything she looked at.
Having finished their business here, they proceeded to various other
dress manufacturers, in whose praises Miss Larolles was almost
equally eloquent, and to appropriate whose goods she was almost
equally earnest: and then, after attending this loquacious young
lady to her father's house, Mrs Harrel and Cecilia returned to their
own.
Cecilia rejoiced at the separation, and congratulated herself that
the rest of the day might be spent alone with her friend.
"Why, no," said Mrs Harrel, "not absolutely alone, for I expect some
company at night."
"Company again to-night?"
"Nay, don't be frightened, for it will be a very small party; not
more than fifteen or twenty in all."
"Is that so small a party?" said Cecilia, smiling; "and how short a
time since would you, as well as I, have reckoned it a large one!"
"Oh, you mean when I lived in the country," returned Mrs Harrel;
"but what in the world could I know of parties or company then?"
"Not much, indeed," said Cecilia, "as my present ignorance shews."
They then parted to dress for dinner.
The company of this evening were again all strangers to Cecilia,
except Miss Leeson, who was seated next to her, and whose frigid
looks again compelled her to observe the same silence she so
resolutely practised herself. Yet not the less was her internal
surprise that a lady who seemed determined neither to give nor
receive any entertainment, should repeatedly chuse to show herself
in a company with no part of which she associated.
Mr Arnott, who contrived to occupy the seat on her other side,
suffered not the silence with which her fair neighbour had infected
her to spread any further: he talked, indeed, upon no new subject;
and upon the old one, of their former sports and amusements, he had
already exhausted all that was worth being mentioned; but not yet
had he exhausted the pleasure he received from the theme; it seemed
always fresh and always enchanting to him; it employed his thoughts,
regaled his imagination, and enlivened his discourse. Cecilia in
vain tried to change it for another; he quitted it only by
compulsion, and returned to it with redoubled eagerness.
When the company was retired, and Mr Arnott only remained with the
ladies, Cecilia, with no little surprise, inquired for Mr Harrel,
observing that she had not seen him the whole day.
"O!" cried his lady, "don't think of wondering at that, for it
happens continually. He dines at home, indeed, in general, but
otherwise I should see nothing of him at all."
"Indeed? why, how does he fill up his time?"
"That I am sure I cannot tell, for he never consults me about it;
but I suppose much in the same way that other people do."
"Ah, Priscilla!" cried Cecilia, with some earnestness, "how little
did I ever expect to see you so much a fine lady!"
"A fine lady?" repeated Mrs Harrel; "why, what is it I do? Don't I
live exactly like every body else that mixes at all with the world?"
"You, Miss Beverley," said Mr Arnott in a low voice, "will I hope
give to the world an example, not take one from it."
Soon after, they separated for the night.
The next morning, Cecilia took care to fill up her time more
advantageously, than in wandering about the house in search of a
companion she now expected not to find: she got together her books,
arranged them to her fancy, and secured to herself for the future
occupation of her leisure hours, the exhaustless fund of
entertainment which reading, that richest, highest, and noblest
source of intellectual enjoyment, perpetually affords.
While they were yet at breakfast, they were again visited by Miss
Larolles. "I am come," cried she, eagerly, "to run away with you
both to my Lord Belgrade's sale. All the world will be there; and we
shall go in with tickets, and you have no notion how it will be
crowded."
"What is to be sold there?" said Cecilia.
"Oh, every thing you can conceive; house, stables, china, laces,
horses, caps, everything in the world."
"And do you intend to buy any thing?"
"Lord, no; but one likes to see the people's things."
Cecilia then begged they would excuse her attendance.
"O, by no means!" cried Miss Larolles; "you must go, I assure you;
there'll be such a monstrous crowd as you never saw in your life. I
dare say we shall be half squeezed to death."
"That," said Cecilia, "is an inducement which you must not expect
will have much weight with a poor rustic just out of the country: it
must require all the polish of a long residence in the metropolis to
make it attractive."
"O but do go, for I assure you it will be the best sale we shall
have this season. I can't imagine, Mrs Harrel, what poor Lady
Belgrade will do with herself; I hear the creditors have seized
every thing; I really believe creditors are the cruelest set of
people in the world! they have taken those beautiful buckles out of
her shoes! Poor soul! I declare it will make my heart ache to see
them put up. It's quite shocking, upon my word. I wonder who'll buy
them. I assure you they were the prettiest fancied I ever saw. But
come, if we don't go directly, there will be no getting in."
Cecilia again desired to be excused accompanying them, adding that
she wished to spend the day at home.
"At home, my dear?" cried Mrs Harrel; "why we have been engaged to
Mrs Mears this month, and she begged me to prevail with you to be of
the party. I expect she'll call, or send you a ticket, every moment"
"How unlucky for me," said Cecilia, "that you should happen to have
so many engagements just at this time! I hope, at least, there will
not be any for to-morrow."
"O yes; to-morrow we go to Mrs Elton's."
"Again to-morrow? and how long is this to last?"
"O, heaven knows; I'll shew you my catalogue."
She then produced a book which contained a list of engagements for
more than three weeks. "And as these," she said, "are struck off,
new ones are made; and so it is we go on till after the birth-day."
When this list had been examined and commented upon by Miss
Larolles, and viewed and wondered at by Cecilia, it was restored to
its place, the two ladies went together to the auction, permitting
Cecilia, at her repeated request, to return to her own apartment.
She returned, however, neither satisfied with the behaviour of her
friend, nor pleased with her own situation: the sobriety of her
education, as it had early instilled into her mind the pure dictates
of religion, and strict principles of honour, had also taught her to
regard continual dissipation as an introduction to vice, and
unbounded extravagance as the harbinger of injustice. Long
accustomed to see Mrs Harrel in the same retirement in which she had
hitherto lived herself, when books were their first amusement, and
the society of each other was their chief happiness, the change she
now perceived in her mind and manners equally concerned and
surprised her. She found her insensible to friendship, indifferent
to her husband, and negligent of all social felicity. Dress,
company, parties of pleasure, and public places, seemed not merely
to occupy all her time; but to gratify all her wishes. Cecilia, in
whose heart glowed the warmest affections and most generous virtue,
was cruelly depressed and mortified by this disappointment; yet she
had the good sense to determine against upbraiding her, well aware
that if reproach has any power over indifference, it is only that of
changing it into aversion.
Mrs Harrel, in truth, was innocent of heart, though dissipated in
life; married very young, she had made an immediate transition from
living in a private family and a country town, to becoming mistress
of one of the most elegant houses in Portman-square, at the head of
a splendid fortune, and wife to a man whose own pursuits soon showed
her the little value he himself set upon domestic happiness.
Immersed in the fashionable round of company and diversions, her
understanding, naturally weak, was easily dazzled by the brilliancy
of her situation; greedily, therefore, sucking in air impregnated
with luxury and extravagance, she had soon no pleasure but to vie
with some rival in elegance, and no ambition but to exceed some
superior in expence.
The Dean of----in naming Mr Harrel for one of the guardians of his
niece, had no other view than that of indulging her wishes by
allowing her to reside in the house of her friend: he had little
personal knowledge of him, but was satisfied with the nomination,
because acquainted with his family, fortune, and connections, all
which persuaded him to believe without further enquiry, that it was
more peculiarly proper for his niece than any other he could make.
In his choice of the other two trustees he had been more prudent;
the first of these, the honourable Mr Delvile, was a man of high
birth and character; the second, Mr Briggs, had spent his whole life
in business, in which he had already amassed an immense fortune, and
had still no greater pleasure than that of encreasing it. From the
high honour, therefore, of Mr Delvile, he expected the most
scrupulous watchfulness that his niece should in nothing be injured,
and from the experience of Mr Briggs in money matters, and his
diligence in transacting business, he hoped for the most vigilant
observance that her fortune, while under his care, should be turned
to the best account. And thus, as far as he was able, he had equally
consulted her pleasure, her security, and her pecuniary advantage.
Mrs Harrel returned home only in time to dress for the rest of the
day.
When Cecilia was summoned to dinner, she found, besides her host and
hostess and Mr Arnott, a gentleman she had not before seen, but who
as soon as she entered the parlour, Mr Harrel presented to her,
saying at the same time he was one of the most intimate of his
friends.
This gentleman, Sir Robert Floyer, was about thirty years of age;
his face was neither remarkable for its beauty nor its ugliness, but
sufficiently distinguished by its expression of invincible
assurance; his person, too, though neither striking for its grace
nor its deformity, attracted notice from the insolence of his
deportment. His manners, haughty and supercilious, marked the high
opinion he cherished of his own importance; and his air and address,
at once bold and negligent, announced his happy perfection in the
character at which he aimed, that of an accomplished man of the
town.
The moment Cecilia appeared, she became the object of his attention,
though neither with the look of admiration due to her beauty, nor
yet with that of curiosity excited by her novelty, but with the
scrutinizing observation of a man on the point of making a bargain,
who views with fault-seeking eyes the property he means to cheapen.
Cecilia, wholly unused to an examination so little ceremonious,
shrunk abashed from his regards: but his conversation was not less
displeasing to her than his looks; his principal subjects, which
were horse-racing, losses at play, and disputes at gaming-tables,
could afford her but little amusement, because she could not
understand them; and the episodes with which they were occasionally
interspersed, consisting chiefly of comparative strictures upon
celebrated beauties, hints of impending bankruptcies, and witticisms
upon recent divorces, were yet more disagreeable to her, because
more intelligible. Wearied, therefore, with uninteresting anecdotes,
and offended with injudicious subjects of pleasantry, she waited
with impatience for the moment of retiring; but Mrs Harrel, less
eager, because better entertained, was in no haste to remove, and
therefore she was compelled to remain quiet, till they were both
obliged to arise, in order to fulfil their engagement with Mrs
Mears.
As they went together to the house of that lady, in Mrs Harrel's
vis-a-vis, Cecilia, not doubting but their opinions concerning the
Baronet would accord, instantly and openly declared her
disapprobation of every thing he had uttered; but Mrs Harrel, far
from confirming her expectations, only said, "I am sorry you don't
like him, for he is almost always with us?"
"Do you like him, then, yourself?"
"Extremely; he is very entertaining and clever, and knows the
world."
"How judiciously do you praise him!" cried Cecilia; "and how long
might you deliberate before you could add another word to his
panegyric!"
Mrs Harrel, satisfied to commend, without even attempting to
vindicate him, was soon content to change the subject; and Cecilia,
though much concerned that the husband of her friend had made so
disgraceful an election of a favourite, yet hoped that the lenity of
Mrs Harrel resulted from her desire to excuse his choice, not from
her own approbation.
CHAPTER v
AN ASSEMBLY.
Mrs Mears, whose character was of that common sort which renders
delineation superfluous, received them with the customary forms of
good breeding.
Mrs Harrel soon engaged herself at a card-table; and Cecilia, who
declined playing, was seated next to Miss Leeson, who arose to
return the courtesy she made in advancing to her, but that past, did
not again even look at her.
Cecilia, though fond of conversation and formed for society, was too
diffident to attempt speaking where so little encouraged; they both,
therefore, continued silent, till Sir Robert Floyer, Mr Harrel, and
Mr Arnott entered the room together, and all at the same time
advanced to Cecilia.
"What," cried Mr Harrel, "don't you chuse to play, Miss Beverley?"
"I flatter myself," cried Mr Arnott, "that Miss Beverley never plays
at all, for then, in one thing, I shall have the honour to resemble
her."
"Very seldom, indeed," answered Cecilia, "and consequently very
ill."
"O, you must take a few lessons," said Mr Harrel, "Sir Robert
Floyer, I am sure, will be proud to instruct you."
Sir Robert, who had placed himself opposite to her, and was staring
full in her face, made a slight inclination of his head, and said,
"Certainly."
"I should be a very unpromising pupil," returned Cecilia, "for I
fear I should not only want diligence to improve, but desire."
"Oh, you will learn better things," said Mr Harrel; "we have had you
yet but three days amongst us,--in three months we shall see the
difference."
"I hope not," cried Mr Arnott, "I earnestly hope there will be
none!"
Mr Harrel now joined another party; and Mr Arnott seeing no seat
vacant near that of Cecilia, moved round to the back of her chair,
where he patiently stood for the rest of the evening. But Sir Robert
still kept his post, and still, without troubling himself to speak,
kept his eyes fixed upon the same object.
Cecilia, offended by his boldness, looked a thousand ways to avoid
him; but her embarrassment, by giving greater play to her features,
served only to keep awake an attention which might otherwise have
wearied. She was almost tempted to move her chair round and face Mr
Arnott, but though she wished to shew her disapprobation of the
Baronet, she had not yet been reconciled by fashion to turning her
back upon the company at large, for the indulgence of conversing
with some particular person: a fashion which to unaccustomed
observers seems rude and repulsive, but which, when once adopted,
carries with it imperceptibly its own recommendation, in the ease,
convenience and freedom it promotes.
Thus disagreeably stationed, she found but little assistance from
the neighbourhood of Mr Arnott, since even his own desire of
conversing with her, was swallowed up by an anxious and involuntary
impulse to watch the looks and motions of Sir Robert.
At length, quite tired of sitting as if merely an object to be gazed
at, she determined to attempt entering into conversation with Miss
Leeson.
The difficulty, however, was not inconsiderable how to make the
attack; she was unacquainted with her friends and connections,
uninformed of her way of thinking, or her way of life, ignorant even
of the sound of her voice, and chilled by the coldness of her
aspect: yet, having no other alternative, she was more willing to
encounter the forbidding looks of this lady, than to continue
silently abashed under the scrutinizing eyes of Sir Robert.
After much deliberation with what subject to begin, she remembered
that Miss Larolles had been present the first time they had met, and
thought it probable they might be acquainted with each other; and
therefore, bending forward, she ventured to enquire if she had
lately seen that young lady?
Miss Leeson, in a voice alike inexpressive of satisfaction or
displeasure, quietly answered, "No, ma'am."
Cecilia, discouraged by this conciseness, was a few minutes silent;
but the perseverance of Sir Robert in staring at her, exciting her
own in trying to avoid his eyes, she exerted herself so far as to
add, "Does Mrs Mears expect Miss Larolles here this evening?"
Miss Leeson, without raising her head, gravely replied, "I don't
know, ma'am."
All was now to be done over again, and a new subject to be started,
for she could suggest nothing further to ask concerning Miss
Larolles.
Cecilia had seen, little of life, but that little she had well
marked, and her observation had taught her, that among fashionable
people, public places seemed a never-failing source of conversation
and entertainment: upon this topic, therefore, she hoped for better
success; and as to those who have spent more time in the country
than in London, no place of amusement is so interesting as a
theatre, she opened the subject she had so happily suggested, by an
enquiry whether any new play had lately come out?
Miss Leeson, with the same dryness, only answered, "Indeed, I can't
tell."
Another pause now followed, and the spirits of Cecilia were
considerably dampt; but happening accidentally to recollect the name
of Almack, she presently revived, and, congratulating herself that
she should now be able to speak of a place too fashionable for
disdain, she asked her, in a manner somewhat more assured, if she
was a subscriber to his assemblies?
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you go to them constantly?"
"No, ma'am."
Again they were both silent. And now, tired of finding the ill-
success of each particular enquiry, she thought a more general one
might obtain an answer less laconic, and therefore begged she would
inform her what was the most fashionable place of diversion for the
present season?
This question, however, cost Miss Leeson no more trouble than any
which had preceded it, for she only replied, "Indeed I don't know."
Cecilia now began to sicken of her attempt, and for some minutes to
give it up as hopeless; but afterwards when she reflected how
frivolous were the questions she had asked, she felt more inclined
to pardon the answers she had received, and in a short time to fancy
she had mistaken contempt for stupidity, and to grow less angry with
Miss Leeson than ashamed of herself.
This supposition excited her to make yet another trial of her
talents for conversation, and therefore, summoning all the courage
in her power, she modestly apologised for the liberty she was
taking, and then begged her permission to enquire whether there was
anything new in the literary way that she thought worth
recommending?
Miss Leeson now turned her eyes towards her, with a look that
implied a doubt whether she had heard right; and when the attentive
attitude of Cecilia confirmed her question, surprise for a few
instants took place of insensibility, and with rather more spirit
than she had yet shown, she answered, "Indeed, I know nothing of the
matter."
Cecilia was now utterly disconcerted; and half angry with herself,
and wholly provoked with her sullen neighbour, she resolved to let
nothing in future provoke her to a similar trial with so unpromising
a subject.
She had not, however, much longer to endure the examination of Sir
Robert, who being pretty well satisfied with staring, turned upon
his heel, and was striding out of the room, when he was stopt by Mr
Gosport, who for some time had been watching him.
Mr Gosport was a man of good parts, and keen satire: minute in his
observations, and ironical in his expressions.
"So you don't play, Sir Robert?" he cried.
"What, here? No, I am going to Brookes's."
"But how do you like Harrel's ward? You have taken a pretty good
survey of her."
"Why, faith, I don't know; but not much, I think; she's a devilish
fine woman, too; but she has no spirit, no life."
"Did you try her? Have you talked to her?"
"Not I, truly!"
"Nay, then how do you mean to judge of her?"
"O, faith, that's all over, now; one never thinks of talking to the
women by way of trying them."
"What other method, then, have you adopted?"
"None."
"None? Why, then, how do you go on?"
"Why, they talk to us. The women take all that trouble upon
themselves now."
"And pray how long may you have commenced _fade macaroni?_ For
this is a part of your character with which I was not acquainted."
"Oh, hang it, 'tis not from _ton_; no, it's merely from
laziness. Who the d---l will fatigue himself with dancing
attendance upon the women, when keeping them at a distance makes
them dance attendance upon us?"
Then stalking from him to Mr Harrel, he took him by the arm, and
they left the room together.
Mr Gosport now advanced to Cecilia, and addressing her so as not to
be heard by Miss Leeson, said, "I have been wishing to approach you,
some time, but the fear that you are already overpowered by the
loquacity of your fair neighbour makes me cautious of attempting to
engage you."
"You mean," said Cecilia, "to laugh at _my_ loquacity, and
indeed its ill success has rendered it sufficiently ridiculous."
"Are you, then, yet to learn," cried he, "that there are certain
young ladies who make it a rule never to speak but to their own
cronies? Of this class is Miss Leeson, and till you get into her
particular coterie, you must never expect to hear from her a word of
two syllables. The TON misses, as they are called, who now infest
the town, are in two divisions, the SUPERCILIOUS, and the VOLUBLE.
The SUPERCILIOUS, like Miss Leeson, are silent, scornful, languid,
and affected, and disdain all converse but with those of their own
set: the VOLUBLE, like Miss Larolles, are flirting, communicative,
restless, and familiar, and attack without the smallest ceremony,
every one they think worthy their notice. But this they have in
common, that at home they think of nothing but dress, abroad, of
nothing but admiration, and that every where they hold in supreme
contempt all but themselves."
"Probably, then," said Cecilia, "I have passed tonight, for one of
the VOLUBLES; however, all the advantage has been with the
SUPERCILIOUS, for I have suffered a total repulse."
"Are you sure, however, you have not talked too well for her?"
"O, a child of five years old ought to have been whipt for not
talking better!"
"But it is not capacity alone you are to consult when you talk with
misses of the TON; were their understandings only to be considered,
they would indeed be wonderfully easy of access! in order,
therefore, to render their commerce somewhat difficult, they will
only be pleased by an observance of their humours: which are ever
most various and most exuberant where the intellects are weakest and
least cultivated. I have, however, a receipt which I have found
infallible for engaging the attention of young ladies of whatsoever
character or denomination."
"O, then," cried Cecilia, "pray favour me with it, for I have here
an admirable opportunity to try its efficacy."
"I will give it you," he answered, "with full directions. When you
meet with a young lady who seems resolutely determined not to speak,
or who, if compelled by a direct question to make some answer, drily
gives a brief affirmative, or coldly a laconic negative---"
"A case in point," interrupted Cecilia.
"Well, thus circumstanced," he continued, "the remedy I have to
propose consists of three topics of discourse."
"Pray what are they?"
"Dress, public places, and love."
Cecilia, half surprised and half diverted, waited a fuller
explanation without giving any interruption.
"These three topics," he continued, "are to answer three purposes,
since there are no less than three causes from which the silence of
young ladies may proceed: sorrow, affectation, and stupidity."
"Do you, then," cried Cecilia, "give nothing at all to modesty?"
"I give much to it," he answered, "as an excuse, nay almost as an
equivalent for wit; but for that sullen silence which resists all
encouragement, modesty is a mere pretence, not a cause."
"You must, however, be somewhat more explicit, if you mean that I
should benefit from your instructions."
"Well, then," he answered, "I will briefly enumerate the three
causes, with directions for the three methods of cure. To begin with
sorrow. The taciturnity which really results from that is attended
with an incurable absence of mind, and a total unconsciousness of
the observation which it excites; upon this occasion, public places
may sometimes be tried in vain, and even dress may fail; but love--"
"Are you sure, then," said Cecilia, with a laugh, "that sorrow has
but that one source?"
"By no means," answered he, "for perhaps papa may have been angry,
or mama may have been cross; a milliner may have sent a wrong
pompoon, or a chaperon to an assembly may have been taken ill--"
"Bitter subjects of affliction, indeed! And are these all you allow
us?"
"Nay, I speak but of young ladies of fashion, and what of greater
importance can befall them? If, therefore, the grief of the fair
patient proceeds from papa, mama, or the chaperon, then the mention
of public places, those endless incentives of displeasure between
the old and the young, will draw forth her complaints, and her
complaints will bring their own cure, for those who lament find
speedy consolation: if the milliner has occasioned the calamity, the
discussion of dress will have the same effect; should both these
medicines fail, love, as I said before, will be found infallible,
for you will then have investigated every subject of uneasiness
which a youthful female in high life can experience."
"They are greatly obliged to you," cried Cecilia, bowing, "for
granting them motives of sorrow so honourable, and I thank you in
the name of the whole sex."
"You, madam," said he, returning her bow, "are I hope an exception
in the happiest way, that of having no sorrow at all. I come, now,
to the silence of affectation, which is presently discernible by the
roving of the eye round the room to see if it is heeded, by the
sedulous care to avoid an accidental smile, and by the variety of
disconsolate attitudes exhibited to the beholders. This species of
silence has almost without exception its origin in that babyish
vanity which is always gratified by exciting attention, without ever
perceiving that it provokes contempt. In these cases, as nature is
wholly out of the question, and the mind is guarded against its own
feelings, dress and public places are almost certain of failing, but
here again love is sure to vanquish; as soon as it is named,
attention becomes involuntary, and in a short time a struggling
simper discomposes the arrangement of the features, and then the
business is presently over, for the young lady is either supporting
some system, or opposing some proposition, before she is well aware
that she has been cheated out of her sad silence at all."
"So much," said Cecilia, "for sorrow and for affectation. Proceed
next to stupidity; for that, in all probability, I shall most
frequently encounter." "That always must be heavy work," returned
he, "yet the road is plain, though it is all up hill. Love, here,
may be talked of without exciting any emotion, or provoking any
reply, and dress may be dilated upon without producing any other
effect than that of attracting a vacant stare; but public places are
indubitably certain of success. Dull and heavy characters, incapable
of animating from wit or from reason, because unable to keep pace
with them, and void of all internal sources of entertainment,
require the stimulation of shew, glare, noise, and bustle, to
interest or awaken them. Talk to them of such subjects, and they
adore you; no matter whether you paint to them joy or horror, let
there but be action, and they are content; a battle has charms for
them equal to a coronation, and a funeral amuses them as much as a
wedding."
"I am much obliged to you," said Cecilia, smiling, "for these
instructions; yet I must confess I know not how upon the present
occasion to make use of them: public places I have already tried,
but tried in vain; dress I dare not mention, as I have not yet
learned its technical terms--"
"Well, but," interrupted he, "be not desperate; you have yet the
third topic unessayed."
"O, that," returned she, laughing, "I leave to you."
"Pardon me," cried he; "love is a source of loquacity only with
yourselves: when it is started by men, young ladies dwindle into
mere listeners. _Simpering_ listeners, I confess; but it is
only with one another that you will discuss its merits."
At this time they were interrupted by the approach of Miss Larolles,
who, tripping towards Cecilia, exclaimed, "Lord, how glad I am to
see you! So you would not go to the auction! Well, you had a
prodigious loss, I assure you. All the wardrobe was sold, and all
Lady Belgrade's trinkets. I never saw such a collection of sweet
things in my life. I was ready to cry that I could not bid for half
a hundred of them. I declare I was kept in an agony the whole
morning. I would not but have been there for the world. Poor Lady
Belgrade! you really can't conceive how I was shocked for her. All
her beautiful things sold for almost nothing. I assure you, if you
had seen how they went, you would have lost all patience. It's a
thousand pities you were not there."
"On the contrary," said Cecilia, "I think I had a very fortunate
escape, for the loss of patience without the acquisition of the
trinkets, would have been rather mortifying."
"Yes," said Mr Gosport; "but when you have lived some time longer in
this commercial city, you will find the exchange of patience for
mortification the most common and constant traffic amongst its
inhabitants."
"Pray, have you been here long?" cried Miss Larolles, "for I have
been to twenty places, wondering I did not meet with you before. But
whereabouts is Mrs Mears? O, I see her now; I'm sure there's no
mistaking her; I could know her by that old red gown half a mile
off. Did you ever see such a frightful thing in your life? And it's
never off her back. I believe she sleeps in it. I am sure I have
seen her in nothing else all winter. It quite tires one's eye. She's
a monstrous shocking dresser. But do you know I have met with the
most provoking thing in the world this evening? I declare it has
made me quite sick. I was never in such a passion in my life. You
can conceive nothing like it."
"Like what?" cried Cecilia, laughing; "your passion, or your
provocation?"
"Why, I'll tell you what it was, and then you shall judge if it was
not quite past endurance. You must know I commissioned a particular
friend of mine, Miss Moffat, to buy me a trimming when she went to
Paris; well, she sent it me over about a month ago by Mr Meadows,
and it's the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life; but I would
not make it up, because there was not a creature in town, so I
thought to bring it out quite new in about a week's time, for you
know any thing does till after Christmas. Well, to-night at Lady
Jane Dranet's, who should I meet but Miss Moffat! She had been in
town some days, but so monstrously engaged I could never find her at
home. Well, I was quite delighted to see her, for you must know
she's a prodigious favourite with me, so I ran up to her in a great
hurry to shake hands, and what do you think was the first thing that
struck my eyes? Why, just such a trimming as my own, upon a nasty,
odious gown, and half dirty! Can you conceive anything so
distressing? I could have cried with pleasure."
"Why so?" said Cecilia. "If her trimming is dirty, yours will look
the more delicate."
"O Lord! but it's making it seem quite an old thing! Half the town
will get something like it. And I quite ruined myself to buy it. I
declare, I don't think anything was ever half so mortifying. It
distressed me so, I could hardly speak to her. If she had stayed a
month or two longer, I should not have minded it, but it was the
cruellest thing in the world to come over just now. I wish the
Custom-house officers had kept all her cloaths till summer."
"The wish is tender, indeed," said Cecilia, "for a _particular
friend_."
Mrs Mears now rising from the card-table, Miss Larolles tript away
to pay her compliments to her.
"Here, at least," cried Cecilia, "no receipt seems requisite for the
cure of silence! I would have Miss Larolles be the constant
companion of Miss Leeson: they could not but agree admirably, since
that SUPERCILIOUS young lady seems determined never to speak, and
the VOLUBLE Miss Larolles never to be silent. Were each to borrow
something of the other, how greatly would both be the better!"
"The composition would still be a sorry one," answered Mr Gosport,
"for I believe they are equally weak, and equally ignorant; the only
difference is, that one, though silly, is quick, the other, though
deliberate, is stupid. Upon a short acquaintance, that heaviness
which leaves to others the whole weight of discourse, and whole
search of entertainment, is the most fatiguing, but, upon a longer
intimacy, even that is less irksome and less offensive, than the
flippancy which hears nothing but itself."
Mrs Harrel arose now to depart, and Cecilia, not more tired of the
beginning of the evening than entertained with its conclusion, was
handed to the carriage by Mr Arnott.
CHAPTER vi
A BREAKFAST.
The next morning, during breakfast, a servant acquainted Cecilia
that a young gentleman was in the hall, who begged to speak with
her. She desired he might be admitted; and Mrs Harrel, laughing,
asked if she ought not to quit the room; while Mr Arnott, with even
more than his usual gravity, directed his eye towards the door to
watch who should enter.
Neither of them, however, received any satisfaction when it was
opened, for the gentleman who made his appearance was unknown to
both: but great was the amazement of Cecilia, though little her
emotion, when she saw Mr Morrice!
He came forward with an air of the most profound respect for the
company in general, and obsequiously advancing to Cecilia, made an
earnest enquiry into her health after her journey, and hoped she had
heard good news from her friends in the country.
Mrs Harrel, naturally concluding both from his visit and behaviour,
that he was an acquaintance of some intimacy, very civilly offered
him a seat and some breakfast, which, very frankly, he accepted. But
Mr Arnott, who already felt the anxiety of a rising passion which
was too full of veneration to be sanguine, looked at him with
uneasiness, and waited his departure with impatience.
Cecilia began to imagine he had been commissioned to call upon her
with some message from Mr Monckton: for she knew not how to suppose
that merely and accidentally having spent an hour or two in the same
room with her, would authorize a visiting acquaintance. Mr Morrice,
however, had a faculty the most happy of reconciling his pretensions
to his inclination; and therefore she soon found that the pretence
she had suggested appeared to him unnecessary. To lead, however, to
the subject from which she expected his excuse, she enquired how
long he had left Suffolk?
"But yesterday noon, ma'am," he answered, "or I should certainly
have taken the liberty to wait upon you before."
Cecilia, who had only been perplexing herself to devise some reason
why he came at all, now looked at him with a grave surprize, which
would totally have abashed a man whose courage had been less, or
whose expectations had been greater; but Mr Morrice, though he had
hazarded every danger upon the slightest chance of hope, knew too
well the weakness of his claims to be confident of success, and had
been too familiar with rebuffs to be much hurt by receiving them. He
might possibly have something to gain, but he knew he had nothing to
lose.
"I had the pleasure," he continued, "to leave all our friends well,
except poor Lady Margaret, and she has had an attack of the asthma;
yet she would not have a physician, though Mr Monckton would fain
have persuaded her: however, I believe the old lady knows better
things." And he looked archly at Cecilia: but perceiving that the
insinuation gave her nothing but disgust, he changed his tone, and
added, "It is amazing how well they live together; nobody would
imagine the disparity in their years. Poor old lady! Mr Monckton
will really have a great loss of her when she dies."
"A loss of her!" repeated Mrs Harrel, "I am sure she is an exceeding
ill-natured old woman. When I lived at Bury, I was always frightened
out of my wits at the sight of her."
"Why indeed, ma'am," said Morrice, "I must own her appearance is
rather against her: I had myself a great aversion to her at first
sight. But the house is chearful,--very chearful; I like to spend a
few days there now and then of all things. Miss Bennet, too, is
agreeable enough, and----"
"Miss Bennet agreeable!" cried Mrs Harrel, "I think she's the most
odious creature I ever knew in my life; a nasty, spiteful old maid!"
"Why indeed, ma'am, as you say," answered Morrice, "she is not very
young; and as to her temper, I confess I know very little about it;
and Mr Monckton is likely enough to try it, for he is pretty
severe."
"Mr Monckton," cried Cecilia, extremely provoked at hearing him
censured by a man she thought highly honoured in being permitted to
approach him, "whenever _I_ have been his guest, has merited
from me nothing but praise and gratitude."
"O," cried Morrice, eagerly, "there is not a more worthy man in the
world! he has so much wit, so much politeness! I don't know a more
charming man anywhere than my friend Mr Monckton." Cecilia now
perceiving that the opinions of her new acquaintance were as pliant
as his bows, determined to pay him no further attention, and hoped
by sitting silent to force from him the business of his visit, if
any he had, or if, as she now suspected, he had none, to weary him
into a retreat.
But this plan, though it would have succeeded with herself, failed
with Mr Morrice, who to a stock of good humour that made him always
ready to oblige others, added an equal portion of insensibility that
hardened him against all indignity. Finding, therefore, that
Cecilia, to whom his visit was intended, seemed already satisfied
with its length, he prudently forbore to torment her; but perceiving
that the lady of the house was more accessible, he quickly made a
transfer of his attention, and addressed his discourse to her with
as much pleasure as if his only view had been to see her, and as
much ease as if he had known her all his life.
With Mrs Harrel this conduct was not injudicious; she was pleased
with his assiduity, amused with his vivacity, and sufficiently
satisfied with his understanding. They conversed, therefore, upon
pretty equal terms, and neither of them were yet tired, when they
were interrupted by Mr Harrel, who came into the room, to ask if
they had seen or heard any thing of Sir Robert Floyer?
"No," answered Mrs Harrel, "nothing at all."
"I wish he was hanged," returned he, "for he has kept me waiting
this hour. He made me promise not to ride out till he called and now
he'll stay till the morning is over."
"Pray where does he live, sir?" cried Morrice, starting from his
seat.
"In Cavendish Square, sir," answered Mr Harrel, looking at him with
much surprise.
Not a word more said Morrice, but scampered out of the room.
"Pray who is this Genius?" cried Mr Harrel, "and what has he run
away for?"
"Upon my word I know nothing at all of him," said Mrs Harrel; "he is
a visitor of Miss Beverley's."
"And I, too," said Cecilia, "might almost equally disclaim all
knowledge of him; for though I once saw, I never was introduced to
him."
She then began a relation of her meeting him at Mr Monckton's house,
and had hardly concluded it, before again, and quite out of breath,
he made his appearance.
"Sir Robert Floyer, sir," said he to Mr Harrel, "will be here in two
minutes."
"I hope, sir," said Mr Harrel, "you have not given yourself the
trouble of going to him?"
"No, sir, it has given me nothing but pleasure; a run these cold
mornings is the thing I like best."
"Sir, you are extremely good," said Mr Harrel, "but I had not the
least intention of your taking such a walk upon my account."
He then begged him to be seated, to rest himself, and to take some
refreshment; which civilities he received without scruple.
"But, Miss Beverley," said Mr Harrel, turning suddenly to Cecilia,
"you don't tell me what you think of my friend?"
"What friend, sir?"
"Why, Sir Robert Floyer; I observed he never quitted you a moment
while he stayed at Mrs Mears."
"His stay, however, was too short," said Cecilia, "to allow me to
form a fair opinion of him."
"But perhaps," cried Morrice," it was long enough to allow you to
form a _foul_ one."
Cecilia could not forbear laughing to hear the truth thus
accidentally blundered out; but Mr Harrel, looking very little
pleased, said, "Surely you can find no fault with him? he is one of
the most fashionable men I know."
"My finding fault with him then," said Cecilia, "will only farther
prove what I believe is already pretty evident, that I am yet a
novice in the art of admiration."
Mr Arnott, animating at this speech, glided behind her chair, and
said, "I knew you could not like him! I knew it from the turn of
your mind;--I knew it even from your countenance!"
Soon after, Sir Robert Floyer arrived.
"You are a pretty fellow, a'n't you," cried Mr Harrel, "to keep me
waiting so long."
"I could not come a moment sooner; I hardly expected to get here at
all, for my horse has been so confounded resty I could not tell how
to get him along."
"Do you come on horseback through the streets, Sir Robert?" asked
Mrs Harrel.
"Sometimes; when I am lazy. But what the d---l is the matter with
him I don't know; he has started at everything. I suspect there has
been some foul play with him."
"Is he at the door, sir?" cried Morrice.
"Yes," answered Sir Robert.
"Then I'll tell you what's the matter with him in a minute;" and
away again ran Morrice.
"What time did you get off last night, Harrel?" said Sir Robert.
"Not very early; but you were too much engaged to miss me. By the
way," lowering his voice, "what do you think I lost?"
"I can't tell indeed, but I know what I gained: I have not had such
a run of luck this winter."
They then went up to a window to carry on their enquiries more
privately.
At the words _what do you think I lost_, Cecilia, half
starting, cast her eyes uneasily upon Mrs Harrel, but perceived not
the least change in her countenance. Mr Arnott, however, seemed as
little pleased as herself, and from a similar sensation looked
anxiously at his sister.
Morrice now returning, called out, "He's had a fall, I assure you!"
"Curse him!" cried Sir Robert, "what shall I do now? he cost me the
d---l and all of money, and I have not had him a twelvemonth. Can
you lend me a horse for this morning, Harrel?"
"No, I have not one that will do for you. You must send to Astley."
"Who can I send? John must take care of this."
"I'll go, sir," cried Morrice, "if you'll give me the commission."
"By no means, sir," said Sir Robert, "I can't think of giving you
such an office."
"It is the thing in the world I like best," answered he; "I
understand horses, and had rather go to Astley's than any where."
The matter was now settled in a few minutes, and having received his
directions, and an invitation to dinner, Morrice danced off, with a
heart yet lighter than his heels.
"Why, Miss Beverley," said Mr Harrel, "this friend of yours is the
most obliging gentleman I ever met with; there was no avoiding
asking him to dinner."
"Remember, however," said Cecilia, who was involuntarily diverted at
the successful officiousness of her new acquaintance, "that if you
receive him henceforth as your guest, he obtains admission through
his own merits, and not through my interest."
At dinner, Morrice, who failed not to accept the invitation of Mr
Harrel, was the gayest, and indeed the happiest man in the company:
the effort he had made to fasten himself upon Cecilia as an
acquaintance, had not, it is true, from herself met with much
encouragement; but he knew the chances were against him when he made
the trial, and therefore the prospect of gaining admission into such
a house as Mr Harrel's, was not only sufficient to make amends for
what scarcely amounted to a disappointment, but a subject of serious
comfort from the credit of the connection, and of internal
exultation at his own management and address.
In the evening, the ladies, as usual, went to a private assembly,
and, as usual, were attended to it by Mr Arnott. The other gentlemen
had engagements elsewhere.
CHAPTER vii
A PROJECT.
Several days passed on nearly in the same manner; the mornings were
all spent in gossipping, shopping and dressing, and the evenings
were regularly appropriated to public places, or large parties of
company.
Meanwhile Mr Arnott lived almost entirely in Portman Square; he
slept, indeed, at his own lodgings, but he boarded wholly with Mr
Harrel, whose house he never for a moment quitted till night, except
to attend Cecilia and his sister in their visitings and rambles.
Mr Arnott was a young man of unexceptionable character, and of a
disposition mild, serious and benignant: his principles and
blameless conduct obtained the universal esteem of the world, but
his manners, which were rather too precise, joined to an uncommon
gravity of countenance and demeanour, made his society rather
permitted as a duty, than sought as a pleasure.
The charms of Cecilia had forcibly, suddenly and deeply penetrated
his heart; he only lived in her presence, away from her he hardly
existed: the emotions she excited were rather those of adoration
than of love, for he gazed upon her beauty till he thought her more
than human, and hung upon her accents till all speech seemed
impertinent to him but her own. Yet so small were his expectations
of success, that not even to his sister did he hint at the situation
of his heart: happy in an easy access to her, he contented himself
with seeing, hearing and watching her, beyond which bounds he formed
not any plan, and scarce indulged any hope.
Sir Robert Floyer, too, was a frequent visitor in Portman Square,
where he dined almost daily. Cecilia was chagrined at seeing so much
of him, and provoked to find herself almost constantly the object of
his unrestrained examination; she was, however, far more seriously
concerned for Mrs Harrel, when she discovered that this favourite
friend of her husband was an unprincipled spendthrift, and an
extravagant gamester, for as he was the inseparable companion of Mr
Harrel, she dreaded the consequence both of his influence and his
example.
She saw, too, with an amazement that daily increased, the fatigue,
yet fascination of a life of pleasure: Mr Harrel seemed to consider
his own house merely as an hotel, where at any hour of the night he
might disturb the family to claim admittance, where letters and
messages might be left for him, where he dined when no other dinner
was offered him, and where, when he made an appointment, he was to
be met with. His lady, too, though more at home, was not therefore
more solitary; her acquaintance were numerous, expensive and idle,
and every moment not actually spent in company, was scrupulously
devoted to making arrangements for that purpose.
In a short time Cecilia, who every day had hoped that the next would
afford her greater satisfaction, but who every day found the present
no better than the former, began to grow weary of eternally running
the same round, and to sicken at the irksome repetition of
unremitting yet uninteresting dissipation. She saw nobody she wished
to see, as she had met with nobody for whom she could care; for
though sometimes those with whom she mixed appeared to be amiable,
she knew that their manners, like their persons, were in their best
array, and therefore she had too much understanding to judge
decisively of their characters. But what chiefly damped her hopes of
forming a friendship with any of the new acquaintance to whom she
was introduced, was the observation she herself made how ill the
coldness of their hearts accorded with the warmth of their
professions; upon every first meeting, the civilities which were
shewn her, flattered her into believing she had excited a partiality
that a very little time would ripen into affection; the next meeting
commonly confirmed the expectation; but the third, and every future
one, regularly destroyed it. She found that time added nothing to
their fondness, nor intimacy to their sincerity; that the interest
in her welfare which appeared to be taken at first sight, seldom,
with whatever reason, increased, and often without any, abated; that
the distinction she at first met with, was no effusion of kindness,
but of curiosity, which is scarcely sooner gratified than satiated;
and that those who lived always the life into which she had only
lately been initiated, were as much harassed with it as herself,
though less spirited to relinquish, and more helpless to better it,
and that they coveted nothing but what was new, because they had
experienced the insufficiency of whatever was familiar.
She began now to regret the loss she sustained in quitting the
neighbourhood, and being deprived of the conversation of Mr
Monckton, and yet more earnestly to miss the affection and sigh for
the society of Mrs Charlton, the lady with whom she had long and
happily resided at Bury; for she was very soon compelled to give up
all expectation of renewing the felicity of her earlier years, by
being restored to the friendship of Mrs Harrel, in whom she had
mistaken the kindness of childish intimacy for the sincerity of
chosen affection; and though she saw her credulous error with
mortification and displeasure, she regretted it with tenderness and
sorrow. "What, at last," cried she, "is human felicity, who has
tasted, and where is it to be found? If I, who, to others, seem
marked out for even a partial possession of it,--distinguished by
fortune, caressed by the world, brought into the circle of high
life, and surrounded with splendour, seek without finding it, yet
losing, scarce know how I miss it!"
Ashamed upon reflection to believe she was considered as an object
of envy by others, while repining and discontented herself, she
determined no longer to be the only one insensible to the blessings
within her reach, but by projecting and adopting some plan of
conduct better suited to her taste and feelings than the frivolous
insipidity of her present life, to make at once a more spirited and
more worthy use of the affluence, freedom, and power which she
possessed.
A scheme of happiness at once rational and refined soon presented
itself to her imagination. She purposed, for the basis of her plan,
to become mistress of her own time, and with this view, to drop all
idle and uninteresting acquaintance, who, while they contribute
neither to use nor pleasure, make so large a part of the community,
that they may properly be called the underminers of existence; she
could then shew some taste and discernment in her choice of friends,
and she resolved to select such only as by their piety could elevate
her mind, by their knowledge improve her understanding, or by their
accomplishments and manners delight her affections. This regulation,
if strictly adhered to, would soon relieve her from the fatigue of
receiving many visitors, and therefore she might have all the
leisure she could desire for the pursuit of her favourite studies,
music and reading.
Having thus, from her own estimation of human perfection, culled
whatever was noblest for her society, and from her own ideas of
sedentary enjoyments arranged the occupations of her hours of
solitude, she felt fully satisfied with the portion of happiness
which her scheme promised to herself, and began next to consider
what was due from her to the world.
And not without trembling did she then look forward to the claims
which the splendid income she was soon to possess would call upon
her to discharge. A strong sense of DUTY, a fervent desire to ACT
RIGHT, were the ruling characteristics of her mind: her affluence
she therefore considered as a debt contracted with the poor, and her
independence as a tie upon her liberality to pay it with interest.
Many and various, then, soothing to her spirit and grateful to her
sensibility, were the scenes which her fancy delineated; now she
supported an orphan, now softened the sorrows of a widow, now
snatched from iniquity the feeble trembler at poverty, and now
rescued from shame the proud struggler with disgrace. The prospect
at once exalted her hopes, and enraptured her imagination; she
regarded herself as an agent of Charity, and already in idea
anticipated the rewards of a good and faithful delegate; so
animating are the designs of disinterested benevolence! so pure is
the bliss of intellectual philanthropy!
Not immediately, however, could this plan be put in execution; the
society she meant to form could not be selected in the house of
another, where, though to some she might shew a preference, there
were none she could reject: nor had she yet the power to indulge,
according to the munificence of her wishes, the extensive generosity
she projected: these purposes demanded a house of her own, and the
unlimited disposal of her fortune, neither of which she could claim
till she became of age. That period, however, was only eight months
distant, and she pleased herself with the intention of meliorating
her plan in the meantime, and preparing to put it in practice.
But though, in common with all the race of still-expecting man, she
looked for that happiness in the time to come which the present
failed to afford, she had yet the spirit and good sense to determine
upon making every effort in her power to render her immediate way of
life more useful and contented.
Her first wish, therefore, now, was to quit the house of Mr Harrel,
where she neither met with entertainment nor instruction, but was
perpetually mortified by seeing the total indifference of the friend
in whose society she had hoped for nothing but affection.
The will of her uncle, though it obliged her while under age to live
with one of her guardians, left her at liberty to chuse and to
change amongst them according to her wishes or convenience: she
determined, therefore, to make a visit herself to each of them, to
observe their manners and way of life, and then, to the best of her
judgment, decide with which she could be most contented: resolving,
however, not to hint at her intention till it was ripe for
execution, and then honestly to confess the reasons of her retreat.
She had acquainted them both of her journey to town the morning
after her arrival. She was almost an entire stranger to each of
them, as she had not seen Mr Briggs since she was nine years old,
nor Mr Delvile within the time she could remember.
The very morning that she had settled her proceedings for the
arrangement of this new plan, she intended to request the use of Mrs
Harrel's carriage, and to make, without delay, the visits
preparatory to her removal; but when she entered the parlour upon a
summons to breakfast, her eagerness to quit the house gave way, for
the present, to the pleasure she felt at the sight of Mr Monckton,
who was just arrived from Suffolk.
She expressed her satisfaction in the most lively terms, and
scrupled not to tell him she had not once been so much pleased since
her journey to town, except at her first meeting with Mrs Harrel.
Mr Monckton, whose delight was infinitely superior to her own, and
whose joy in seeing her was redoubled by the affectionate frankness
of her reception, stifled the emotions to which her sight gave rise,
and denying himself the solace of expressing his feelings, seemed
much less charmed than herself at the meeting, and suffered no word
nor look to escape him beyond what could be authorised by friendly
civility.
He then renewed with Mrs Harrel an acquaintance which had been
formed before her marriage, but which [he] had dropt when her
distance from Cecilia, upon whose account alone he had thought it
worth cultivation, made it no longer of use to him. She afterwards
introduced her brother to him; and a conversation very interesting
to both the ladies took place, concerning several families with
which they had been formerly connected, as well as the neighbourhood
at large in which they had lately dwelt.
Very little was the share taken by Mr Arnott in these accounts and
enquiries; the unaffected joy with which Cecilia had received Mr
Monckton, had struck him with a sensation of envy as involuntary as
it was painful; he did not, indeed, suspect that gentleman's secret
views; no reason for suspicion was obvious, and his penetration sunk
not deeper than appearances; he knew, too, that he was married, and
therefore no jealousy occurred to him; but still she had smiled upon
him!--and he felt that to purchase for himself a smile of so much
sweetness, he would have sacrificed almost all else that was
valuable to him upon earth.
With an attention infinitely more accurate, Mr Monckton had returned
his observations. The uneasiness of his mind was apparent, and the
anxious watchfulness of his eyes plainly manifested whence it arose.
From a situation, indeed, which permitted an intercourse the most
constant and unrestrained with such an object as Cecilia, nothing
less could be expected, and therefore he considered his admiration
as inevitable; all that remained to be discovered, was the reception
it had met from his fair enslaver. Nor was he here long in doubt; he
soon saw that she was not merely free from all passion herself, but
had so little watched Mr Arnott as to be unconscious she had
inspired any.
Yet was his own serenity, though apparently unmoved, little less
disturbed in secret than that of his rival; he did not think him a
formidable candidate, but he dreaded the effects of intimacy,
fearing she might first grow accustomed to his attentions, and then
become pleased with them. He apprehended, also, the influence of his
sister and of Mr Harrel in his favour; and though he had no
difficulty to persuade himself that any offer he might now make
would be rejected without hesitation, he knew too well the insidious
properties of perseverance, to see him, without inquietude, situated
so advantageously.
The morning was far advanced before he took leave, yet he found no
opportunity of discoursing with Cecilia, though he impatiently
desired to examine into the state of her mind, and to discover
whether her London journey had added any fresh difficulties to the
success of his long-concerted scheme. But as Mrs Harrel invited him
to dinner, he hoped the afternoon would be more propitious to his
wishes.
Cecilia, too, was eager to communicate to him her favourite project,
and to receive his advice with respect to its execution. She had
long been used to his counsel, and she was now more than ever
solicitous to obtain it, because she considered him as the only
person in London who was interested in her welfare.
He saw, however, no promise of better success when he made his
appearance at dinner time, for not only Mr Arnott was already
arrived, but Sir Robert Floyer, and he found Cecilia so much the
object of their mutual attention, that he had still less chance than
in the morning of speaking to her unheard.
Yet was he not idle; the sight of Sir Robert gave abundant
employment to his penetration, which was immediately at work, to
discover the motive of his visit: but this, with all his sagacity,
was not easily decided; for though the constant direction of his
eyes towards Cecilia, proved, at least, that he was not insensible
of her beauty, his carelessness whether or not she was hurt by his
examination, the little pains he took to converse with her, and the
invariable assurance and negligence of his manners, seemed strongly
to demonstrate an indifference to the sentiments he inspired,
totally incompatible with the solicitude of affection.
In Cecilia he had nothing to observe but what his knowledge of her
character prepared him to expect, a shame no less indignant than
modest at the freedom with which she saw herself surveyed.
Very little, therefore, was the satisfaction which this visit
procured him, for soon after dinner the ladies retired; and as they
had an early engagement for the evening, the gentlemen received no
summons to their tea-table. But he contrived, before they quitted
the room, to make an appointment for attending them the next morning
to a rehearsal of a new serious Opera.
He stayed not after their departure longer than decency required,
for too much in earnest was his present pursuit, to fit him for such
conversation as the house in Cecilia's absence could afford him.
CHAPTER viii
AN OPERA REHEARSAL.
The next day, between eleven and twelve o'clock, Mr Monckton was
again in Portman Square; he found, as he expected, both the ladies,
and he found, as he feared, Mr Arnott prepared to be of their party.
He had, however, but little time to repine at this intrusion, before
he was disturbed by another, for, in a few minutes, they were joined
by Sir Robert Floyer, who also declared his intention of
accompanying them to the Haymarket.
Mr Monckton, to disguise his chagrin, pretended he was in great
haste to set off, lest they should be too late for the overture:
they were, therefore, quitting the breakfast room, when they were
stopt by the appearance of Mr Morrice.
The surprise which the sight of him gave to Mr Monckton was extreme;
he knew that he was unacquainted with Mr Harrel, for he remembered
they were strangers to each other when they lately met at his house;
he concluded, therefore, that Cecilia was the object of his visit,
but he could frame no conjecture under what pretence.
The easy terms upon which he seemed with all the family by no means
diminished his amazement; for when Mrs Harrel expressed some concern
that she was obliged to go out, he gaily begged her not to mind him,
assuring her he could not have stayed two minutes, and promising,
unasked, to call again the next day: and when she added, "We would
not hurry away so, only we are going to a rehearsal of an Opera," he
exclaimed with quickness, "A rehearsal!--are you really? I have a
great mind to go too!"
Then, perceiving Mr Monckton, he bowed to him with great respect,
and enquired, with no little solemnity, how he had left Lady
Margaret, hoped she was perfectly recovered from her late
indisposition, and asked sundry questions with regard to her plan
for the winter.
This discourse was ill constructed for rendering his presence
desirable to Mr Monckton; he answered him very drily, and again
pressed their departure.
"O," cried Morrice, "there's no occasion for such haste; the
rehearsal does not begin till one."
"You are mistaken, sir," said Mr Monckton; "it is to begin at twelve
o'clock."
"O ay, very true," returned Morrice; "I had forgot the dances, and I
suppose they are to be rehearsed first. Pray, Miss Beverley, did you
ever see any dances rehearsed?"
"No, sir."
"You will be excessively entertained, then, I assure you. It's the
most comical thing in the world to see those signores and signoras
cutting capers in a morning. And the _figuranti_ will divert
you beyond measure; you never saw such a shabby set in your life:
but the most amusing thing is to look in their faces, for all the
time they are jumping and skipping about the stage as if they could
not stand still for joy, they look as sedate and as dismal as if
they were so many undertaker's men."
"Not a word against dancing!" cried Sir Robert, "it's the only thing
carries one to the Opera; and I am sure it's the only thing one
minds at it."
The two ladies were then handed to Mrs Harrel's _vis-a-vis_;
and the gentlemen, joined without further ceremony by Mr Morrice,
followed them to the Haymarket.
The rehearsal was not begun, and Mrs Harrel and Cecilia secured
themselves a box upon the stage, from which the gentlemen of their
party took care not to be very distant.
They were soon perceived by Mr Gosport, who instantly entered into
conversation with Cecilia. Miss Larolles, who with some other ladies
came soon after into the next box, looked out to courtsie and nod,
with her usual readiness, at Mrs Harrel, but took not any notice of
Cecilia, though she made the first advances.
"What's the matter now?" cried Mr Gosport; "have you affronted your
little prattling friend?"
"Not with my own knowledge," answered Cecilia; "perhaps she does not
recollect me."
Just then Miss Larolles, tapping at the door, came in from the next
box to speak to Mrs Harrel; with whom she stood chatting and
laughing some minutes, without seeming to perceive that Cecilia was
of her party.
"Why, what have you done to the poor girl?" whispered Mr Gosport;
"did you talk more than herself when you saw her last?"
"Would that have been possible?" cried Cecilia; "however, I still
fancy she does not know me."
She then stood up, which making Miss Larolles involuntarily turn
towards her, she again courtsied; a civility which that young lady
scarce deigned to return, before, bridling with an air of
resentment, she hastily looked another way, and then, nodding good-
humouredly at Mrs Harrel, hurried back to her party.
Cecilia, much amazed, said to Mr Gosport, "See now how great was our
presumption in supposing this young lady's loquacity always at our
devotion!"
"Ah, madam!" cried he, laughing, "there is no permanency, no
consistency in the world! no, not even in the tongue of a VOLUBLE!
and if that fails, upon what may we depend?"
"But seriously," said Cecilia, "I am sorry I have offended her, and
the more because I so little know how, that I can offer her no
apology."
"Will you appoint me your envoy? Shall I demand the cause of these
hostilities?"
She thanked him, and he followed Miss Larolles; who was now
addressing herself with great earnestness to Mr Meadows, the
gentleman with whom she was conversing when Cecilia first saw her in
Portman Square. He stopt a moment to let her finish her speech,
which, with no little spirit, she did in these words, "I never knew
anything like it in my life; but I shan't put up with such airs, I
assure her!"
Mr Meadows made not any other return to her harangue, but stretching
himself with a languid smile, and yawning: Mr Gosport, therefore,
seizing the moment of cessation, said, "Miss Larolles, I hear a
strange report about you."
"Do you?" returned she, with quickness, "pray what is it? something
monstrous impertinent, I dare say,---however, I assure you it i'n't
true."
"Your assurance," cried he, "carries conviction indisputable, for
the report was that you had left off talking."
"O, was that all?" cried she, disappointed, "I thought it had been
something about Mr Sawyer, for I declare I have been plagued so
about him, I am quite sick of his name."
"And for my part, I never heard it! so fear nothing from me upon his
account."
"Lord, Mr Gosport, how can you say so? I am sure you must know about
the Festino that night, for it was all over the town in a moment."
"What festino?"
"Well, only conceive, how provoking!--why, I know nothing else was
talked of for a month!"
"You are most formidably stout this morning! it is not two minutes
since I saw you fling the gauntlet at Miss Beverley, and yet you are
already prepared for another antagonist."
"O as to Miss Beverley, I must really beg you not to mention her;
she has behaved so impertinently, that I don't intend ever to speak
to her again."
"Why, what has she done?"
"O she's been so rude you've no notion. I'll tell you how it was.
You must know I met her at Mrs Barrel's the day she came to town,
and the very next morning I waited on her myself, for I would not
send a ticket, because I really wished to be civil to her; well, the
day after, she never came near me, though I called upon her again;
however, I did not take any notice of that; but when the third day
came, and I found she had not even sent me a ticket, I thought it
monstrous ill bred indeed; and now there has passed more than a
week, and yet she has never called: so I suppose she don't like me;
so I shall drop her acquaintance."
Mr Gosport, satisfied now with the subject of her complaint,
returned to Cecilia, and informed her of the heavy charge which was
brought against her.
"I am glad, at least, to know my crime," said she, "for otherwise I
should certainly have sinned on in ignorance, as I must confess I
never thought of returning her visits: but even if I had, I should
not have supposed I had yet lost much time."
"I beg your pardon there," said Mrs Harrel; "a first visit ought to
be returned always by the third day."
"Then have I an unanswerable excuse," said Cecilia, "for I remember
that on the third day I saw her at your house."
"O that's nothing at all to the purpose; you should have waited upon
her, or sent her a ticket, just the same as if you had not seen
her."
The overture was now begun, and Cecilia declined any further
conversation. This was the first Opera she had ever heard, yet she
was not wholly a stranger to Italian compositions, having
assiduously studied music from a natural love of the art, attended
all the best concerts her neighbourhood afforded, and regularly
received from London the works of the best masters. But the little
skill she had thus gained, served rather to increase than to lessen
the surprize with which she heard the present performance,--a
surprize of which the discovery of her own ignorance made not the
least part. Unconscious from the little she had acquired how much
was to be learnt, she was astonished to find the inadequate power of
written music to convey any idea of vocal abilities: with just
knowledge enough, therefore, to understand something of the
difficulties, and feel much of the merit, she gave to the whole
Opera an avidity of attention almost painful from its own eagerness.
But both the surprize and the pleasure which she received from the
performance in general, were faint, cold, and languid, compared to
the strength of those emotions when excited by Signore Pacchierotti
in particular; and though not half the excellencies of that superior
singer were necessary either to amaze or charm her unaccustomed
ears, though the refinement of his taste and masterly originality of
his genius, to be praised as they deserved, called for the judgment
and knowledge of professors, yet a natural love of music in some
measure supplied the place of cultivation, and what she could
neither explain nor understand, she could feel and enjoy.
The opera was Artaserse; and the pleasure she received from the
music was much augmented by her previous acquaintance with that
interesting drama; yet, as to all noviciates in science, whatever is
least complicated is most pleasing, she found herself by nothing so
deeply impressed, as by the plaintive and beautiful simplicity with
which Pacchierotti uttered the affecting repetition of _sono
innocente_! his voice, always either sweet or impassioned,
delivered those words in a tone of softness, pathos, and
sensibility, that struck her with a sensation not more new than
delightful.
But though she was, perhaps, the only person thus astonished, she
was by no means the only one enraptured; for notwithstanding she was
too earnestly engaged to remark the company in general, she could
not avoid taking notice of an old gentleman who stood by one of the
side scenes, against which he leant his head in a manner that
concealed his face, with an evident design to be wholly absorbed in
listening: and during the songs of Pacchierotti he sighed so deeply
that Cecilia, struck by his uncommon sensibility to the power of
music, involuntarily watched him, whenever her mind was sufficiently
at liberty to attend to any emotions but its own.
As soon as the rehearsal was over, the gentlemen of Mrs Harrel's
party crowded before her box; and Cecilia then perceived that the
person whose musical enthusiasm had excited her curiosity, was the
same old gentleman whose extraordinary behaviour had so much
surprized her at the house of Mr Monckton. Her desire to obtain some
information concerning him again reviving, she was beginning to make
fresh enquiries, when she was interrupted by the approach of Captain
Aresby.
That gentleman, advancing to her with a smile of the extremest self-
complacency, after hoping, in a low voice, he had the honour of
seeing her well, exclaimed, "How wretchedly empty is the town!
petrifying to a degree! I believe you do not find yourself at
present _obsede_ by too much company?"
"_At present_, I believe the contrary!" cried Mr Gosport.
"Really!" said the Captain, unsuspicious of his sneer, "I protest I
have hardly seen a soul. Have you tried the Pantheon yet, ma'am?"
"No, sir."
"Nor I; I don't know whether people go there this year. It is not a
favourite _spectacle_ with me; that sitting to hear the music
is a horrid bore. Have you done the Festino the honour to look in
there yet?"
"No, sir."
"Permit me, then, to have the honour to beg you will try it."
"O, ay, true," cried Mrs Harrel; "I have really used you very ill
about that; I should have got you in for a subscriber: but Lord, I
have done nothing for you yet, and you never put me in mind. There's
the ancient music, and Abel's concert;--as to the opera, we may have
a box between us;--but there's the ladies' concert we must try for;
and there's--O Lord, fifty other places we must think of!"
"Oh times of folly and dissipation!" exclaimed a voice at some
distance; "Oh mignons of idleness and luxury! What next will ye
invent for the perdition of your time! How yet further will ye
proceed in the annihilation of virtue!"
Everybody stared; but Mrs Harrel coolly said, "Dear, it's only the
man-hater!"
"The man-hater?" repeated Cecilia, who found that the speech was
made by the object of her former curiosity; "is that the name by
which he is known?"
"He is known by fifty names," said Mr Monckton; "his friends call
him the _moralist_; the young ladies, the _crazy-man_; the
macaronies, the _bore_; in short, he is called by any and every
name but his own."
"He is a most petrifying wretch, I assure you," said the Captain; "I
am _obsede_ by him _partout_; if I had known he had been
so near, I should certainly have said nothing."
"That you have done so well," cried Mr Gosport, "that if you had
known it the whole time, you could have done it no better."
The Captain, who had not heard this speech, which was rather made at
him than to him, continued his address to Cecilia; "Give me leave to
have the honour of hoping you intend to honour our select masquerade
at the Pantheon with your presence. We shall have but five hundred
tickets, and the subscription will only be three guineas and a
half."
"Oh objects of penury and want!" again exclaimed the incognito; "Oh
vassals of famine and distress! Come and listen to this wantonness
of wealth! Come, naked and breadless as ye are, and learn how that
money is consumed which to you might bring raiment and food!"
"That strange wretch," said the Captain, "ought really to be
confined; I have had the honour to be _degoute_ by him so
often, that I think him quite obnoxious. I make it quite a principle
to seal up my lips the moment I perceive him."
"Where is it, then," said Cecilia, "that you have so often met him?"
"O," answered the Captain, "_partout_; there is no greater bore
about town. But the time I found him most petrifying was once when I
happened to have the honour of dancing with a very young lady, who
was but just come from a boarding-school, and whose friends had done
me the honour to fix upon me upon the principle of first bringing
her out: and while I was doing _mon possible_ for killing the
time, he came up, and in his particular manner, told her I had no
meaning in any thing I said! I must own I never felt more tempted to
be _enrage_ with a person in years, in my life."
Mr Arnott now brought the ladies word that their carriage was ready,
and they quitted their box: but as Cecilia had never before seen the
interior parts of a theatre, Mr Monckton, hoping while they loitered
to have an opportunity of talking with her, asked Morrice why he did
not _shew the lions?_ Morrice, always happy in being employed,
declared it was _just the thing he liked best_, and begged
permission to do the honours to Mrs Harrel, who, ever eager in the
search of amusement, willingly accepted his offer.
They all, therefore, marched upon the stage, their own party now
being the only one that remained.
"We shall make a triumphal entry here," cried Sir Robert Floyer;
"the very tread of the stage half tempts me to turn actor."
"You are a rare man," said Mr Gosport, "if, at your time of life,
that is a turn not already taken."
"My time of life!" repeated he; "what do you mean by that? do you
take me for an old man?"
"No, sir, but I take you to be past childhood, and consequently to
have served your apprenticeship to the actors you have mixed with on
the great stage of the world, and, for some years at least, to have
set up for yourself."
"Come," cried Morrice, "let's have a little spouting; 'twill make us
warm."
"Yes," said Sir Robert, "if we spout to an animating object. If Miss
Beverley will be Juliet, I am Romeo at her service."
At this moment the incognito, quitting the corner in which he had
planted himself, came suddenly forward, and standing before the
whole group, cast upon Cecilia a look of much compassion, and called
out, "Poor simple victim! hast thou already so many pursuers? yet
seest not that thou art marked for sacrifice! yet knowest not that
thou art destined for prey!"
Cecilia, extremely struck by this extraordinary address, stopt short
and looked much disturbed: which, when he perceived, he added, "Let
the danger, not the warning affect you! discard the sycophants that
surround you, seek the virtuous, relieve the poor, and save yourself
from the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity!"
Having uttered these words with vehemence and authority, he sternly
passed them, and disappeared.
Cecilia, too much astonished for speech, stood for some time
immoveable, revolving in her mind various conjectures upon the
meaning of an exhortation so strange and so urgent.
Nor was the rest of the company much less discomposed: Sir Robert,
Mr Monckton, and Mr Arnott, each conscious of their own particular
plans, were each apprehensive that the warning pointed at himself:
Mr Gosport was offended at being included in the general appellation
of sycophants; Mrs Harrel was provoked at being interrupted in her
ramble; and Captain Aresby, sickening at the very sight of him,
retreated the moment he came forth.
"For heaven's sake," cried Cecilia, when somewhat recovered from her
consternation, "who can this be, and what can he mean? You, Mr
Monckton, must surely know something of him; it was at your house I
first saw him."
"Indeed," answered Mr Monckton, "I knew almost nothing of him then,
and I am but little better informed now. Belfield picked him up
somewhere, and desired to bring him to my house: he called him by
the name of Albany: I found him a most extraordinary character, and
Belfield, who is a worshipper of originality, was very fond of him."
"He's a devilish crabbed old fellow," cried Sir Robert, "and if he
goes on much longer at this confounded rate, he stands a very fair
chance of getting his ears cropped."
"He is a man of the most singular conduct I have ever met with,"
said Mr Gosport; "he seems to hold mankind in abhorrence, yet he is
never a moment alone, and at the same time that he intrudes himself
into all parties, he associates with none: he is commonly a stern
and silent observer of all that passes, or when he speaks, it is but
to utter some sentence of rigid morality, or some bitterness of
indignant reproof."
The carriage was now again announced, and Mr Monckton taking
Cecilia's hand, while Mr Morrice secured to himself the honour of
Mrs Harrel's, Sir Robert and Mr Gosport made their bows and
departed. But though they had now quitted the stage, and arrived at
the head of a small stair case by which they were to descend out of
the theatre, Mr Monckton, finding all his tormentors retired, except
Mr Arnott, whom he hoped to elude, could not resist making one more
attempt for a few moments' conversation with Cecilia; and therefore,
again applying to Morrice, he called out, "I don't think you have
shewn the ladies any of the contrivances behind the scenes?"
"True," cried Morrice, "no more I have; suppose we go back?"
"I shall like it vastly," said Mrs Harrel; and back they returned.
Mr Monckton now soon found an opportunity to say to Cecilia, "Miss
Beverley, what I foresaw has exactly come to pass; you are
surrounded by selfish designers, by interested, double-minded
people, who have nothing at heart but your fortune, and whose
mercenary views, if you are not guarded against them---"
Here a loud scream from Mrs Harrel interrupted his speech; Cecilia,
much alarmed, turned from him to enquire the cause, and Mr Monckton
was obliged to follow her example: but his mortification was almost
intolerable when he saw that lady in a violent fit of laughter, and
found her scream was only occasioned by seeing Mr Morrice, in his
diligence to do the honours, pull upon his own head one of the side
scenes!
There was now no possibility of proposing any further delay; but Mr
Monckton, in attending the ladies to their carriage, was obliged to
have recourse to his utmost discretion and forbearance, in order to
check his desire of reprimanding Morrice for his blundering
officiousness.
Dressing, dining with company at home, and then going out with
company abroad, filled up, as usual, the rest of the day.
CHAPTER ix
A SUPPLICATION.
The next morning Cecilia, at the repeated remonstrances of Mrs
Harrel, consented to call upon Miss Larolles. She felt the
impracticability of beginning at present the alteration in her way
of life she had projected, and therefore thought it most expedient
to assume no singularity till her independency should enable her to
support it with consistency; yet greater than ever was her internal
eagerness to better satisfy her inclination and her conscience in
the disposition of her time, and the distribution of her wealth,
since she had heard the emphatic charge of her unknown Mentor.
Mrs Harrel declined accompanying her in this visit, because she had
appointed a surveyor to bring a plan for the inspection of Mr Harrel
and herself, of a small temporary building, to be erected at Violet-
Bank, for the purpose of performing plays in private the ensuing
Easter.
When the street door was opened for her to get into the carriage,
she was struck with the appearance of an elderly woman who was
standing at some distance, and seemed shivering with cold, and who,
as she descended the steps, joined her hands in an act of
supplication, and advanced nearer to the carriage.
Cecilia stopt to look at her: her dress, though parsimonious, was
too neat for a beggar, and she considered a moment what she could
offer her. The poor woman continued to move forward, but with a
slowness of pace that indicated extreme weakness; and, as she
approached and raised her head, she exhibited a countenance so
wretched, and a complexion so sickly, that Cecilia was impressed
with horror at the sight.
With her hands still joined, and a voice that seemed fearful of its
own sound, "Oh madam," she cried, "that you would but hear me!"
"Hear you!" repeated Cecilia, hastily feeling for her purse; "most
certainly, and tell me how I shall assist you."
"Heaven bless you for speaking so kindly, madam!" cried the woman,
with a voice more assured; "I was sadly afraid you would be angry,
but I saw the carriage at the door, and I thought I would try; for I
could be no worse; and distress, madam, makes very bold."
"Angry!" said Cecilia, taking a crown from her purse; "no, indeed!--
who could see such wretchedness, and feel any thing but pity?"
"Oh madam," returned the poor woman, "I could almost cry to hear you
talk so, though I never thought to cry again, since I left it off
for my poor Billy!"
"Have you, then, lost a son?"
"Yes, madam; but he was a great deal too good to live, so I have
quite left off grieving for him now."
"Come in, good woman," said Cecilia, "it is too cold to stand here,
and you seem half-starved already: come in, and let me have some
talk with you."
She then gave orders that the carriage should be driven round the
square till she was ready, and making the woman follow her into a
parlour, desired to know what she should do for her; changing, while
she spoke, from a movement of encreasing compassion, the crown which
she held in her hand for double that sum.
"You can do everything, madam," she answered, "if you will but plead
for us to his honour: he little thinks of our distress, because he
has been afflicted with none himself, and I would not be so
troublesome to him, but indeed, indeed, madam, we are quite pinched
for want!"
Cecilia, struck with the words, _he little thinks of our distress,
because he has been afflicted with none himself_, felt again
ashamed of the smallness of her intended donation, and taking from
her purse another half guinea, said, "Will this assist you? Will a
guinea be sufficient to you for the present?"
"I humbly thank you, madam," said the woman, curtsying low, "shall I
give you a receipt?"
"A receipt?" cried Cecilia, with emotion, "for what? Alas, our
accounts are by no means balanced! but I shall do more for you if I
find you as deserving an object as you seem to be."
"You are very good, madam; but I only meant a receipt in part of
payment."
"Payment for what? I don't understand you."
"Did his honour never tell you, madam, of our account?"
"What account?"
"Our bill, madam, for work done to the new Temple at Violet-Bank: it
was the last great work my poor husband was able to do, for it was
there he met with his misfortune."
"What bill? What misfortune?" cried Cecilia; "what had your husband
to do at Violet-Bank?"
"He was the carpenter, madam. I thought you might have seen poor
Hill the carpenter there."
"No, I never was there myself. Perhaps you mistake me for Mrs
Harrel."
"Why, sure, madam, a'n't you his honour's lady?"
"No. But tell me, what is this bill?"
"'Tis a bill, madam, for very hard work, for work, madam, which I am
sure will cost my husband his life; and though I have been after his
honour night and day to get it, and sent him letters and petitions
with an account of our misfortunes, I have never received so much as
a shilling! and now the servants won't even let me wait in the hall
to speak to him. Oh, madam! you who seem so good, plead to his
honour in our behalf! tell him my poor husband cannot live! tell him
my children are starving! and tell him my poor Billy, that used to
help to keep us, is dead, and that all the work I can do by myself
is not enough to maintain us!"
"Good heaven!" cried Cecilia, extremely moved, "is it then your own
money for which you sue thus humbly?"
"Yes, madam, for my own just and honest money, as his honour knows,
and will tell you himself."
"Impossible!" cried Cecilia, "he cannot know it; but I will take
care he shall soon be informed of it. How much is the bill?"
"Two-and-twenty pounds, madam."
"What, no more?"
"Ah, madam, you gentlefolks little think how much that is to poor
people! A hard working family, like mine, madam, with the help of
20 pounds will go on for a long while quite in paradise."
"Poor worthy woman!" cried Cecilia, whose eyes were filled with tears
of compassion, "if 20 pounds will place you in paradise, and that 20
pounds only your just right, it is hard, indeed, that you should be
kept without it; especially when your debtors are too affluent to
miss it. Stay here a few moments, and I will bring you the money
immediately."
Away she flew, and returned to the breakfast room, but found there
only Mr Arnott, who told her that Mr Harrel was in the library, with
his sister and some gentlemen. Cecilia briefly related her business,
and begged he would inform Mr Harrel she wished to speak to him
directly. Mr Arnott shook his head, but obeyed.
They returned together, and immediately.
"Miss Beverley," cried Mr Harrel, gaily, "I am glad you are not
gone, for we want much to consult with you. Will you come up
stairs?"
"Presently," answered she; "but first I must speak to you about a
poor woman with whom I have accidentally been talking, who has
begged me to intercede with you to pay a little debt that she thinks
you have forgotten, but that probably you have never heard
mentioned."
"A debt?" cried he, with an immediate change of countenance, "to
whom?"
"Her name, I think, is Hill; she is wife to the carpenter you
employed about a new temple at Violet-Bank."
"O, what--what, that woman?--Well, well, I'll see she shall be paid.
Come, let us go to the library."
"What, with my commission so ill executed? I promised to petition
for her to have the money directly."
"Pho, pho, there's no such hurry; I don't know what I have done with
her bill."
"I'll run and get another."
"O upon no account! She may send another in two or three days. She
deserves to wait a twelvemonth for her impertinence in troubling you
at all about it."
"That was entirely accidental: but indeed you must give me leave to
perform my promise and plead for her. It must be almost the same to
you whether you pay such a trifle as 20 pounds now or a month hence,
and to this poor woman the difference seems little short of life or
death, for she tells me her husband is dying, and her children are
half-famished; and though she looks an object of the cruellest want
and distress herself, she appears to be their only support."
"O," cried Mr Harrel, laughing, "what a dismal tale has she been
telling you! no doubt she saw you were fresh from the country! But
if you give credit to all the farragos of these trumpery impostors,
you will never have a moment to yourself, nor a guinea in your
purse."
"This woman,"' answered Cecilia, "cannot be an impostor, she carries
marks but too evident and too dreadful in her countenance of the
sufferings which she relates."
"O," returned he, "when you know the town better you will soon see
through tricks of this sort; a sick husband and five small children
are complaints so stale now, that they serve no other purpose in the
world but to make a joke."
"Those, however, who can laugh at them must have notions of
merriment very different to mine. And this poor woman, whose cause I
have ventured to undertake, had she no family at all, must still and
indisputably be an object of pity herself, for she is so weak she
can hardly crawl, and so pallid that she seems already half dead."
"All imposition, depend upon it! The moment she is out of your sight
her complaints will vanish."
"Nay, sir," cried Cecilia, a little impatiently, "there is no reason
to suspect such deceit, since she does not come hither as a beggar,
however well the state of beggary may accord with her poverty: she
only solicits the payment of a bill, and if in that there is any
fraud, nothing can be so easy as detection."
Mr Harrel bit his lips at this speech, and for some instants looked
much disturbed; but soon recovering himself, he negligently said,
"Pray, how did she get at you?"
"I met her at the street door. But tell me, is not her bill a just
one?"
"I cannot say; I have never had time to look at it."
"But you know who the woman is, and that her husband worked for you,
and therefore that in all probability it is right,--do you not?"
"Yes, yes, I know who the woman is well enough; she has taken care
of that, for she has pestered me every day these nine months."
Cecilia was struck dumb by this speech: hitherto she had supposed
that the dissipation of his life kept him ignorant of his own
injustice; but when she found he was so well informed of it, yet,
with such total indifference, could suffer a poor woman to claim a
just debt every day for nine months together, she was shocked and
astonished beyond measure. They were both some time silent, and then
Mr Harrel, yawning and stretching out his arms, indolently asked,
"Pray, why does not the man come himself?"
"Did I not tell you," answered Cecilia, staring at so absent a
question, "that he was very ill, and unable even to work?"
"Well, when he is better," added he, moving towards the door, "he
may call, and I will talk to him."
Cecilia, all amazement at this unfeeling behaviour, turned
involuntarily to Mr Arnott, with a countenance that appealed for his
assistance; but Mr Arnott hung his head, ashamed to meet her eyes,
and abruptly left the room.
Meantime Mr Harrel, half-turning back, though without looking
Cecilia in the face, carelessly said, "Well, won't you come?"
"No, sir," answered she, coldly.
He then returned to the library, leaving her equally displeased,
surprised, and disconcerted at the conversation which had just
passed between them. "Good heaven," cried she to herself, "what
strange, what cruel insensibility! to suffer a wretched family to
starve, from an obstinate determination to assert that they can
live! to distress the poor by retaining the recompense for which
alone they labour, and which at last they must have, merely from
indolence, forgetfulness, or insolence! Oh how little did my uncle
know, how little did I imagine to what a guardian I was entrusted!"
She now felt ashamed even to return to the poor woman, though she
resolved to do all in her power to soften her disappointment and
relieve her distress.
But before she had quitted the room one of the servants came to tell
her that his master begged the honor of her company up stairs.
"Perhaps he relents!" thought she; and pleased with the hope,
readily obeyed the summons.
She found him, his lady, Sir Robert Floyer, and two other gentlemen,
all earnestly engaged in an argument over a large table, which was
covered with plans and elevations of small buildings.
Mr Harrel immediately addressed her with an air of vivacity, and
said, "You are very good for coming; we can settle nothing without
your advice: pray look at these different plans for our theatre, and
tell us which is the best."
Cecilia advanced not a step: the sight of plans for new edifices
when the workmen were yet unpaid for old ones; the cruel wantonness
of raising fresh fabrics of expensive luxury, while those so lately
built had brought their neglected labourers to ruin, excited an
indignation she scarce thought right to repress: while the easy
sprightliness of the director of these revels, to whom but the
moment before she had represented the oppression of which they made
him guilty, filled her with aversion and disgust: and, recollecting
the charge given her by the stranger at the Opera rehearsal, she
resolved to speed her departure to another house, internally
repeating, "Yes, I _will_ save myself from _the impending
destruction of unfeeling prosperity_!"
Mrs Harrel, surprised at her silence and extreme gravity, enquired
if she was not well, and why she had put off her visit to Miss
Larolles? And Sir Robert Floyer, turning suddenly to look at her,
said, "Do you begin to feel the London air already?"
Cecilia endeavoured to recover her serenity, and answer these
questions in her usual manner; but she persisted in declining to
give any opinion at all about the plans, and, after slightly looking
at them, left the room.
Mr Harrel, who knew better how to account for her behaviour than he
thought proper to declare, saw with concern that she was more
seriously displeased than he had believed an occurrence which he had
regarded as wholly unimportant could have made her: and, therefore,
desirous that she should be appeased, he followed her out of the
library, and said, "Miss Beverley, will to-morrow be soon enough for
your _protegee_?"
"O yes, no doubt!" answered she, most agreeably surprised by the
question.
"Well, then, will you take the trouble to bid her come to me in the
morning?"
Delighted at this unexpected commission, she thanked him with smiles
for the office; and as she hastened down stairs to chear the poor
expectant with the welcome intelligence, she framed a thousand
excuses for the part he had hitherto acted, and without any
difficulty, persuaded herself he began to see the faults of his
conduct, and to meditate a reformation.
She was received by the poor creature she so warmly wished to serve
with a countenance already so much enlivened, that she fancied Mr
Harrel had himself anticipated her intended information: this,
however, she found was not the case, for as soon as she heard his
message, she shook her head, and said, "Ah, madam, his honour always
says to-morrow! but I can better bear to be disappointed now, so
I'll grumble no more; for indeed, madam, I have been blessed enough
to-day to comfort me for every thing in the world, if I could but
keep from thinking of poor Billy! I could bear all the rest, madam,
but whenever my other troubles go off, that comes back to me so much
the harder!"
"There, indeed, I can afford you no relief," said Cecilia, "but you
must try to think less of him, and more of your husband and children
who are now alive. To-morrow you will receive your money, and that,
I hope, will raise your spirits. And pray let your husband have a
physician, to tell you how to nurse and manage him; I will give you
one fee for him now, and if he should want further advice, don't
fear to let me know."
Cecilia had again taken out her purse, but Mrs Hill, clasping her
hands, called out, "Oh madam no! I don't come here to fleece such
goodness! but blessed be the hour that brought me here to-day, and
if my poor Billy was alive, he should help me to thank you!"
She then told her that she was now quite rich, for while she was
gone, a gentleman had come into the room, who had given her five
guineas.
Cecilia, by her description, soon found this gentleman was Mr
Arnott, and a charity so sympathetic with her own, failed not to
raise him greatly in her favour. But as her benevolence was a
stranger to that parade which is only liberal from emulation, when
she found more money not immediately wanted, she put up her purse,
and charging Mrs Hill to enquire for her the next morning when she
came to be paid, bid her hasten back to her sick husband.
And then, again ordering the carriage to the door, she set off upon
her visit to Miss Larolles, with a heart happy in the good already
done, and happier still in the hope of doing more.
Miss Larolles was out, and she returned home; for she was too
sanguine in her expectations from Mr Harrel, to have any desire of
seeking her other guardians. The rest of the day she was more than
usually civil to him, with a view to mark her approbation of his
good intentions: while Mr Arnott, gratified by meeting the smiles he
so much valued, thought his five guineas amply repaid, independently
of the real pleasure which he took in doing good.
CHAPTER x
A PROVOCATION.
The next morning, when breakfast was over, Cecilia waited with much
impatience to hear some tidings of the poor carpenter's wife; but
though Mr Harrel, who had always that meal in his own room, came
into his lady's at his usual hour, to see what was going forward, he
did not mention her name. She therefore went into the hall herself,
to enquire among the servants if Mrs Hill was yet come?
Yes, they answered, and had seen their master, and was gone.
She then returned to the breakfast room, where her eagerness to
procure some information detained her, though the entrance of Sir
Robert Floyer made her wish to retire. But she was wholly at a loss
whether to impute to general forgetfulness, or to the failure of
performing his promise, the silence of Mr Harrel upon the subject of
her petition.
In a few minutes they were visited by Mr Morrice, who said he called
to acquaint the ladies that the next morning there was to be a
rehearsal of a very grand new dance at the Opera-House, where,
though admission was difficult, if it was agreeable to them to go,
he would undertake to introduce them.
Mrs Harrel happened to be engaged, and therefore declined the offer.
He then turned to Cecilia, and said, "Well, ma'am, when did you see
our friend Monckton?"
"Not since the rehearsal, sir."
"He is a mighty agreeable fellow," he continued, "and his house in
the country is charming. One is as easy at it as at home. Were you
ever there, Sir Robert?"
"Not I, truly," replied Sir Robert; "what should I go for?--to see
an old woman with never a tooth in her head sitting at the top of
the table! Faith, I'd go an hundred miles a day for a month never to
see such a sight again."
"O but you don't know how well she does the honours," said Morrice;
"and for my part, except just at meal times, I always contrive to
keep out of her way."
"I wonder when she intends to die," said Mr Harrel.
"She's been a long time about it," cried Sir Robert; "but those
tough old cats last for ever. We all thought she was going when
Monckton married her; however, if he had not managed like a
driveler, he might have broke her heart nine years ago."
"I am sure I wish he had," cried Mrs Harrel, "for she's an odious
creature, and used always to make me afraid of her."
"But an old woman," answered Sir Robert, "is a person who has no
sense of decency; if once she takes to living, the devil himself
can't get rid of her."
"I dare say," cried Morrice, "she'll pop off before long in one of
those fits of the asthma. I assure you sometimes you may hear her
wheeze a mile off."
"She'll go never the sooner for that," said Sir Robert, "for I have
got an old aunt of my own, who has been puffing and blowing as if
she was at her last gasp ever since I can remember; and for all
that, only yesterday, when I asked her doctor when she'd give up the
ghost, he told me she might live these dozen years."
Cecilia was by no means sorry to have this brutal conversation
interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a letter for her. She
was immediately retiring to read it; but upon the petition of Mr
Monckton, who just then came into the room, she only went to a
window. The letter was as follows:
_To Miss, at his Honour Squire Harrel's--These:_
Honoured Madam,--This with my humble duty. His Honour has given me
nothing. But I would not be troublesome, having wherewithal to wait,
so conclude, Honoured Madam, your dutiful servant to command, till
death, M. HILL.
The vexation with which Cecilia read this letter was visible to the
whole company; and while Mr Arnott looked at her with a wish of
enquiry he did not dare express, and Mr Monckton, under an
appearance of inattention, concealed the most anxious curiosity, Mr
Morrice alone had courage to interrogate her; and, pertly advancing,
said, "He is a happy man who writ that letter, ma'am, for I am sure
you have not read it with indifference."
"Were I the writer," said Mr Arnott, tenderly, "I am sure I should
reckon myself far otherwise, for Miss Beverley seems to have read it
with uneasiness."
"However, I have read it," answered she, "I assure you it is not
from _any man_."
"O pray, Miss Beverley," cried Sir Robert, coming forward, "are you
any better to-day?"
"No, sir, for I have not been ill."
"A little vapoured, I thought, yesterday; perhaps you want
exercise."
"I wish the ladies would put themselves under my care," cried
Morrice, "and take a turn round the park."
"I don't doubt you, Sir," said Mr Monckton, contemptuously, "and,
but for the check of modesty, probably there is not a man here who
would not wish the same."
"I could propose a much better scheme than that," said Sir Robert;
"what if you all walk to Harley Street, and give me your notions of
a house I am about there? what say you, Mrs Harrel?"
"O, I shall like it vastly."
"Done," cried Mr Harrel; "'tis an excellent motion."
"Come then," said Sir Robert, "let's be off. Miss Beverley, I hope
you have a good warm cloak?"
"I must beg you to excuse my attending you, sir."
Mr Monckton, who had heard this proposal with the utmost dread of
its success, revived at the calm steadiness with which it was
declined. Mr and Mrs Harrel both teized Cecilia to consent; but the
haughty Baronet, evidently more offended than hurt by her refusal,
pressed the matter no further, either with her or the rest of the
party, and the scheme was dropt entirely.
Mr Monckton failed not to remark this circumstance, which confirmed
his suspicions, that though the proposal seemed made by chance, its
design was nothing else than to obtain Cecilia's opinion concerning
his house. But while this somewhat alarmed him, the unabated
insolence of his carriage, and the confident defiance of his pride,
still more surprized him; and notwithstanding all he observed of
Cecilia, seemed to promise nothing but dislike; he could draw no
other inference from his behaviour, than that if he admired, he also
concluded himself sure of her.
This was not a pleasant conjecture, however little weight he allowed
to it; and he resolved, by outstaying all the company, to have a few
minutes' private discourse with her upon the subject.
In about half an hour, Sir Robert and Mr Harrel went out together:
Mr Monckton still persevered in keeping his ground, and tried,
though already weary, to keep up a general conversation; but what
moved at once his wonder and his indignation was the assurance of
Morrice, who seemed not only bent upon staying as long as himself,
but determined, by rattling away, to make his own entertainment.
At length a servant came in to tell Mrs Harrel that a stranger, who
was waiting in the house-keeper's room, begged to speak with her
upon very particular business.
"O, I know," cried she, "'tis that odious John Groot: do pray,
brother, try to get rid of him for me, for he comes to teize me
about his bill, and I never know what to say to him."
Mr Arnott went immediately, and Mr Monckton could scarce refrain
from going too, that he might entreat John Groot by no means to be
satisfied without seeing Mrs Harrel herself: John Groot, however,
wanted not his entreaties, as the servant soon returned to summons
his lady to the conference.
But though Mr Monckton now seemed near the completion of his
purpose, Morrice still remained; his vexation at this circumstance
soon grew intolerable; to see himself upon the point of receiving
the recompense of his perseverance, by the fortunate removal of all
the obstacles in its way, and then to have it held from him by a
young fellow he so much despised, and who had no entrance into the
house but through his own boldness, and no inducement to stay in it
but from his own impertinence, mortified him so insufferably, that
it was with difficulty he even forbore from affronting him. Nor
would he have scrupled a moment desiring him to leave the room, had
he not prudently determined to guard with the utmost sedulity
against raising any suspicions of his passion for Cecilia.
He arose, however, and was moving towards her, with the intention to
occupy a part of a sofa on which she was seated, when Morrice, who
was standing at the back of it, with a sudden spring which made the
whole room shake, jumpt over, and sunk plump into the vacant place
himself, calling out at the same time, "Come, come, what have you
married men to do with young ladies? I shall seize this post for
myself."
The rage of Mr Monckton at this feat, and still more at the words
_married men_, almost exceeded endurance; he stopt short, and
looking at him with a fierceness that overpowered his discretion,
was bursting out with, "Sir, you are an---_impudent fellow_,"
but checking himself when he got half way, concluded with, "a very
facetious gentleman!"
Morrice, who wished nothing so little as disobliging Mr Monckton,
and whose behaviour was merely the result of levity and a want of
early education, no sooner perceived his displeasure, than, rising
with yet more agility than he had seated himself, he resumed the
obsequiousness of which an uncommon flow of spirits had robbed him,
and guessing no other subject for his anger than the disturbance he
had made, he bowed almost to the ground, first to him, and
afterwards to Cecilia, most respectfully begging pardon of them both
for his frolic, and protesting he had no notion he should have made
such a noise!
Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott, now hastening back, enquired what had been
the matter? Morrice, ashamed of his exploit, and frightened by the
looks of Mr Monckton, made an apology with the utmost humility, and
hurried away: and Mr Monckton, hopeless of any better fortune, soon
did the same, gnawn with a cruel discontent which he did not dare
avow, and longing. to revenge himself upon Morrice, even by personal
chastisement.
CHAPTER xi
A NARRATION.
The moment Cecilia was at liberty, she sent her own servant to
examine into the real situation of the carpenter and his family, and
to desire his wife would call upon her as soon as she was at
leisure. The account which he brought back encreased her concern for
the injuries of these poor people, and determined her not to rest
satisfied till she saw them redressed. He informed her that they
lived in a small lodging up two pair of stairs; that there were five
children, all girls, the three eldest of whom were hard at work with
their mother in matting chair-bottoms, and the fourth, though a mere
child, was nursing the youngest; while the poor carpenter himself
was confined to his bed, in consequence of a fall from a ladder
while working at Violet-Bank, by which he was covered with wounds
and contusions, and an object of misery and pain.
As soon as Mrs Hill came, Cecilia sent for her into her own room,
where she received her with the most compassionate tenderness, and
desired to know when Mr Harrel talked of paying her?
"To-morrow, madam," she answered, shaking her head, "that is always
his honour's speech: but I shall bear it while I can. However,
though I dare not tell his honour, something bad will come of it, if
I am not paid soon."
"Do you mean, then, to apply to the law?"
"I must not tell you, madam; but to be sure we have thought of it
many a sad time and often; but still, while we could rub on, we
thought it best not to make enemies: but, indeed, madam, his honour
was so hardhearted this morning, that if I was not afraid you would
be angry, I could not tell how to bear it; for when I told him I had
no help now, for I had lost my Billy, he had the heart to say, 'So
much the better, there's one the less of you.'"
"But what," cried Cecilia, extremely shocked by this unfeeling
speech, "is the reason he gives for disappointing you so often?"
"He says, madam, that none of the other workmen are paid yet; and
that, to be sure, is very true; but then they can all better afford
to wait than we can, for we were the poorest of all, madam, and have
been misfortunate from the beginning: and his honour would never
have employed us, only he had run up such a bill with Mr Wright,
that he would not undertake any thing more till he was paid. We were
told from the first we should not get our money; but we were willing
to hope for the best, for we had nothing to do, and were hard run,
and had never had the offer of so good a job before; and we had a
great family to keep, and many losses, and so much illness!--Oh
madam! if you did but know what the poor go through!"
This speech opened to Cecilia a new view of life; that a young man
could appear so gay and happy, yet be guilty of such injustice and
inhumanity, that he could take pride in works which not even money
had made his own, and live with undiminished splendor, when his
credit itself began to fail, seemed to her incongruities so
irrational, that hitherto she had supposed them impossible.
She then enquired if her husband had yet had any physician?
"Yes, madam, I humbly thank your goodness," she answered; "but I am
not the poorer for that, for the gentleman was so kind he would take
nothing."
"And does he give you any hopes? what does he say?"
"He says he must die, madam, but I knew that before."
"Poor woman! and what will you do then?"
"The same, madam, as I did when I lost my Billy, work on the
harder!"
"Good heaven, _how severe a lot_! but tell me, why is it you
seem to love your Billy so much better than the rest of your
children?"
"Because, madam, he was the only boy that ever I had; he was
seventeen years old, madam, and as tall and as pretty a lad! and so
good, that he never cost me a wet eye till I lost him. He worked
with his father, and all the folks used to say he was the better
workman of the two."
"And what was the occasion of his death?"
"A consumption, madam, that wasted him quite to nothing: and he was
ill a long time, and cost us a deal of money, for we spared neither
for wine nor any thing that we thought would but comfort him; and we
loved him so we never grudged it. But he died, madam! and if it had
not been for very hard work, the loss of him would quite have broke
my heart."
"Try, however, to think less of him," said Cecilia; "and depend upon
my speaking again for you to Mr Harrel. You shall certainly have
your money; take care, therefore, of your own health, and go home
and give comfort to your sick husband."
"Oh, madam," cried the poor woman, tears streaming down her cheeks,
"you don't know how touching it is to hear gentlefolks talk so
kindly! And I have been used to nothing but roughness from his
honour! But what I most fear, madam, is that when my husband is
gone, he will be harder to deal with than ever; for a widow, madam,
is always hard to be righted; and I don't expect to hold out long
myself, for sickness and sorrow wear fast: and then, when we are
both gone, who is to help our poor children?"
"_I_ will!" cried the generous Cecilia; "I am able, and I am
willing; you shall not find all the rich hardhearted, and I will try
to make you some amends for the unkindness you have suffered."
The poor woman, overcome by a promise so unexpected, burst into a
passionate fit of tears, and sobbed out her thanks with a violence
of emotion that frightened Cecilia almost as much as it melted her.
She endeavoured, by re-iterated assurances of assistance, to appease
her, and solemnly pledged her own honour that she should certainly
be paid the following Saturday, which was only three days distant.
Mrs Hill, when a little calmer, dried her eyes, and humbly begging
her to forgive a transport which she could not restrain, most
gratefully thanked her for the engagement into which she had
entered, protesting that she would not be _troublesome to her
goodness_ as long as she could help it; "And I believe," she
continued, "that if his honour will but pay me time enough for the
burial, I can make shift with what I have till then. But when my
poor Billy died, we were sadly off indeed, for we could not bear but
bury him prettily, because it was the last we could do for him: but
we could hardly scrape up enough for it, and yet we all went without
our dinners to help forward, except the little one of all. But that
did not much matter, for we had no great heart for eating.".
"I cannot bear this!" cried Cecilia; "you must tell me no more of
your Billy; but go home, and chear your spirits, and do every thing
in your power to save your husband."
"I will, madam," answered the woman, "and his dying prayers shall
bless you! and all my children shall bless you, and every night they
shall pray for you. And oh!"--again bursting into tears, "that Billy
was but alive to pray for you too!"
Cecilia kindly endeavoured to soothe her, but the poor creature, no
longer able to suppress the violence of her awakened sorrows, cried
out, "I must go, madam, and pray for you at home, for now I have
once begun crying again, I don't know how to have done!" and hurried
away.
Cecilia determined to make once more an effort with Mr Harrel for
the payment of the bill, and if that, in two days, did not succeed,
to take up money for the discharge of it herself, and rest all her
security for reimbursement upon the shame with which such a
proceeding must overwhelm him. Offended, however, by the repulse she
had already received from him, and disgusted by all she had heard of
his unfeeling negligence, she knew not how to address him, and
resolved upon applying again to Mr Arnott, who was already
acquainted with the affair, for advice and assistance.
Mr Arnott, though extremely gratified that she consulted him,
betrayed by his looks a hopelessness of success, that damped all her
expectations. He promised, however, to speak to Mr Harrel upon the
subject, but the promise was evidently given to oblige the fair
mediatrix, without any hope of advantage to the cause.
The next morning Mrs Hill again came, and again without payment was
dismissed.
Mr Arnott then, at the request of Cecilia, followed Mr Harrel into
his room, to enquire into the reason of this breach of promise; they
continued some time together, and when he returned to Cecilia, he
told her, that his brother had assured him he would give orders to
Davison, his gentleman, to let her have the money the next day.
The pleasure with which she would have heard this intelligence was
much checked by the grave and cold manner in which it was
communicated: she waited, therefore, with more impatience than
confidence for the result of this fresh assurance.
The next morning, however, was the same as the last; Mrs Hill came,
saw Davison, and was sent away.
Cecilia, to whom she related her grievances, then flew to Mr Arnott,
and entreated him to enquire at least of Davison why the woman had
again been disappointed.
Mr Arnott obeyed her, and brought for answer, that Davison had
received no orders from his master.
"I entreat you then," cried she, with mingled eagerness and
vexation, "to go, for the last time, to Mr Harrel. I am sorry to
impose upon you an office so disagreeable, but I am sure you
compassionate these poor people, and will serve them now with your
interest, as you have already done with your purse. I only wish to
know if there has been any mistake, or if these delays are merely to
sicken me of petitioning."
Mr Arnott, with a repugnance to the request which he could as ill
conceal as his admiration of the zealous requester, again forced
himself to follow Mr Harrel. His stay was not long, and Cecilia at
his return perceived that he was hurt and disconcerted. As soon as
they were alone together, she begged to know what had passed?
"Nothing," answered he, "that will give you any pleasure. When I
entreated my brother to come to the point, he said it was his
intention to pay all his workmen together, for that if he paid any
one singly, all the rest would be dissatisfied."
"And why," said Cecilia, "should he not pay them at once? There can
be no more comparison in the value of the money to him and to them,
than, to speak with truth, there is in his and in their right to
it."
"But, madam, the bills for the new house itself are none of them
settled, and he says that the moment he is known to discharge an
account for the Temple, he shall not have any rest for the clamours
it will raise among the workmen who were employed about the house."
"How infinitely strange!" exclaimed Cecilia; "will he not, then, pay
anybody?"
"Next quarter, he says, he shall pay them all, but, at present, he
has a particular call for his money."
Cecilia would not trust herself to make any comments upon such an
avowal, but thanking Mr Arnott for the trouble which he had taken,
she determined, without any further application, to desire Mr Harrel
to advance her 20 pounds the next morning, and satisfy the carpenter
herself, be the risk what it might.
The following day, therefore, which was the Saturday when payment
was promised, she begged an audience of Mr Harrel; which he
immediately granted; but, before she could make her demand, he said
to her, with an air of the utmost gaiety and good-humour, "Well,
Miss Beverley, how fares it with your _protegee_? I hope, at
length, she is contented. But I must beg you would charge her to
keep her own counsel, as otherwise she will draw me into a scrape I
shall not thank her for."
"Have you, then, paid her?" cried Cecilia, with much amazement.
"Yes; I promised you I would, you know."
This intelligence equally delighted and astonished her; she
repeatedly thanked him for his attention to her petition, and, eager
to communicate her success to Mr Arnott, she hastened to find him.
"Now," cried she, "I shall torment you no more with painful
commissions; the Hills, at last, are paid!"
"From you, madam," answered he gravely, "no commissions could be
painful."
"Well, but," said Cecilia, somewhat disappointed, "you don't seem
glad of this?"
"Yes," answered he, with a forced smile, "I am very glad to see you
so."
"But how was it brought about? did Mr Harrel relent? or did you
attack him again?"
The hesitation of his answer convinced her there was some mystery in
the transaction; she began to apprehend she had been deceived, and
hastily quitting the room, sent for Mrs Hill: but the moment the
poor woman appeared, she was satisfied of the contrary, for, almost
frantic with joy and gratitude, she immediately flung herself upon
her knees, to thank her benefactress for having _seen her
righted_.
Cecilia then gave her some general advice, promised to continue her
friend, and offered her assistance in getting her husband into an
hospital; but she told her he had already been in one many months,
where he had been pronounced incurable, and therefore was desirous
to spend his last days in his own lodgings.
"Well," said Cecilia, "make them as easy to him as you, can, and
come to me next week, and I will try to put you in a better way of
living."
She then, still greatly perplexed about Mr Arnott, sought him again,
and, after various questions and conjectures, at length brought him
to confess he had himself lent his brother the sum with which the
Hills had been paid.
Struck with his generosity, she poured forth thanks and praises so
grateful to his ears, that she soon gave him a recompense which he
would have thought cheaply purchased by half his fortune.
BOOK II
CHAPTER i
A MAN OF WEALTH
The meanness with which Mr Harrel had assumed the credit, as well as
accepted the assistance of Mr Arnott, increased the disgust he had
already excited in Cecilia, and hastened her resolution of quitting
his house; and therefore, without waiting any longer for the advice
of Mr Monckton, she resolved to go instantly to her other guardians,
and see what better prospects their habitations might offer.
For this purpose she borrowed one of the carriages, and gave orders
to be driven into the city to the house of Mr Briggs.
She told her name, and was shewn, by a little shabby footboy, into a
parlour.
Here she waited, with tolerable patience, for half an hour, but
then, imagining the boy had forgotten to tell his master she was in
the house, she thought it expedient to make some enquiry.
No bell, however, could she find, and therefore she went into the
passage in search of the footboy; but, as she was proceeding to the
head of the kitchen stairs, she was startled by hearing a man's
voice from the upper part of the house exclaiming, in a furious
passion, "Dare say you've filched it for a dish-clout!"
She called out, however, "Are any of Mr Briggs's servants below?"
"Anan!" answered the boy, who came to the foot of the stairs, with a
knife in one hand and an old shoe, upon the sole of which he was
sharpening it, in the other, "Does any one call?"
"Yes," said Cecilia, "I do; for I could not find the bell."
"O, we have no bell in the parlour," returned the boy, "master
always knocks with his stick."
"I am afraid Mr Briggs is too busy to see me, and if so, I will come
another time."
"No, ma'am," said the boy, "master's only looking over his things
from the wash."
"Will you tell him, then, that I am waiting?"
"I has, ma'am; but master misses his shaving-rag, and he says he
won't come to the Mogul till he's found it." And then he went on
with sharpening his knife.
This little circumstance was at least sufficient to satisfy Cecilia
that if she fixed her abode with Mr Briggs, she should not have much
uneasiness to fear from the sight of extravagance and profusion.
She returned to the parlour, and after waiting another half-hour, Mr
Briggs made his appearance.
Mr Briggs was a short, thick, sturdy man, with very small keen black
eyes, a square face, a dark complexion, and a snub nose. His
constant dress, both in winter and summer, was a snuff-colour suit
of clothes, blue and white speckled worsted stockings, a plain
shirt, and a bob wig. He was seldom without a stick in his hand,
which he usually held to his forehead when not speaking.
This bob wig, however, to the no small amazement of Cecilia, he now
brought into the room upon the forefinger of his left hand, while,
with his right, he was smoothing the curls; and his head, in
defiance of the coldness of the weather, was bald and uncovered.
"Well," cried he, as he entered, "did you think I should not come?"
"I was very willing, sir, to wait your leisure."
"Ay, ay, knew you had not much to do. Been looking for my shaving-
rag. Going out of town; never use such a thing at home, paper does
as well. Warrant Master Harrel never heard of such a thing; ever see
him comb his own wig? Warrant he don't know how! never trust mine
out of my hands, the boy would tear off half the hair; all one to
master Harrel, I suppose. Well, which is the warmer man, that's all?
Will he cast an account with me?"
Cecilia, at a loss what to say to this singular exordium, began an
apology for not waiting upon him sooner.
"Ay, ay," cried he, "always gadding, no getting sight of you. Live a
fine life! A pretty guardian, Master Harrel! and where's t'other?
where's old Don Puffabout?"
"If you mean Mr Delvile, sir, I have not yet seen him."
"Thought so. No matter, as well not. Only tell you he's a German
Duke, or a Spanish Don Ferdinand. Well, you've me! poorly off else.
A couple of ignoramuses! don't know when to buy nor when to sell. No
doing business with either of them. We met once or twice; all to no
purpose; only heard Don Vampus count his old Grandees; how will that
get interest for money? Then comes Master Harrel--twenty bows to a
word,--looks at a watch,--about as big as a sixpence,--poor raw
ninny!--a couple of rare guardians! Well, you've me, I say; mind
that!"
Cecilia was wholly unable to devise any answer to these effusions of
contempt and anger; and therefore his harangue lasted without
interruption, till he had exhausted all his subjects of complaint,
and emptied his mind of ill-will; and then, settling his wig, he
drew a chair near her, and twinkling his little black eyes in her
face, his rage subsided into the most perfect good humour; and,
after peering at her some time with a look of much approbation, he
said, with an arch nod, "Well, my duck, got ever a sweetheart yet?"
Cecilia laughed, and said "No."
"Ah, little rogue, don't believe you! all a fib! better speak out:
come, fit I should know; a'n't you my own ward? to be sure, almost
of age, but not quite, so what's that to me?"
She then, more seriously, assured him she had no intelligence of
that sort to communicate.
"Well, when you have, tell, that's all. Warrant sparks enough
hankering. I'll give you some advice Take care of sharpers; don't
trust shoe-buckles, nothing but Bristol stones! tricks in all
things. A fine gentleman sharp as another man. Never give your heart
to a gold-topped cane, nothing but brass gilt over. Cheats
everywhere: fleece you in a year; won't leave you a groat. But one
way to be safe,--bring 'em all to me."
Cecilia thanked him for his caution, and promised not to forget his
advice.
"That's the way," he continued, "bring 'em to me. Won't be
bamboozled. Know their tricks. Shew 'em the odds on't. Ask for the
rent-roll,--see how they look! stare like stuck pigs! got no such
thing."
"Certainly, sir, that will be an excellent method of trial."
"Ay, ay, know the way! soon find if they are above par. Be sure
don't mind gold waistcoats; nothing but tinsel, all shew and no
substance; better leave the matter to me; take care of you myself;
know where to find one will do."
She again thanked him; and, being fully satisfied with this specimen
of his conversation, and unambitious of any further counsel from
him, she arose to depart.
"Well," repeated he, nodding at her, with a look of much kindness,
"leave it to me, I say; I'll get you a careful husband, so take no
thought about the matter."
Cecilia, half-laughing, begged he would not give himself much
trouble, and assured him she was not in any haste.
"All the better," said he, "good girl; no fear for you: look out
myself; warrant I'll find one. Not very easy, neither! hard times!
men scarce; wars and tumults! stocks low! women chargeable!--but
don't fear; do our best; get you off soon."
She then returned to her carriage: full of reflection upon the scene
in which she had just been engaged, and upon the strangeness of
hastening from one house to avoid a vice the very want of which
seemed to render another insupportable! but she now found that
though luxury was more baneful in its consequences, it was less
disgustful in its progress than avarice; yet, insuperably averse to
both, and almost equally desirous to fly from the unjust
extravagance of Mr Harrel, as from the comfortless and unnecessary
parsimony of Mr Briggs, she proceeded instantly to St James's
Square, convinced that her third guardian, unless exactly resembling
one of the others, must inevitably be preferable to both.
CHAPTER ii
A MAN OF FAMILY.
The house of Mr Delvile was grand and spacious, fitted up not with
modern taste, but with the magnificence of former times; the
servants were all veterans, gorgeous in their liveries, and
profoundly respectful in their manners; every thing had an air of
state, but of a state so gloomy, that while it inspired awe, it
repressed pleasure.
Cecilia sent in her name and was admitted without difficulty, and
was then ushered with great pomp through sundry apartments, and rows
of servants, before she came into the presence of Mr Delvile.
He received her with an air of haughty affability which, to a spirit
open and liberal as that of Cecilia, could not fail being extremely
offensive; but too much occupied with the care of his own importance
to penetrate into the feelings of another, he attributed the
uneasiness which his reception occasioned to the overawing
predominance of superior rank and consequence.
He ordered a servant to bring her a chair, while he only half rose
from his own upon her entering into the room; then, waving his hand
and bowing, with a motion that desired her to be seated, he said, "I
am very happy, Miss Beverley, that you have found me alone; you
would rarely have had the same good fortune. At this time of day I
am generally in a crowd. People of large connections have not much
leisure in London, especially if they see a little after their own
affairs, and if their estates, like mine, are dispersed in various
parts of the kingdom. However, I am glad it happened so. And I am
glad, too, that you have done me the favour of calling without
waiting till I sent, which I really would have done as soon as I
heard of your arrival, but that the multiplicity of my engagements
allowed me no respite."
A display of importance so ostentatious made Cecilia already half
repent her visit, satisfied that the hope in which she had planned
it would be fruitless.
Mr Delvile, still imputing to embarrassment, an inquietude of
countenance that proceeded merely from disappointment, imagined her
veneration was every moment increasing; and therefore, pitying a
timidity which both gratified and softened him, and equally pleased
with himself for inspiring, and with her for feeling it, he abated
more and more of his greatness, till he became, at length, so
infinitely condescending, with intention to give her courage, that
he totally depressed her with mortification and chagrin.
After some general inquiries concerning her way of life, he told her
that he hoped she was contented with her situation at the Harrels,
adding, "If you have any thing to complain of, remember to whom you
may appeal." He then asked if she had seen Mr Briggs?
"Yes, sir, I am this moment come from his house."
"I am sorry for it; his house cannot be a proper one for the
reception of a young lady. When the Dean made application that I
would be one of your guardians, I instantly sent him a refusal, as
is my custom upon all such occasions, which indeed occur to me with
a frequency extremely importunate: but the Dean was a man for whom I
had really a regard, and, therefore, when I found my refusal had
affected him, I suffered myself to be prevailed upon to indulge him,
contrary not only to my general rule, but to my inclination."
Here he stopt, as if to receive some compliment, but Cecilia, very
little disposed to pay him any, went no farther than an inclination
of the head.
"I knew not, however," he continued, "at the time I was induced to
give my consent, with whom I was to be associated; nor could I have
imagined the Dean so little conversant with the distinctions of the
world, as to disgrace me with inferior coadjutors: but the moment I
learnt the state of the affair, I insisted upon withdrawing both my
name and countenance."
Here again he paused; not in expectation of an answer from Cecilia,
but merely to give her time to marvel in what manner he had at last
been melted.
"The Dean," he resumed, "was then very ill; my displeasure, I
believe, hurt him. I was sorry for it; he was a worthy man, and had
not meant to offend me; in the end, I accepted his apology, and was
even persuaded to accept the office. You have a right, therefore, to
consider yourself as _personally_ my ward, and though I do not
think proper to mix much with your other guardians, I shall always
be ready to serve and advise you, and much pleased to see you."
"You do me honour, sir," said Cecilia, extremely wearied of such
graciousness, and rising to be gone.
"Pray sit still," said he, with a smile; "I have not many
engagements for this morning. You must give me some account how you
pass your time. Are you much out? The Harrels, I am told, live at a
great expense. What is their establishment?"
"I don't exactly know, sir."
"They are decent sort of people, I believe; are they not?"
"I hope so, sir!"
"And they have a tolerable acquaintance, I believe: I am told so;
for I know nothing of them."
"They have, at least, a very numerous one, sir."
"Well, my dear," said he, taking her hand, "now you have once
ventured to come, don't be apprehensive of repeating your visits. I
must introduce you to Mrs Delvile; I am sure she will be happy to
shew you any kindness. Come, therefore, when you please, and without
scruple. I would call upon you myself, but am fearful of being
embarrassed by the people with whom you live."
He then rang his bell, and with the same ceremonies which had
attended her admittance, she was conducted back to her carriage.
And here died away all hope of putting into execution, during her
minority, the plan of which the formation had given her so much
pleasure. She found that her present situation, however wide of her
wishes, was by no means the most disagreeable in which she could be
placed; she was tired, indeed, of dissipation, and shocked at the
sight of unfeeling extravagance; but notwithstanding the houses of
each of her other guardians were exempt from these particular vices,
she saw not any prospect of happiness with either of them; vulgarity
seemed leagued with avarice to drive her from the mansion of Mr
Briggs, and haughtiness with ostentation to exclude her from that of
Mr Delvile.
She came back, therefore, to Portman Square, disappointed in her
hopes, and sick both of those whom she quitted and of those to whom
she was returning; but in going to her own apartment Mrs Harrel,
eagerly stopping her, begged she would come into the drawing-room,
where she promised her a most agreeable surprise.
Cecilia, for an instant, imagined that some old acquaintance was
just arrived out of the country; but, upon her entrance, she saw
only Mr Harrel and some workmen, and found that the agreeable
surprise was to proceed from the sight of an elegant Awning,
prepared for one of the inner apartments, to be fixed over a long
desert-table, which was to be ornamented with various devices of cut
glass.
"Did you ever see any thing so beautiful in your life?" cried Mrs
Harrel; "and when the table is covered with the coloured ices and
those sort of things, it will be as beautiful again. We shall have
it ready for Tuesday se'nnight.
"I understood you were engaged to go to the Masquerade ?"
"So we shall; only we intend to see masks at home first."
"I have some thoughts," said Mr Harrel, leading the way to another
small room, "of running up a flight of steps and a little light
gallery here, and so making a little Orchestra. What would such a
thing come to, Mr Tomkins?"
"O, a trifle, sir," answered Mr Tomkins, "a mere nothing."
"Well, then, give orders for it, and let it be done directly. I
don't care how slight it is, but pray let it be very elegant. Won't
it be a great addition, Miss Beverley?"
"Indeed, sir, I don't think it seems to be very necessary," said
Cecilia, who wished much to take that moment for reminding him of
the debt he had contracted with Mr Arnott.
"Lord, Miss Beverley is so grave!" cried Mrs Harrel; "nothing of
this sort gives her any pleasure."
"She has indeed," answered Cecilia, trying to smile, "not much taste
for the pleasure of being always surrounded by workmen."
And, as soon as she was able, she retired to her room, feeling, both
on the part of Mr Arnott and the Hills, a resentment at the
injustice of Mr Harrel, which fixed her in the resolution of
breaking through that facility of compliance, which had hitherto
confined her disapprobation to her own breast, and venturing,
henceforward, to mark the opinion she entertained of his conduct by
consulting nothing but reason and principle in her own.
Her first effort towards this change was made immediately, in
begging to be excused from accompanying Mrs Harrel to a large card
assembly that evening.
Mrs Harrel, extremely surprised, asked a thousand times the reason
of her refusal, imagining it to proceed from some very extraordinary
cause; nor was she, without the utmost difficulty, persuaded at last
that she merely meant to pass one evening by herself.
But the next day, when the refusal was repeated, she was still more
incredulous; it seemed to her impossible that any one who had the
power to be encircled with company, could by choice spend a second
afternoon alone: and she was so urgent in her request to be
entrusted with the secret, that Cecilia found no way left to appease
her, but by frankly confessing she was weary of eternal visiting,
and sick of living always in a crowd.
"Suppose, then," cried she, "I send for Miss Larolles to come and
sit with you?"
Cecilia, not without laughing, declined this proposal, assuring her
that no such assistant was necessary for her entertainment: yet it
was not till after a long contention that she was able to convince
her there would be no cruelty in leaving her by herself.
The following day, however, her trouble diminished; for Mrs Harrel,
ceasing to be surprised, thought little more of the matter, and
forbore any earnestness of solicitation: and, from that time, she
suffered her to follow her own humour with very little opposition.
Cecilia was much concerned to find her so unmoved; and not less
disappointed at the indifference of Mr Harrel, who, being seldom of
the same parties with his lady, and seeing her too rarely either to
communicate or hear any domestic occurrences, far from being struck,
as she had hoped, with the new way in which she passed her time, was
scarce sensible of the change, and interfered not upon the subject.
Sir Robert Floyer, who continued to see her when he dined in Portman
Square, often enquired what she did with herself in an evening; but
never obtaining any satisfactory answer, he concluded her
engagements were with people to whom he was a stranger.
Poor Mr Arnott felt the cruellest disappointment in being deprived
of the happiness of attending her in her evening's expeditions,
when, whether he conversed with her or not, he was sure of the
indulgence of seeing and hearing her.
But the greatest sufferer from this new regulation was Mr Monckton,
who, unable any longer to endure the mortifications of which his
morning visits to Portman Square had been productive, determined not
to trust his temper with such provocations in future, but rather to
take his chance of meeting with her elsewhere: for which purpose, he
assiduously frequented all public places, and sought acquaintance
with every family and every person he believed to be known to the
Harrels: but his patience was unrewarded, and his diligence
unsuccessful; he met with her no where, and, while he continued his
search, fancied every evil power was at work to lead him whither he
was sure never to find her.
Meanwhile Cecilia passed her time greatly to her own satisfaction.
Her first care was to assist and comfort the Hills. She went herself
to their lodgings, ordered and paid for whatever the physician
prescribed to the sick man, gave clothes to the children, and money
and various necessaries to the wife. She found that the poor
carpenter was not likely to languish much longer, and therefore, for
the present, only thought of alleviating his sufferings, by
procuring him such indulgences as were authorised by his physician,
and enabling his family to abate so much of their labour as was
requisite for obtaining time to nurse and attend him: but she meant,
as soon as the last duties should be paid him, to assist his
survivors in attempting to follow some better and more profitable
business.
Her next solicitude was to furnish herself with a well-chosen
collection of books: and this employment, which to a lover of
literature, young and ardent in its pursuit, is perhaps the mind's
first luxury, proved a source of entertainment so fertile and
delightful that it left her nothing to wish.
She confined not her acquisitions to the limits of her present
power, but, as she was laying in a stock for future as well as
immediate advantage, she was restrained by no expence from
gratifying her taste and her inclination. She had now entered the
last year of her minority, and therefore had not any doubt that her
guardians would permit her to take up whatever sum she should
require for such a purpose.
And thus, in the exercise of charity, the search of knowledge, and
the enjoyment of quiet, serenely in innocent philosophy passed the
hours of Cecilia.
CHAPTER iii
A MASQUERADE.
The first check this tranquillity received was upon the day of the
masquerade, the preparations for which have been already mentioned.
The whole house was then in commotion from various arrangements and
improvements which were planned for almost every apartment that was
to be opened for the reception of masks. Cecilia herself, however
little pleased with the attendant circumstance of wantonly
accumulating unnecessary debts, was not the least animated of the
party: she was a stranger to every diversion of this sort, and from
the novelty of the scene, hoped for uncommon satisfaction.
At noon Mrs Harrel sent for her to consult upon a new scheme which
occurred to Mr Harrel, of fixing in fantastic forms some coloured
lamps in the drawing-room.
While they were all discoursing this matter over, one of the
servants, who had two or three times whispered some message to Mr
Harrel, and then retired, said, in a voice not too low to be heard
by Cecilia, "Indeed, Sir, I can't get him away."
"He's an insolent scoundrel," answered Mr Harrel; "however, if I
must speak to him, I must;" and went out of the room.
Mrs Harrel still continued to exercise her fancy upon this new
project, calling both upon Mr Arnott and Cecilia to admire her taste
and contrivance; till they were all interrupted by the loudness of a
voice from below stairs, which frequently repeated, "Sir, I can wait
no longer! I have been put off till I can be put off no more!"
Startled by this, Mrs Harrel ceased her employment, and they all
stood still and silent. They then heard Mr Harrel with much softness
answer, "Good Mr Rawlins, have a little patience; I shall receive a
large sum of money to-morrow, or next day, and you may then depend
upon being paid."
"Sir," cried the man, "you have so often told me the same, that it
goes just for nothing: I have had a right to it a long time, and I
have a bill to make up that can't be waited for any longer."
"Certainly, Mr Rawlins," replied Mr Harrel, with still increasing
gentleness, "and certainly you shall have it: nobody means to
dispute your right; I only beg you to wait a day, or two days at
furthest, and you may then depend upon being paid. And you shall not
be the worse for obliging me; I will never employ any body else, and
I shall have occasion for you very soon, as I intend to make some
alterations at Violet-Bank that will be very considerable."
"Sir," said the man, still louder, "it is of no use your employing
me, if I can never get my money. All my workmen must be paid whether
I am or no; and so, if I must needs speak to a lawyer, why there's
no help for it."
"Did you ever hear any thing so impertinent?" exclaimed Mrs Harrel;
"I am sure Mr Harrel will be very much to blame, if ever he lets
that man do any thing more for him."
Just then Mr Harrel appeared, and, with an air of affected
unconcern, said, "Here's the most insolent rascal of a mason below
stairs I ever met with in my life; he has come upon me, quite
unexpectedly, with a bill of 400 pounds, and won't leave the house
without the money. Brother Arnott, I wish you would do me the favour
to speak to the fellow, for I could not bear to stay with him any
longer."
"Do you wish me to give him a draft for the money upon my own
banker?"
"That would be vastly obliging," answered Mr Harrel, "and I will
give you my note for it directly. And so we shall get rid of this
fellow at once: and he shall do nothing more for me as long as he
lives. I will run up a new building at Violet-Bank next summer, if
only to shew him what a job he has lost."
"Pay the man at once, there's a good brother," cried Mrs Harrel,
"and let's hear no more of him."
The two gentlemen then retired to another room, and Mrs Harrel,
after praising the extreme good-nature of her brother, of whom she
was very fond, and declaring that the mason's impertinence had quite
frightened her, again returned to her plan of new decorations.
Cecilia, amazed at this indifference to the state of her husband's
affairs, began to think it was her own duty to talk with her upon
the subject: and therefore, after a silence so marked that Mrs
Harrel enquired into its reason, she said, "Will you pardon me, my
dear friend, if I own I am rather surprized to see you continue
these preparations?"
"Lord, why?"
"Because any fresh unnecessary expences just now, till Mr Harrel
actually receives the money he talks of--"
"Why, my dear, the expence of such a thing as this is nothing; in Mr
Harrel's affairs I assure you it will not be at all felt. Besides,
he expects money so soon, that it is just the same as if he had it
already."
Cecilia, unwilling to be too officious, began then to express her
admiration of the goodness and generosity of Mr Arnott; taking
frequent occasion, in the course of her praise, to insinuate that
those only can be properly liberal, who are just and economical.
She had prepared no masquerade habit for this evening, as Mrs
Harrel, by whose direction she was guided, informed her it was not
necessary for ladies to be masked at home, and said she should
receive her company herself in a dress which she might wear upon any
other occasion. Mr Harrel, also, and Mr Arnott made not any
alteration in their appearance.
At about eight o'clock the business of the evening began; and before
nine, there were so many masks that Cecilia wished she had herself
made one of the number, as she was far more conspicuous in being
almost the only female in a common dress, than any masquerade habit
could have made her. The novelty of the scene, however, joined to
the general air of gaiety diffused throughout the company, shortly
lessened her embarrassment; and, after being somewhat familiarized
to the abruptness with which the masks approached her, and the
freedom with which they looked at or addressed her, the first
confusion of her situation subsided, and in her curiosity to watch
others, she ceased to observe how much she was watched herself.
Her expectations of entertainment were not only fulfilled but
surpassed; the variety of dresses, the medley of characters, the
quick succession of figures, and the ludicrous mixture of groups,
kept her attention unwearied: while the conceited efforts at wit,
the total thoughtlessness of consistency, and the ridiculous
incongruity of the language with the appearance, were incitements to
surprise and diversion without end. Even the local cant of, _Do
you know me? Who are you?_ and _I know you_; with the sly
pointing of the finger, the arch nod of the head, and the pert
squeak of the voice, though wearisome to those who frequent such
assemblies, were, to her unhackneyed observation, additional
subjects of amusement.
Soon after nine o'clock, every room was occupied, and the common
crowd of regular masqueraders were dispersed through the various
apartments. Dominos of no character, and fancy dresses of no
meaning, made, as is usual at such meetings, the general herd of the
company: for the rest, the men were Spaniards, chimney-sweepers,
Turks, watchmen, conjurers, and old women; and the ladies,
shepherdesses, orange girls, Circassians, gipseys, haymakers, and
sultanas.
Cecilia had, as yet, escaped any address beyond the customary
enquiry of _Do you know me?_ and a few passing compliments; but
when the rooms filled, and the general crowd gave general courage,
she was attacked in a manner more pointed and singular.
The very first mask who approached her seemed to have nothing less
in view than preventing the approach of every other: yet had he
little reason to hope favour for himself, as the person he
represented, of all others least alluring to the view, was the
devil! He was black from head to foot, save that two red horns
seemed to issue from his forehead; his face was so completely
covered that the sight only of his eyes was visible, his feet were
cloven, and in his right hand he held a wand the colour of fire.
Waving this wand as he advanced towards Cecilia, he cleared a semi-
circular space before her chair, thrice with the most profound
reverence bowed to her, thrice. turned himself around with sundry
grimaces, and then fiercely planted himself at her side.
Cecilia was amused by his mummery, but felt no great delight in his
guardianship, and, after a short time, arose, with intention to walk
to another place; but the black gentleman, adroitly moving round
her, held out his wand to obstruct her passage, and therefore,
preferring captivity to resistance, she was again obliged to seat
herself.
An Hotspur, who just then made his appearance, was now strutting
boldly towards her; but the devil, rushing furiously forwards,
placed himself immediately between them. Hotspur, putting his arms
a-kimbo with an air of defiance, gave a loud stamp with his right
foot, and then--marched into another room!
The victorious devil ostentatiously waved his wand, and returned to
his station.
Mr Arnott, who had never moved two yards from Cecilia, knowing her
too well to suppose she received any pleasure from being thus
distinguished, modestly advanced to offer his assistance in
releasing her from confinement; but the devil, again describing a
circle with his wand, gave him three such smart raps on the head
that his hair was disordered, and his face covered with powder. A
general laugh succeeded, and Mr Arnott, too diffident to brave
raillery, or withstand shame, retired in confusion.
The black gentleman seemed now to have all authority in his own
hands, and his wand was brandished with more ferocity than ever, no
one again venturing to invade the domain he thought fit to
appropriate for his own.
At length, however, a Don Quixote appeared, and every mask in the
room was eager to point out to him the imprisonment of Cecilia.
This Don Quixote was accoutered with tolerable exactness according
to the description of the admirable Cervantes; his armour was rusty,
his helmet was a barber's basin, his shield, a pewter dish, and his
lance, an old sword fastened to a slim cane. His figure, tall and
thin, was well adapted to the character he represented, and his
mask, which depictured a lean and haggard face, worn with care, yet
fiery with crazy passions, exhibited, with propriety the most
striking, the knight of the doleful countenance.
The complaints against the devil with which immediately and from all
quarters he was assailed, he heard with the most solemn taciturnity:
after which, making a motion for general silence, he stalked
majestically towards Cecilia, but stopping short of the limits
prescribed by her guard, he kissed his spear in token of allegiance,
and then, slowly dropping upon one knee, began the following
address:
"Most incomparable Princess!--Thus humbly prostrate at the feet of
your divine and ineffable beauty, graciously permit the most pitiful
of your servitors, Don Quixote De la Mancha, from your high and
tender grace, to salute the fair boards which sustain your corporeal
machine."
Then, bending down his head, he kissed the floor; after which,
raising himself upon his feet, he proceeded in his speech.
"Report, O most fair and unmatchable virgin! daringly affirmeth that
a certain discourteous person, who calleth himself the devil, even
now, and in thwart of your fair inclinations, keepeth and detaineth
your irradiant frame in hostile thraldom. Suffer then, magnanimous
and undescribable lady! that I, the most groveling of your unworthy
vassals, do sift the fair truth out of this foul sieve, and
obsequiously bending to your divine attractions, conjure your
highness veritably to inform me, if that honourable chair which
haply supports your terrestrial perfections, containeth the
inimitable burthen with the free and legal consent of your celestial
spirit?"
Here he ceased: and Cecilia, who laughed at this characteristic
address, though she had not courage to answer it, again made an
effort to quit her place, but again by the wand of her black
persecutor was prevented.
This little incident was answer sufficient for the valorous knight,
who indignantly exclaimed,
"Sublime Lady!--I beseech but of your exquisite mercy to refrain
mouldering the clay composition of my unworthy body to impalpable
dust, by the refulgence of those bright stars vulgarly called eyes,
till I have lawfully wreaked my vengeance upon this unobliging
caitiff, for his most disloyal obstruction of your highness's
adorable pleasure."
Then, bowing low, he turned from her, and thus addressed his
intended antagonist:
"Uncourtly Miscreant,--The black garment which envellopeth thy most
unpleasant person, seemeth even of the most ravishing whiteness, in
compare of the black bile which floateth within thy sable interior.
Behold, then, my gauntlet! yet ere I deign to be the instrument of
thy extirpation, O thou most mean and ignoble enemy! that the honour
of Don Quixote De la Mancha may not be sullied by thy extinction, I
do here confer upon thee the honour of knighthood, dubbing thee, by
my own sword, Don Devil, knight of the horrible physiognomy."
He then attempted to strike his shoulder with his spear, but the
black gentleman, adroitly eluding the blow, defended himself with
his wand: a mock fight ensued, conducted on both sides with
admirable dexterity; but Cecilia, less eager to view it than to
become again a free agent, made her escape into another apartment;
while the rest of the ladies, though they almost all screamed,
jumped upon chairs and sofas to peep at the combat.
In conclusion, the wand of the knight of the horrible physiognomy
was broken against the shield of the knight of the doleful
countenance; upon which Don Quixote called out _victoria_! the
whole room echoed the sound; the unfortunate new knight retired
abruptly into another apartment, and the conquering Don, seizing the
fragments of the weapon of his vanquished enemy went out in search
of the lady for whose releasement he had fought: and the moment he
found her, prostrating both himself and the trophies at her feet, he
again pressed the floor with his lips, and then, slowly arising,
repeated his reverences with added formality, and, without waiting
her acknowledgments, gravely retired.
The moment he departed a Minerva, not stately nor austere, not
marching in warlike majesty, but gay and airy,
"Tripping on light fantastic toe,"
ran up to Cecilia, and squeaked out, "Do you know me?"
"Not," answered she, instantly recollecting Miss Larolles, "by your
_appearance_, I own! but by your _voice_, I think I can guess you."
"I was monstrous sorry," returned the goddess, without understanding
this distinction, "that I was not at home when you called upon me.
Pray, how do you like my dress? I assure you I think it's the
prettiest here. But do you know there's the most shocking thing in
the world happened in the next room! I really believe there's a
common chimney-sweeper got in! I assure you it's enough to frighten
one to death, for every time he moves the soot smells so you can't
think; quite real soot, I assure you! only conceive how nasty! I
declare I wish with all my heart it would suffocate him!"
Here she was interrupted by the re-appearance of _Don Devil_;
who, looking around him, and perceiving that his antagonist was
gone, again advanced to Cecilia: not, however, with the authority of
his first approach, for with his wand he had lost much of his power;
but to recompense himself for this disgrace, he had recourse to
another method equally effectual for keeping his prey to himself,
for he began a growling, so dismal and disagreeable, that while many
of the ladies, and, among the first, the _Goddess of Wisdom and
Courage_, ran away to avoid him, the men all stood aloof to watch
what next was to follow.
Cecilia now became seriously uneasy; for she was made an object of
general attention, yet could neither speak nor be spoken to. She
could suggest no motive for behaviour so whimsical, though she
imagined the only person who could have the assurance to practise it
was Sir Robert Floyer.
After some time spent thus disagreeably, a white domino, who for a
few minutes had been a very attentive spectator, suddenly came
forward, and exclaiming, "_I'll cross him though he blast me!_"
rushed upon the fiend, and grasping one of his horns, called out to
a Harlequin who stood near him, "Harlequin! do you fear to fight the
devil?"
"Not I truly!" answered Harlequin, whose voice immediately betrayed
young Morrice, and who, issuing from the crowd, whirled himself
round before the black gentleman with yet more agility than he had
himself done before Cecilia, giving him, from time to time, many
smart blows on his shoulders, head, and back, with his wooden sword.
The rage of _Don Devil_ at this attack seemed somewhat beyond
what a masquerade character rendered necessary; he foamed at the
mouth with resentment, and defended himself with so much vehemence,
that he soon drove poor Harlequin into another room: but, when he
would have returned to his prey, the genius of pantomime, curbed,
but not subdued, at the instigation of the white domino, returned to
the charge, and by a perpetual rotation of attack and retreat, kept
him in constant employment, pursuing him from room to room, and
teazing him without cessation or mercy.
Mean time Cecilia, delighted at being released, hurried into a
corner, where she hoped to breathe and look on in quiet; and the
white domino having exhorted Harlequin to torment the tormentor, and
keep him at bay, followed her with congratulations upon her
recovered freedom.
"It is you," answered she, "I ought to thank for it, which indeed I
do most heartily. I was so tired of confinement, that my mind seemed
almost as little at liberty as my person."
"Your persecutor, I presume," said the domino, "is known to you."
"I hope so," answered she, "because there is one man I suspect, and
I should be sorry to find there was another equally disagreeable."
"O, depend upon it," cried he, "there are many who would be happy to
confine you in the same manner; neither have you much cause for
complaint; you have, doubtless, been the aggressor, and played this
game yourself without mercy, for I read in your face the captivity
of thousands: have you, then, any right to be offended at the spirit
of retaliation which one, out of such numbers has courage to exert
in return?"
"I protest," cried Cecilia, "I took you for my defender! whence is
it you are become my accuser?"
"From seeing the danger to which my incautious knight-errantry has
exposed me; I begin, indeed, to take you for a very mischievous sort
of person, and I fear the poor devil from whom I rescued you will be
amply revenged for his disgrace, by finding that the first use you
make of your freedom is to doom your deliverer to bondage."
Here they were disturbed by the extreme loquacity of two opposite
parties: and listening attentively, they heard from one side, "My
angel! fairest of creatures! goddess of my heart!" uttered in
accents of rapture; while from the other, the vociferation was so
violent they could distinctly hear nothing.
The white domino satisfied his curiosity by going to both parties;
and then, returning to Cecilia, said, "Can you conjecture who was
making those soft speeches? a Shylock! his knife all the while in
his hand, and his design, doubtless, to _cut as near the heart as
possible!_ while the loud cackling from the other side is owing
to the riotous merriment of a noisy Mentor! when next I hear a
disturbance, I shall expect to see some simpering Pythagoras stunned
by his talkative disciples."
"To own the truth," said Cecilia, "the almost universal neglect of
the characters assumed by these masquers has been the chief source
of my entertainment this evening: for at a place of this sort, the
next best thing to a character well supported is a character
ridiculously burlesqued."
"You cannot, then, have wanted amusement," returned the domino, "for
among all the persons assembled in these apartments, I have seen
only three who have seemed conscious that any change but that of
dress was necessary to disguise them."
"And pray who are those?"
"A Don Quixote, a schoolmaster, and your friend the devil."
"O, call him not my friend," exclaimed Cecilia, "for indeed in or
out of that garb he is particularly my aversion."
"_My_ friend, then, I will call him," said the domino, "for so,
were he ten devils, I must think him, since I owe to him the honour
of conversing with you. And, after all, to give him his due, to
which, you know, he is even proverbially entitled, he has shewn such
abilities in the performance of his part, so much skill in the
display of malice, and so much perseverance in the art of
tormenting, that I cannot but respect his ingenuity and capacity.
And, indeed, if instead of an evil genius, he had represented a
guardian angel, he could not have shewn a more refined taste in his
choice of an object to hover about."
Just then they were approached by a young haymaker, to whom the
white domino called out, "You look as gay and as brisk as if fresh
from the hay-field after only half a day's work. Pray, how is it you
pretty lasses find employment for the winter"
"How?" cried she, pertly, "why, the same as for the summer!" And
pleased with her own readiness at repartee, without feeling the
ignorance it betrayed, she tript lightly on.
Immediately after the schoolmaster mentioned by the white domino
advanced to Cecilia. His dress was merely a long wrapping gown of
green stuff, a pair of red slippers, and a woollen night-cap of the
same colour; while, as the symbol of his profession, he held a rod
in his hand.
"Ah, fair lady," he cried, "how soothing were it to the austerity of
my life, how softening to the rigidity of my manners, might I--
without a _breaking out of bounds_, which I ought to be the
first to discourage, and a "confusion to all order" for which the
school-boy should himself chastise his master--be permitted to cast
at your feet this emblem of my authority! and to forget, in the
softness of your conversation, all the roughness of discipline!"
"No, no," cried Cecilia, "I will not be answerable for such
corruption of taste!"
"This repulse," answered he, "is just what I feared; for alas! under
what pretence could a poor miserable country pedagogue presume to
approach you? Should I examine you in the dead languages, would not
your living accents charm from me all power of reproof? Could I look
at you, and hear a false concord? Should I doom you to water-gruel
as a dunce, would not my subsequent remorse make me want it myself
as a madman? Were your fair hand spread out to me for correction,
should I help applying my lips to it, instead of my rat-tan? If I
ordered you to be _called up_, should I ever remember to have
you sent back? And if I commanded you to stand in a corner, how
should I forbear following you thither myself?"
Cecilia, who had no difficulty in knowing this pretended
schoolmaster for Mr Gosport, was readily beginning to propose
conditions for according him her favour, when their ears were
assailed by a forced phthisical cough, which they found proceeded
from an apparent old woman, who was a young man in disguise, and
whose hobbling gait, grunting voice, and most grievous asthmatic
complaints, seemed greatly enjoyed and applauded by the company.
"How true is it, yet how inconsistent," cried the white domino,
"that while we all desire to live long, we have all a horror of
being old! The figure now passing is not meant to ridicule any
particular person, nor to stigmatize any particular absurdity; its
sole view is to expose to contempt and derision the general and
natural infirmities of age! and the design is not more disgusting
than impolitic; for why, while so carefully we guard from all
approaches of death, should we close the only avenues to happiness
in long life, respect and tenderness?"
Cecilia, delighted both by the understanding and humanity of her new
acquaintance, and pleased at being joined by Mr Gosport, was
beginning to be perfectly satisfied with her situation, when,
creeping softly towards her, she again perceived the black
gentleman.
"Ah!" cried she, with some vexation, "here comes my old tormentor!
screen me from him if possible, or he will again make me his
prisoner."
"Fear not," cried the white domino, "he is an evil spirit, and we
will surely lay him. If one spell fails, we must try another."
Cecilia then perceiving Mr Arnott, begged he would also assist in
barricading her from the fiend who so obstinately pursued her.
Mr Arnott most gratefully acceded to the proposal; and the white
domino, who acted as commanding officer, assigned to each his
station: he desired Cecilia would keep quietly to her seat,
appointed the schoolmaster to be her guard on the left, took
possession himself of the opposite post, and ordered Mr Arnott to
stand centinel in front.
This arrangement being settled, the guards of the right and left
wings instantly secured their places; but while Mr Arnott was
considering whether it were better to face the besieged or the
enemy, the arch-foe rushed suddenly before him, and laid himself
down at the feet of Cecilia!
Mr Arnott, extremely disconcerted, began a serious expostulation
upon the ill-breeding of this behaviour; but the devil, resting all
excuse upon supporting his character, only answered by growling.
The white domino seemed to hesitate for a moment in what manner to
conduct himself, and with a quickness that marked his chagrin, said
to Cecilia, "You told me you knew him,--has he any right to follow
you?"
"If he thinks he has," answered she, a little alarmed by his
question, "this is no time to dispute it."
And then, to avoid any hazard of altercation, she discreetly forbore
making further complaints, preferring any persecution to seriously
remonstrating with a man of so much insolence as the Baronet.
The schoolmaster, laughing at the whole transaction, only said, "And
pray, madam, after playing the devil with all mankind, what right
have you to complain that one man plays the devil with you?"
"We shall, at least, fortify you," said the white domino, "from any
other assailant: no three-headed Cerberus could protect you more
effectually: but you will not, therefore, fancy yourself in the
lower regions, for, if I mistake not, the torment of _three
guardians_ is nothing new to you."
"And how," said Cecilia, surprised, "should you know of my three
guardians? I hope I am not quite encompassed with evil spirits!"
"No," answered he; "you will find me as inoffensive as the hue of
the domino I wear;----and would I could add as insensible!"
"This black gentleman," said the schoolmaster, "who, and very
innocently, I was going to call your _black-guard_, has as
noble and fiend-like a disposition as I remember to have seen; for
without even attempting to take any diversion himself, he seems
gratified to his heart's content in excluding from it the lady he
serves."
"He does me an honour I could well dispense with," said Cecilia;
"but I hope he has some secret satisfaction in his situation which
pays him for its apparent inconvenience."
Here the black gentleman half-raised himself, and attempted to take
her hand. She started, and with much displeasure drew it back. He
then growled, and again sank prostrate.
"This is a fiend," said the schoolmaster, "who to himself sayeth,
_Budge not!_ let his conscience never so often say _budge!_ Well,
fair lady, your fortifications, however, may now be deemed
impregnable, since I, with a flourish of my rod, can keep off the
young by recollection of the past, and since the fiend, with a jut
of his foot, may keep off the old from dread of the future!"
Here a Turk, richly habited and resplendent with jewels, stalked
towards Cecilia, and, having regarded her some time, called out, "I
have been looking hard about me the whole evening, and, faith, I
have seen nothing handsome before!"
The moment he opened his mouth, his voice, to her utter
astonishment, betrayed Sir Robert Floyer! "Mercy on me," cried she
aloud, and pointing to the fiend, "who, then, can this possibly be?"
"Do you not know?" cried the white domino.
"I thought I had known with certainty," answered she, "but I now
find I was mistaken."
"He is a happy man," said the schoolmaster, sarcastically looking at
the Turk, "who has removed your suspicions only by appearing in
another character!"
"Why, what the deuce, then," exclaimed the Turk, "have you taken
that black dog there for _me_?"
Before this question could be answered, an offensive smell of soot,
making everybody look around the room, the chimney-sweeper already
mentioned by Miss Larolles was perceived to enter it. Every way he
moved a passage was cleared for him, as the company, with general
disgust, retreated wherever he advanced.
He was short, and seemed somewhat incommoded by his dress; he held
his soot-bag over one arm, and his shovel under the other. As soon
as he espied Cecilia, whose situation was such as to prevent her
eluding him, he hooted aloud, and came stumping up to her; "Ah ha,"
he cried, "found at last;" then, throwing down his shovel, he opened
the mouth of his bag, and pointing waggishly to her head, said,
"Come, shall I pop you?--a good place for naughty girls; in, I say,
poke in!--cram you up the chimney."
And then he put forth his sooty hands to reach her cap.
Cecilia, though she instantly knew the dialect of her guardian Mr
Briggs, was not therefore the more willing to be so handled, and
started back to save herself from his touch; the white domino also
came forward, and spread out his arms as a defence to her, while the
devil, who was still before her, again began to growl.
"Ah ha!" cried the chimney-sweeper, laughing, "so did not know me?
Poor duck! won't hurt you; don't be frightened; nothing but old
guardian; all a joke!" And then, patting her cheek with his dirty
hand, and nodding at her with much kindness, "Pretty dove," he
added, "be of good heart! shan't be meddled with; come to see after
you. Heard of your tricks; thought I'd catch you!--come o' purpose.
--Poor duck! did not know me! ha! ha!--good joke enough!"
"What do you mean, you dirty dog," cried the Turk, "by touching that
lady?"
"Won't tell!" answered he; "not your business. Got a good right. Who
cares for pearls? Nothing but French beads." Pointing with a sneer
to his turban. Then, again addressing Cecilia, "Fine doings!" he
continued, "Here's a place! never saw the like before! turn a man's
noddle!--All goings out; no comings in; wax candles in every room;
servants thick as mushrooms! And where's the cash? Who's to pay the
piper? Come to more than a guinea; warrant Master Harrel thinks that
nothing!"
"A guinea?" contemptuously repeated the Turk, "and what do you
suppose a guinea will do?"
"What? Why, keep a whole family handsome a week;--never spend so
much myself; no, nor half neither."
"Why then, how the devil do you live? Do you beg?"
"Beg? Who should I beg of? You?--Got anything to give? Are warm?"
"Take the trouble to speak more respectfully, sir!" said the Turk,
haughtily; "I see you are some low fellow, and I shall not put up
with your impudence."
"Shall, shall! I say!" answered the chimneysweeper, sturdily;
"Hark'ee, my duck," chucking Cecilia under the chin, "don't be
cajoled, nick that spark! never mind gold trappings; none of his
own; all a take-in; hired for eighteenpence; not worth a groat.
Never set your heart on a fine outside, nothing within. Bristol
stones won't buy stock: only wants to chouse you."
"What do you mean by that, you little old scrub!" cried the
imperious Turk; "would you provoke me to soil my fingers by pulling
that beastly snub nose?" For Mr Briggs had saved himself any actual
mask, by merely blacking his face with soot.
"Beastly snub nose!" sputtered out the chimneysweeper in much wrath,
"good nose enough; don't want a better; good as another man's.
Where's the harm on't?"
"How could this blackguard get in?" cried the Turk, "I believe he's
a mere common chimneysweeper out of the streets, for he's all over
dirt and filth. I never saw such a dress at a masquerade before in
my life."
"All the better," returned the other; "would not change. What do
think it cost?"
"Cost? Why, not a crown."
"A crown? ha! ha!--a pot o' beer! Little Tom borrowed it; had it of
our own sweep. Said 'twas for himself. I bid him a pint; rascal
would not take less."
"Did your late uncle," said the white domino in a low voice to
Cecilia, "chuse for two of your guardians Mr Harrel and Mr Briggs,
to give you an early lesson upon the opposite errors of profusion
and meanness?"
"My uncle?" cried Cecilia, starting, "were you acquainted with my
uncle?"
"No," said he, "for my happiness I knew him not."
"You would have owed no loss of happiness to an acquaintance with
him," said Cecilia, very seriously, "for he was one who dispensed to
his friends nothing but good."
"Perhaps so," said the domino; "but I fear I should have found the
good he dispensed through his niece not quite unmixed with evil!"
"What's here?" cried the chimney-sweeper, stumbling over the fiend,
"what's this black thing? Don't like it; looks like the devil. You
shan't stay with it; carry you away; take care of you myself."
He then offered Cecilia his hand; but the black gentleman, raising
himself upon his knees before her, paid her, in dumb shew, the
humblest devoirs, yet prevented her from removing.
"Ah ha!" cried the chimney-sweeper, significantly nodding his head,
"smell a rat! a sweetheart in disguise. No bamboozling! it won't do;
a'n't so soon put upon. If you've got any thing to say, tell
_me_, that's the way. Where's the cash? Got ever a
_rental_? Are warm? That's the point; are warm?"
The fiend, without returning any answer, continued his homage to
Cecilia; at which the enraged chimney-sweeper exclaimed, "Come, come
with me! won't be imposed upon; an old fox,--understand trap!"
He then again held out his hand, but Cecilia, pointing to the fiend,
answered, "How can I come, sir?"
"Shew you the way," cried he, "shovel him off." And taking his
shovel, he very roughly set about removing him.
The fiend then began a yell so horrid, that it disturbed the whole
company; but the chimney-sweeper, only saying, "Aye, aye, blacky,
growl away, blacky,--makes no odds," sturdily continued his work,
and, as the fiend had no chance of resisting so coarse an antagonist
without a serious struggle, he was presently compelled to change his
ground.
"Warm work!" cried the victorious chimney-sweeper, taking off his
wig, and wiping his head with the sleeves of his dress, "pure warm
work this!"
Cecilia, once again freed from her persecutor, instantly quitted her
place, almost equally desirous to escape the haughty Turk, who was
peculiarly her aversion, and the facetious chimney-sweeper, whose
vicinity, either on account of his dress or his conversation, was by
no means desirable. She was not, however, displeased that the white
domino and the schoolmaster still continued to attend her.
"Pray, look," said the white domino, as they entered another
apartment, "at that figure of Hope; is there any in the room half so
expressive of despondency?"
"The reason, however," answered the schoolmaster, "is obvious; that
light and beautiful silver anchor upon which she reclines presents
an occasion irresistible for an attitude of elegant dejection; and
the assumed character is always given up where an opportunity offers
to display any beauty, or manifest any perfection in the dear proper
person!"
"But why," said Cecilia, "should she assume the character of
_Hope_? Could she not have been equally dejected and equally
elegant as Niobe, or some tragedy queen?"
"But she does not assume the character," answered the schoolmaster,
"she does not even think of it: the dress is her object, and that
alone fills up all her ideas. Enquire of almost any body in the room
concerning the persons they seem to represent, and you will find
their ignorance more gross than you can imagine; they have not once
thought upon the subject; accident, or convenience, or caprice has
alone directed their choice."
A tall and elegant youth now approached them, whose laurels and harp
announced Apollo. The white domino immediately enquired of him if
the noise and turbulence of the company had any chance of being
stilled into silence and rapture by the divine music of the inspired
god?
"No," answered he, pointing to the room in which was erected the new
gallery, and whence, as he spoke, issued the sound of a
_hautboy_, "there is a flute playing there already."
"O for a Midas," cried the white domino, "to return to this leather-
eared god the disgrace he received from him!"
They now proceeded to the apartment which had been lately fitted up
for refreshments, and which was so full of company that they entered
it with difficulty. And here they were again joined by Minerva, who,
taking Cecilia's hand, said, "Lord, how glad I am you've got away
from that frightful black mask! I can't conceive who he is; nobody
can find out; it's monstrous odd, but he has not spoke a word all
night, and he makes such a shocking noise when people touch him,
that I assure you it's enough to put one in a fright."
"And pray," cried the schoolmaster, disguising his voice, "how
camest thou to take the helmet of Minerva for a fool's cap?"
"Lord, I have not," cried she, innocently, "why, the whole dress is
Minerva's; don't you see?"
"My dear child," answered he, "thou couldst as well with that little
figure pass for a Goliath, as with that little wit for a Pallas."
Their attention was now drawn from the goddess of wisdom to a mad
Edgar, who so vehemently ran about the room calling out "Poor Tom's
a cold!" that, in a short time, he was obliged to take off his mask,
from an effect, not very delicate, of the heat!
Soon after, a gentleman desiring some lemonade whose toga spoke the
consular dignity, though his broken English betrayed a native of
France, the schoolmaster followed him, and, with reverence the most
profound, began to address him in Latin; but, turning quick towards
him, he gaily said, "_Monsieur, j'ai l'honneur de representer
Ciceron, le grand Ciceron, pere de sa patrie! mais quoique j'ai cet
honneur-la, je ne suit pas pedant!--mon dieu, Monsieur, je ne parle
que le Francois dans la bonne compagnie_!" And, politely bowing,
he went on.
Just then Cecilia, while looking about the room for Mrs Harrel,
found herself suddenly pinched by the cheek, and hastily turning
round, perceived again her friend the chimney-sweeper, who,
laughing, cried, "Only me! don't be frightened. Have something to
tell you;--had no luck!--got never a husband yet! can't find one!
looked all over, too; sharp as a needle. Not one to be had! all
catched up!"
"I am glad to hear it, sir," said Cecilia, somewhat vexed by
observing the white domino attentively listening; "and I hope,
therefore, you will give yourself no farther trouble."
"Pretty duck!" cried he, chucking her under the chin; "never mind,
don't be cast down; get one at last. Leave it to me. Nothing under a
plum; won't take up with less. Good-by, ducky, good-by! must go home
now,--begin to be nodding."
And then, repeating his kind caresses, he walked away.
"Do you think, then," said the white domino, "more highly of Mr
Briggs for discernment and taste than of any body?"
"I hope not!" answered she, "for low indeed should I then think of
the rest of the world!"
"The commission with which he is charged," returned the domino, "has
then misled me; I imagined discernment and taste might be necessary
ingredients for making such a choice as your approbation would
sanctify: but perhaps his skill in guarding against any fraud or
deduction in the stipulation he mentioned, may be all that is
requisite for the execution of his trust."
"I understand very well," said Cecilia, a little hurt, "the severity
of your meaning; and if Mr Briggs had any commission but of his own
suggestion, it would fill me with shame and confusion; but as that
is not the case, those at least are sensations which it cannot give
me."
"My meaning," cried the domino, with some earnestness, "should I
express it seriously, would but prove to you the respect and
admiration with which you have inspired me, and if indeed, as Mr
Briggs hinted, such a prize is to be purchased by riches, I know
not, from what I have seen of its merit, any sum I should think
adequate to its value."
"You are determined, I see," said Cecilia, smiling, "to make most
liberal amends for your asperity."
A loud clack of tongues now interrupted their discourse; and the
domino, at the desire of Cecilia, for whom he had procured a seat,
went forward to enquire what was the matter. But scarce had he given
up his place a moment, before, to her great mortification, it was
occupied by the fiend.
Again, but with the same determined silence he had hitherto
preserved, he made signs of obedience and homage, and her perplexity
to conjecture who he could be, or what were his motives for this
persecution, became the more urgent as they seemed the less likely
to be satisfied. But the fiend, who was no other than Mr Monckton,
had every instant less and less encouragement to make himself known:
his plan had in nothing succeeded, and his provocation at its
failure had caused him the bitterest disappointment; he had
intended, in the character of a tormentor, not only to pursue and
hover around her himself, but he had also hoped, in the same
character, to have kept at a distance all other admirers: but the
violence with which he had over-acted his part, by raising her
disgust and the indignation of the company, rendered his views
wholly abortive while the consciousness of an extravagance for
which, if discovered, he could assign no reason not liable to excite
suspicions of his secret motives, reduced him to guarding a painful
and most irksome silence the whole evening. And Cecilia, to whose
unsuspicious mind the idea of Mr Monckton had never occurred, added
continually to the cruelty of his situation, by an undisguised
abhorrence of his assiduity, as well as by a manifest preference to
the attendance of the white domino. All, therefore, that his
disappointed scheme now left in his power, was to watch her motions,
listen to her discourse, and inflict occasionally upon others some
part of the chagrin with which he was tormented himself.
While they were in this situation, Harlequin, in consequence of
being ridiculed by the Turk for want of agility, offered to jump
over the new desert table, and desired to have a little space
cleared to give room for his motions. It was in vain the people who
distributed the refreshments, and who were placed at the other side
of the table, expostulated upon the danger of the experiment;
Morrice had a rage of enterprise untameable, and, therefore, first
taking a run, he attempted the leap.
The consequence was such as might naturally be expected; he could
not accomplish his purpose, but, finding himself falling,
imprudently caught hold of the lately erected Awning, and pulled it
entirely upon his own head, and with it the new contrived lights,
which, in various forms, were fixed to it, and which all came down
together.
The mischief and confusion occasioned by this exploit were very
alarming, and almost dangerous; those who were near the table
suffered most by the crush, but splinters of the glass flew yet
further; and as the room, which was small, had been only lighted up
by lamps hanging from the Awning, it was now in total darkness,
except close to the door, which was still illuminated from the
adjoining apartments.
The clamour of Harlequin, who was covered with glass, papier-machee,
lamps and oil, the screams of the ladies, the universal buz of
tongues, and the struggle between the frighted crowd which was
enclosed to get out, and the curious crowd from the other apartments
to get in, occasioned a disturbance and tumult equally noisy and
confused. But the most serious sufferer was the unfortunate fiend,
who, being nearer the table than Cecilia, was so pressed upon by the
numbers which poured from it, that he found a separation
unavoidable, and was unable, from the darkness and the throng, to
discover whether she was still in the same place, or had made her
escape into another.
She had, however, encountered the white domino, and, under his
protection, was safely conveyed to a further part of the room. Her
intention and desire were to quit it immediately, but at the
remonstrance of her conductor, she consented to remain some time
longer. "The conflict at the door," said he, "will quite overpower
you. Stay here but a few minutes, and both parties will have
struggled themselves tired, and you may then go without difficulty.
Meantime, can you not, by this faint light, suppose me one of your
guardians, Mr Briggs, for example, or, if he is too old for me, Mr
Harrel, and entrust yourself to my care?"
"You seem wonderfully well acquainted with my guardians," said
Cecilia; "I cannot imagine how you have had your intelligence."
"Nor can I," answered the domino, "imagine how Mr Briggs became so
particularly your favourite as to be entrusted with powers to
dispose of you."
"You are mistaken indeed; he is entrusted with no powers but such as
his own fancy has suggested."
"But how has Mr Delvile offended you, that with him only you seem to
have no commerce or communication?"
"Mr Delvile!" repeated Cecilia, still more surprised, "are you also
acquainted with Mr Delvile?"
"He is certainly a man of fashion," continued the domino, "and he is
also a man of honour; surely, then, he would be more pleasant for
confidence and consultation than one whose only notion of happiness
is money, whose only idea of excellence is avarice, and whose only
conception of sense is distrust!" Here a violent outcry again
interrupted their conversation; but not till Cecilia had satisfied
her doubts concerning the white domino, by conjecturing he was Mr
Belfield, who might easily, at the house of Mr Monckton, have
gathered the little circumstances of her situation to which he
alluded, and whose size and figure exactly resembled those of her
new acquaintance.
The author of the former disturbance was now the occasion of the
present: the fiend, having vainly traversed the room in search of
Cecilia, stumbled accidentally upon Harlequin, before he was freed
from the relicks of his own mischief; and unable to resist the
temptation of opportunity and the impulse of revenge, he gave vent
to the wrath so often excited by the blunders, forwardness, and
tricks of Morrice, and inflicted upon him, with his own wooden
sword, which he seized for that purpose, a chastisement the most
serious and severe.
Poor Harlequin, unable to imagine any reason for this violent
attack, and already cut with the glass, and bruised with the fall,
spared not his lungs in making known his disapprobation of such
treatment: but the fiend, regardless either of his complaints or his
resistance, forbore not to belabour him till compelled by the
entrance of people with lights. And then, after artfully playing
sundry antics under pretence of still supporting his character, with
a motion too sudden for prevention, and too rapid for pursuit, he
escaped out of the room, and hurrying down stairs, threw himself
into an hackney chair, which conveyed him to a place where he
privately changed his dress before he returned home, bitterly
repenting the experiment he had made, and conscious too late that,
had he appeared in a character he might have avowed, he could,
without impropriety, have attended Cecilia the whole evening. But
such is deservedly the frequent fate of cunning, which, while it
plots surprise and detection of others, commonly overshoots its
mark, and ends in its own disgrace.
The introduction of the lights now making manifest the confusion
which the frolic of Harlequin had occasioned, he was seized with
such a dread of the resentment of Mr Harrel, that, forgetting blows,
bruises, and wounds, not one of which were so frightful to him as
reproof, he made the last exhibition of his agility by an abrupt and
hasty retreat.
He had, however, no reason for apprehension, since, in every thing
that regarded expence, Mr Harrel had no feeling, and his lady had no
thought.
The rooms now began to empty very fast, but among the few masks yet
remaining, Cecilia again perceived Don Quixote; and while, in
conjunction with the white domino, she was allowing him the praise
of having supported his character with more uniform propriety than
any other person in the assembly, she observed him taking off his
mask for the convenience of drinking some lemonade, and, looking in
his face, found he was no other than Mr Belfield! Much astonished,
and more than ever perplexed, she again turned to the white domino,
who, seeing in her countenance a surprise of which he knew not the
reason, said, half-laughing, "You think, perhaps, I shall never be
gone? And indeed I am almost of the same opinion; but what can I do?
Instead of growing weary by the length of my stay, my reluctance to
shorten it increases with its duration; and all the methods I take,
whether by speaking to you or looking at you, with a view to be
satiated, only double my eagerness for looking and listening again!
I must go, however; and if I am happy, I may perhaps meet with you
again,--though, if I am wise, I shall never seek you more!"
And then, with the last stragglers that reluctantly disappeared, he
made his exit, leaving Cecilia greatly pleased with his conversation
and his manners, but extremely perplexed to account for his
knowledge of her affairs and situation.
The schoolmaster had already been gone some time.
She was now earnestly pressed by the Harrels and Sir Robert, who
still remained, to send to a warehouse for a dress, and accompany
them to the Pantheon; but though she was not without some
inclination to comply, in the hope of further prolonging the
entertainment of an evening from which she had received much
pleasure, she disliked the attendance of the Baronet, and felt
averse to grant any request that he could make, and therefore she
begged they would excuse her; and having waited to see their
dresses, which were very superb, she retired to her own apartment.
A great variety of conjecture upon all that had passed, now, and
till the moment that she sunk to rest, occupied her mind; the
extraordinary persecution of the fiend excited at once her curiosity
and amazement, while the knowledge of her affairs shown by the white
domino surprised her not less, and interested her more.
CHAPTER iv
AN AFFRAY.
The next morning, during breakfast, Cecilia was informed that a
gentleman desired to speak with her. She begged permission of Mrs
Harrel to have him asked upstairs, and was not a little surprized
when he proved to be the same old gentleman whose singular
exclamations had so much struck her at Mr Monckton's, and at the
rehearsal of Artaserse.
Abruptly and with a stern aspect advancing to her, "You are rich,"
he cried; "are you therefore worthless?"
"I hope not," answered she, in some consternation; while Mrs Harrel,
believing his intention was to rob them, ran precipitately to the
bell, which she rang without ceasing till two or three servants
hastened into the room; by which time, being less alarmed, she only
made signs to them to stay, and stood quietly herself to wait what
would follow.
The old man, without attending to her, continued his dialogue with
Cecilia.
"Know you then," he said, "a blameless use of riches? such a use as
not only in the broad glare of day shall shine resplendent, but in
the darkness of midnight, and stillness of repose, shall give you
reflections unembittered, and slumbers unbroken? tell me, know you
this use?"
"Not so well, perhaps," answered she, "as I ought; but I am very
willing to learn better."
"Begin, then, while yet youth and inexperience, new to the
callousness of power and affluence, leave something good to work
upon: yesterday you saw the extravagance of luxury and folly; to-day
look deeper, and see, and learn to pity, the misery of disease and
penury."
He then put into her hand a paper which contained a most affecting
account of the misery to which a poor and wretched family had been
reduced, by sickness and various other misfortunes.
Cecilia, "open as day to melting charity," having hastily perused
it, took out her purse, and offering to him three guineas, said,
"You must direct me, sir, what to give if this is insufficient."
"Hast thou so much heart?" cried he, with emotion, "and has fortune,
though it has cursed thee with the temptation of prosperity, not yet
rooted from thy mind its native benevolence? I return in part thy
liberal contribution; this," taking one guinea, "doubles my
expectations; I will not, by making thy charity distress thee,
accelerate the fatal hour of hardness and degeneracy."
He was then going; but Cecilia, following him, said "No, take it
all! Who should assist the poor if I will not? Rich, without
connections; powerful, without wants; upon whom have they any claim
if not upon me?"
"True," cried he, receiving the rest, "and wise as true. Give,
therefore, whilst yet thou hast the heart to give, and make, in thy
days of innocence and kindness, some interest with Heaven and the
poor!"
And then he disappeared.
"Why, my dear, cried Mrs Harrel, "what could induce you to give the
man so much money? Don't you see he is crazy? I dare say he would
have been just as well contented with sixpence."
"I know not what he is," said Cecilia, "but his manners are not more
singular than his sentiments are affecting; and if he is actuated by
charity to raise subscriptions for the indigent, he can surely apply
to no one who ought so readily to contribute as myself."
Mr Harrel then came in, and his lady most eagerly told him the
transaction.
"Scandalous!" he exclaimed; "why, this is no better than being a
housebreaker! Pray give orders never to admit him again. Three
guineas! I never heard so impudent a thing in my life! Indeed, Miss
Beverley, you must be more discreet in future, you will else be
ruined before you know where you are."
"Thus it is," said Cecilia, half smiling, "that we can all lecture
one another! to-day you recommend economy to me; yesterday I with
difficulty forbore recommending it to you."
"Nay," answered he, "that was quite another matter; expence incurred
in the common way of a man's living is quite another thing to an
extortion of this sort."
"It is another thing indeed," said she, "but I know not that it is
therefore a better."
Mr Harrel made no answer: and Cecilia, privately moralizing upon the
different estimates of expence and economy made by the dissipated
and the charitable, soon retired to her own apartment, determined
firmly to adhere to her lately adopted plan, and hoping, by the
assistance of her new and very singular monitor, to extend her
practice of doing good, by enlarging her knowledge of distress.
Objects are, however, never wanting for the exercise of benevolence;
report soon published her liberality, and those who wished to
believe it, failed not to enquire into its truth. She was soon at
the head of a little band of pensioners, and, never satisfied with
the generosity of her donations, found in a very short time that the
common allowance of her guardians was scarce adequate to the calls
of her munificence.
And thus, in acts of goodness and charity, passed undisturbed
another week of the life of Cecilia: but when the fervour of self-
approbation lost its novelty, the pleasure with which her new plan
was begun first subsided into tranquillity, and then sunk into
languor. To a heart formed for friendship and affection the charms
of solitude are very short-lived; and though she had sickened of the
turbulence of perpetual company, she now wearied of passing all her
time by herself, and sighed for the comfort of society and the
relief of communication. But she saw with astonishment the
difficulty with which this was to be obtained: the endless
succession of diversions, the continual rotation of assemblies, the
numerousness of splendid engagements, of which, while every one
complained, every one was proud to boast, so effectually impeded
private meetings and friendly intercourse, that, whichever way she
turned herself, all commerce seemed impracticable, but such as
either led to dissipation, or accidentally flowed from it.
Yet, finding the error into which her ardour of reformation had
hurried her, and that a rigid seclusion from company was productive
of a lassitude as little favourable to active virtue as dissipation
itself, she resolved to soften her plan, and by mingling amusement
with benevolence, to try, at least, to approach that golden mean,
which, like the philosopher's stone, always eludes our grasp, yet
always invites our wishes.
For this purpose she desired to attend Mrs Harrel to the next Opera
that should be represented.
The following Saturday, therefore, she accompanied that lady and Mrs
Mears to the Haymarket, escorted by Mr Arnott.
They were very late; the Opera was begun, and even in the lobby the
crowd was so great that their passage was obstructed. Here they were
presently accosted by Miss Larolles, who, running up to Cecilia and
taking her hand, said, "Lord, you can't conceive how glad I am to
see you! why, my dear creature, where have you hid yourself these
twenty ages? You are quite in luck in coming to-night, I assure you;
it's the best Opera we have had this season: there's such a
monstrous crowd there's no stirring. We shan't get in this half
hour. The coffee-room is quite full; only come and see; is it not
delightful?"
This intimation was sufficient for Mrs Harrel, whose love of the
Opera was merely a love of company, fashion, and shew; and therefore
to the coffee-room she readily led the way.
And here Cecilia found rather the appearance of a brilliant assembly
of ladies and gentlemen, collected merely to see and to entertain
one another, than of distinct and casual parties, mixing solely from
necessity, and waiting only for room to enter a theatre.
The first person that addressed them was Captain Aresby, who, with
his usual delicate languishment, smiled upon Cecilia, and softly
whispering, "How divinely you look to-night!" proceeded to pay his
compliments to some other ladies.
"Do, pray, now," cried Miss Larolles, "observe Mr Meadows! only just
see where he has fixed himself! in the very best place in the room,
and keeping the fire from every body! I do assure you that's always
his way, and it's monstrous provoking, for if one's ever so cold, he
lollops so, that one's quite starved. But you must know there's
another thing he does that is quite as bad, for if he gets a seat,
he never offers to move, if he sees one sinking with fatigue. And
besides, if one is waiting for one's carriage two hours together, he
makes it a rule never to stir a step to see for it. Only think how
monstrous!"
"These are heavy complaints, indeed," said Cecilia, looking at him
attentively; "I should have expected from his appearance a very
different account of his gallantry, for he seems dressed with more
studied elegance than anybody here."
"O yes," cried Miss Larolles, "he is the sweetest dresser in the
world; he has the most delightful taste you can conceive, nobody has
half so good a fancy. I assure you it's a great thing to be spoke to
by him: we are all of us quite angry when he won't take any notice
of us."
"Is your anger," said Cecilia, laughing, "in honour of himself or of
his coat?"
"Why, Lord, don't you know all this time that he is an
_ennuye_?
"I know, at least," answered Cecilia, "that he would soon make one
of me."
"O, but one is never affronted with an _ennuye_, if he is ever
so provoking, because one always knows what it means."
"Is he agreeable?"
"Why, to tell you the truth,--but pray now, don't mention it,--I
think him most excessive disagreeable! He yawns in one's face every
time one looks at him. I assure you sometimes I expect to see him
fall fast asleep while I am talking to him, for he is so immensely
absent he don't hear one half that one says; only conceive how
horrid!"
"But why, then, do you encourage him? why do you take any notice of
him?"
"O, every body does, I assure you, else I would not for the world;
but he is so courted you have no idea. However, of all things let me
advise you never to dance with him; I did once myself, and I declare
I was quite distressed to death the whole time, for he was taken
with such a fit of absence he knew nothing he was about, sometimes
skipping and jumping with all the violence in the world, just as if
he only danced for exercise, and sometimes standing quite still, or
lolling against the wainscoat and gaping, and taking no more notice
of me than if he had never seen me in his life!"
The Captain now, again advancing to Cecilia, said, "So you would not
do us the honour to try the masquerade at the Pantheon? however, I
hear you had a very brilliant spectacle at Mr Harrel's. I was quite
_au desespoir_ that I could not get there. I did _mon
possible_, but it was quite beyond me."
"We should have been very happy," said Mrs Harrel, "to have seen
you; I assure you we had some excellent masks."
"So I have heard _partout_, and I am reduced to despair that I
could not have the honour of sliding in. But I was _accable_
with affairs all day. Nothing could be so mortifying."
Cecilia now, growing very impatient to hear the Opera, begged to
know if they might not make a trial to get into the pit?
"I fear," said the Captain, smiling as they passed him, without
offering any assistance, "you will find it extreme petrifying; for
my part, I confess I am not upon the principle of crowding."
The ladies, however, accompanied by Mr Arnott, made the attempt, and
soon found, according to the custom of report, that the difficulty,
for the pleasure of talking of it, had been considerably
exaggerated. They were separated, indeed, but their accommodation
was tolerably good.
Cecilia was much vexed to find the first act of the Opera almost
over; but she was soon still more dissatisfied when she discovered
that she had no chance of hearing the little which remained: the
place she had happened to find vacant was next to a party of young
ladies, who were so earnestly engaged in their own discourse, that
they listened not to a note of the Opera, and so infinitely diverted
with their own witticisms, that their tittering and loquacity
allowed no one in their vicinity to hear better than themselves.
Cecilia tried in vain to confine her attention to the singers; she
was distant from the stage, and to them she was near, and her
fruitless attempts all ended in chagrin and impatience.
At length she resolved to make an effort for entertainment in
another way, and since the expectations which brought her to the
Opera were destroyed, to try by listening to her fair neighbours,
whether those who occasioned her disappointment could make her any
amends.
For this purpose she turned to them wholly; yet was at first in no
little perplexity to understand what was going forward, since so
universal was the eagerness for talking, and so insurmountable the
antipathy to listening, that every one seemed to have her wishes
bounded by a continual utterance of words, without waiting for any
answer, or scarce even desiring to be heard.
But when, somewhat more used to their dialect and manner, she began
better to comprehend their discourse, wretchedly indeed did it
supply to her the loss of the Opera. She heard nothing but
descriptions of trimmings, and complaints of hair-dressers, hints of
conquest that teemed with vanity, and histories of engagements which
were inflated with exultation.
At the end of the act, by the crowding forward of the gentlemen to
see the dance, Mrs Harrel had an opportunity of making room for her
by herself, and she had then some reason to expect hearing the rest
of the Opera in peace, for the company before her, consisting
entirely of young men, seemed, even during the dance, fearful of
speaking, lest their attention should be drawn for a moment from the
stage.
But to her infinite surprize, no sooner was the second act begun,
than their attention ended! they turned from the performers to each
other, and entered into a whispering but gay conversation, which,
though not loud enough to disturb the audience in general, kept in
the ears of their neighbours a buzzing which interrupted all
pleasure from the representation. Of this effect of their gaiety it
seemed uncertain whether they were conscious, but very evident that
they were totally careless.
The desperate resource which she had tried during the first act, of
seeking entertainment from the very conversation which prevented her
enjoying it, was not now even in her power: for these gentlemen,
though as negligent as the young ladies had been whom they
disturbed, were much more cautious whom they instructed: their
language was ambiguous, and their terms, to Cecilia, were
unintelligible: their subjects, indeed, required some discretion,
being nothing less than a ludicrous calculation of the age and
duration of jointured widows, and of the chances and expectations of
unmarried young ladies.
But what more even than their talking provoked her, was finding that
the moment the act was over, when she cared not if their
vociferation had been incessant, one of them called out, "Come, be
quiet, the dance is begun;" and then they were again all silent
attention!
In the third act, however, she was more fortunate; the gentlemen
again changed their places, and they were succeeded by others who
came to the Opera not to hear themselves but the performers: and as
soon as she was permitted to listen, the voice of Pacchierotti took
from her all desire to hear any thing but itself.
During the last dance she was discovered by Sir Robert Floyer, who,
sauntering down fop's alley, stationed himself by her side, and
whenever the _figurante_ relieved the principal dancers, turned
his eyes from the stage to her face, as better worth his notice, and
equally destined for his amusement.
Mr Monckton, too, who for some time had seen and watched her, now
approached; he had observed with much satisfaction that her whole
mind had been intent upon the performance, yet still the familiarity
of Sir Robert Floyer's admiration disturbed and perplexed him; he
determined, therefore, to make an effort to satisfy his doubts by
examining into his intentions: and, taking him apart, before the
dance was quite over, "Well," he said, "who is so handsome here as
Harrel's ward?"
"Yes," answered he, calmly, "she is handsome, but I don't like her
expression."
"No? why, what is the fault of it?"
"Proud, cursed proud. It is not the sort of woman I like. If one
says a civil thing to her, she only wishes one at the devil for
one's pains."
"O, you have tried her, then, have you? why, you are not, in
general, much given to say civil things."
"Yes, you know, I said something of that sort to her once about
Juliet, at the rehearsal. Was not you by?"
"What, then, was that all? and did you imagine one compliment would
do your business with her?"
"O, hang it, who ever dreams of complimenting the women now? that's
all at an end."
"You won't find she thinks so, though; for, as you well say, her
pride is insufferable, and I, who have long known her, can assure
you it does not diminish upon intimacy."
"Perhaps not,--but there's very pretty picking in 3000 pounds per
annum! one would not think much of a little encumbrance upon such
an estate."
"Are you quite sure the estate is so considerable? Report is
mightily given to magnify."
"O, I have pretty good intelligence: though, after all, I don't know
but I may be off; she'll take a confounded deal of time and
trouble."
Monckton, too much a man of interest and of the world to cherish
that delicacy which covets universal admiration for the object of
its fondness, then artfully enlarged upon the obstacles he already
apprehended, and insinuated such others as he believed would be most
likely to intimidate him. But his subtlety was lost upon the
impenetrable Baronet, who possessed that hard insensibility which
obstinately pursues its own course, deaf to what is said, and
indifferent to what is thought.
Meanwhile the ladies were now making way to the coffee-room, though
very slowly on account of the crowd; and just as they got near the
lobby, Cecilia perceived Mr Belfield, who, immediately making
himself known to her, was offering his service to hand her out of
the pit, when Sir Robert Floyer, not seeing or not heeding him,
pressed forward, and said, "Will you let me have the honour, Miss
Beverley, of taking care of you?"
Cecilia, to whom he grew daily more disagreeable, coldly declined
his assistance, while she readily accepted that which had first been
offered her by Mr Belfield.
The haughty Baronet, extremely nettled, forced his way on, and
rudely stalking up to Mr Belfield, motioned with his hand for room
to pass him, and said, "Make way, sir!"
"Make way for _me_, Sir!" cried Belfield, opposing him with one
hand, while with the other he held Cecilia.
"You, Sir? and who are you, Sir?" demanded the Baronet,
disdainfully.
"Of that, Sir, I shall give you an account whenever you please,"
answered Belfield, with equal scorn.
"What the devil do you mean, Sir?"
"Nothing very difficult to be understood," replied Belfield, and
attempted to draw on Cecilia, who, much alarmed, was shrinking back.
Sir Robert then, swelling with rage, reproachfully turned to her,
and said, "Will you suffer such an impertinent fellow as that, Miss
Beverley, to have the honour of taking your hand?"
Belfield, with great indignation, demanded what he meant by the term
impertinent fellow; and Sir Robert yet more insolently repeated it:
Cecilia, extremely shocked, earnestly besought them both to be
quiet; but Belfield, at the repetition of this insult, hastily let
go her hand and put his own upon his sword, whilst Sir Robert,
taking advantage of his situation in being a step higher than his
antagonist, fiercely pushed him back, and descended into the lobby.
Belfield, enraged beyond endurance, instantly drew his sword, and
Sir Robert was preparing to follow his example, when Cecilia, in an
agony of fright, called out, "Good Heaven! will nobody interfere?"
And then a young man, forcing his way through the crowd, exclaimed,
"For shame, for shame, gentlemen! is this a place for such
violence?"
Belfield, endeavouring to recover himself, put up his sword, and,
though in a voice half choaked with passion, said, "I thank you,
Sir! I was off my guard. I beg pardon of the whole company."
Then, walking up to Sir Robert, he put into his hand a card with his
name and direction, saying, "With you, Sir, I shall be happy to
settle what apologies are necessary at your first leisure;" and
hurried away.
Sir Robert, exclaiming aloud that he should soon teach him to whom
he had been so impertinent, was immediately going to follow him,
when the affrighted Cecilia again called out aloud, "Oh, stop him!--
good God! will nobody stop him!"
The rapidity with which this angry scene had passed had filled her
with amazement, and the evident resentment of the Baronet upon her
refusing his assistance, gave her an immediate consciousness that
she was herself the real cause of the quarrel; while the manner in
which he was preparing to follow Mr Belfield convinced her of the
desperate scene which was likely to succeed; fear, therefore,
overcoming every other feeling, forced from her this exclamation
before she knew what she said.
The moment she had spoken, the young man who had already interposed
again rushed forward, and seizing Sir Robert by the arm, warmly
remonstrated against the violence of his proceedings, and being
presently seconded by other gentlemen, almost compelled him to give
up his design.
Then, hastening to Cecilia, "Be not alarmed, madam," he cried, "all
is over, and every body is safe."
Cecilia, finding herself thus addressed by a gentleman she had never
before seen, felt extremely ashamed of having rendered her interest
in the debate so apparent; she courtsied to him in some confusion,
and taking hold of Mrs Harrel's arm, hurried her back into the pit,
in order to quit a crowd, of which she now found herself the
principal object.
Curiosity, however, was universally excited, and her retreat served
but to inflame it: some of the ladies, and most of the gentlemen,
upon various pretences, returned into the pit merely to look at her,
and in a few minutes the report was current that the young lady who
had been the occasion of the quarrel, was dying with love for Sir
Robert Floyer.
Mr Monckton, who had kept by her side during the whole affair, felt
thunderstruck by the emotion she had shewn; Mr Arnott too, who had
never quitted her, wished himself exposed to the same danger as Sir
Robert, so that he might be honoured with the same concern: but they
were both too much the dupes of their own apprehensions and
jealousy, to perceive that what they instantly imputed to fondness,
proceeded simply from general humanity, accidentally united with the
consciousness of being accessary to the quarrel.
The young stranger who had officiated as mediator between the
disputants, in a few moments followed her with a glass of water,
which he had brought from the coffee-room, begging her to drink it
and compose herself.
Cecilia, though she declined his civility with more vexation than
gratitude, perceived, as she raised her eyes to thank him, that her
new friend was a young man very strikingly elegant in his address
and appearance.
Miss Larolles next, who, with her party, came back into the pit, ran
up to Cecilia, crying, "O my dear creature, what a monstrous
shocking thing! You've no Idea how I am frightened; do you know I
happened to be quite at the further end of the coffee-room when it
began, and I could not get out to see what was the matter for ten
ages; only conceive what a situation!"
"Would your fright, then, have been less," said Cecilia, "had you
been nearer the danger?"
"O Lord no, for when I came within sight I was fifty times worse! I
gave such a monstrous scream, that it quite made Mr Meadows start. I
dare say he'll tell me of it these hundred years: but really when I
saw them draw their swords I thought I should have died; I was so
amazingly surprized you've no notion."
Here she was interrupted by the re-appearance of the active
stranger, who again advancing to Cecilia, said, "I am in doubt
whether the efforts I make to revive will please or irritate you,
but though you rejected the last cordial I ventured to present you,
perhaps you will look with a more favourable eye towards that of
which I am now the herald."
Cecilia then, casting her eyes around, saw that he was followed by
Sir Robert Floyer. Full of displeasure both at this introduction and
at his presence, she turned hastily to Mr Arnott, and entreated him
to enquire if the carriage was not yet ready.
Sir Robert, looking at her with all the exultation of new-raised
vanity, said, with more softness than he had ever before addressed
her, "Have you been frightened?"
"Every body, I believe was frightened," answered Cecilia, with an
air of dignity intended to check his rising expectations.
"There was no sort of cause," answered he; "the fellow did not know
whom he spoke [to], that was all."
"Lord, Sir Robert," cried Miss Larolles, "how could you be so
shocking as to draw your sword? you can't conceive how horrid it
looked."
"Why I did not draw my sword," cried he, "I only had my hand on the
hilt."
"Lord, did not you, indeed! well, every body said you did, and I'm
sure I thought I saw five-and-twenty swords all at once. I thought
one of you would be killed every moment. It was horrid disagreeable,
I assure you."
Sir Robert was now called away by some gentlemen; and Mr Monckton,
earnest to be better informed of Cecilia's real sentiments, said,
with affected concern, "At present this matter is merely ridiculous;
I am sorry to think in how short a time it may become more
important."
"Surely," cried Cecilia with quickness, "some of their friends will
interfere! surely upon so trifling a subject they will not be so
mad, so inexcusable, as to proceed to more serious resentment!"
"Whichever of them," said the stranger, "is most honoured by this
anxiety, will be mad indeed to risk a life so valued!"
"Cannot you, Mr Monckton," continued Cecilia, too much alarmed to
regard this insinuation, "speak with Mr Belfield? You are acquainted
with him, I know; is it impossible you can follow him?"
"I will with pleasure do whatever you wish; but still if Sir
Robert--"
"O, as to Sir Robert, Mr Harrel, I am very sure, will undertake him;
I will try to see him to-night myself, and entreat him to exert all
his influence."
"Ah, madam," cried the stranger, archly, and lowering his voice,
"those _French beads_ and _Bristol stones_ have not, I
find, shone in vain!"
At these words Cecilia recognised her white domino acquaintance at
the masquerade; she had before recollected his voice, but was too
much perturbed to consider where or when she had heard it.
"If Mr Briggs," continued he, "does not speedily come forth with his
plum friend, before the glittering of swords and spears is joined to
that of jewels, the glare will be so resplendent, that he will fear
to come within the influence of its rays. Though, perhaps, he may
only think the stronger the light, the better he shall see to count
his guineas: for as
'---in ten thousand pounds
Ten thousand charms are centred,'
in an hundred thousand, the charms may have such magic power, that
he may defy the united efforts of tinsel and knight-errantry to
deliver you from the golden spell."
Here the Captain, advancing to Cecilia, said, "I have been looking
for you in vain _partout_, but the crowd has been so
_accablant_ I was almost reduced to despair. Give me leave to
hope you are now recovered from the _horreur_ of this little
_fracas_?"
Mr Arnott then brought intelligence that the carriage was ready.
Cecilia, glad to be gone, instantly hastened to it; and, as she was
conducted by Mr Monckton, most earnestly entreated him to take an
active part, in endeavouring to prevent the fatal consequences with
which the quarrel seemed likely to terminate.
CHAPTER v
A FASHIONABLE FRIEND.
As soon as they returned home, Cecilia begged Mrs Harrel not to lose
a moment before she tried to acquaint Mr Harrel with the state of
the affair. But that lady was too helpless to know in what manner to
set about it; she could not tell where he was, she could not
conjecture where he might be.
Cecilia then rang for his own man, and upon enquiry, heard that he
was, in all probability, at Brookes's in St James's-Street.
She then begged Mrs Harrel would write to him.
Mrs Harrel knew not what to say.
Cecilia therefore, equally quick in forming and executing her
designs, wrote to him herself, and entreated that without losing an
instant he would find out his friend Sir Robert Floyer, and
endeavour to effect an accommodation between him and Mr Belfield,
with whom he had had a dispute at the Opera-house.
The man soon returned with an answer that Mr Harrel would not fail
to obey her commands.
She determined to sit up till he came home in order to learn the
event of the negociation. She considered herself as the efficient
cause of the quarrel, yet scarce knew how or in what to blame
herself; the behaviour of Sir Robert had always been offensive to
her; she disliked his manners, and detested his boldness; and she
had already shewn her intention to accept the assistance of Mr
Belfield before he had followed her with an offer of his own. She
was uncertain, indeed, whether he had remarked what had passed, but
she had reason to think that, so circumstanced, to have changed her
purpose, would have been construed into an encouragement that might
have authorised his future presumption of her favour. All she could
find to regret with regard to herself, was wanting the presence of
mind to have refused the civilities of both.
Mrs Harrel, though really sorry at the state of the affair, regarded
herself as so entirely unconcerned in it, that, easily wearied when
out of company, she soon grew sleepy, and retired to her own room.
The anxious Cecilia, hoping every instant the return of Mr Harrel,
sat up by herself: but it was not till near four o'clock in the
morning that he made his appearance.
"Well, sir," cried she, the moment she saw him, "I fear by your
coming home so late you have had much trouble, but I hope it has
been successful?"
Great, however, was her mortification when he answered that he had
not even seen the Baronet, having been engaged himself in so
particular a manner, that he could not possibly break from his party
till past three o'clock, at which time he drove to the house of Sir
Robert, but heard that he was not yet come home.
Cecilia, though much disgusted by such a specimen of insensibility
towards a man whom he pretended to call his friend, would not leave
him till he had promised to arise as soon as it was light, and make
an effort to recover the time lost.
She was now no longer surprised either at the debts of Mr Harrel, or
at his _particular occasions_ for money. She was convinced he
spent half the night in gaming, and the consequences, however
dreadful, were but natural. That Sir Robert Floyer also did the same
was a matter of much less importance to her, but that the life of
any man should through her means be endangered, disturbed her
inexpressibly.
She went, however, to bed, but arose again at six o'clock, and
dressed herself by candle light. In an hour's time she sent to
enquire if Mr Harrel was stirring, and hearing he was asleep, gave
orders to have him called. Yet he did not rise till eight o'clock,
nor could all her messages or expostulations drive him out of the
house till nine.
He was scarcely gone before Mr Monckton arrived, who now for the
first time had the satisfaction of finding her alone.
"You are very good for coming so early," cried she; "have you seen
Mr Belfield? Have you had any conversation with him?"
Alarmed at her eagerness, and still more at seeing by her looks the
sleepless night she had passed, he made at first no reply; and when,
with increasing impatience, she repeated her question, he only said,
"Has Belfield ever visited you since he had the honour of meeting
you at my house?"
"No, never."
"Have you seen him often in public?"
"No, I have never seen him at all but the evening Mrs Harrel
received masks, and last night at the Opera."
"Is it, then, for the safety of Sir Robert you are so extremely
anxious?"
"It is for the safety of both; the cause of their quarrel was so
trifling, that I cannot bear to think its consequence should be
serious."
"But do you not wish better to one of them than to the other?"
"As a matter of justice I do, but not from any partiality: Sir
Robert was undoubtedly the aggressor, and Mr Belfield, though at
first too fiery, was certainly ill-used."
The candour of this speech recovered Mr Monckton from his
apprehensions; and, carefully observing her looks while he spoke, he
gave her the following account.
That he had hastened to Belfield's lodgings the moment he left the
Opera-house, and, after repeated denials, absolutely forced himself
into his room, where he was quite alone, and in much agitation: he
conversed with him for more than an hour upon the subject of the
quarrel, but found he so warmly resented the personal insult given
him by Sir Robert, that no remonstrance had any effect in making him
alter his resolution of demanding satisfaction.
"And could you bring him to consent to no compromise before you left
him?" cried Cecilia.
"No; for before I got to him--the challenge had been sent."
"The challenge! good heaven!--and do you know the event?"
"I called again this morning at his lodgings, but he was not
returned home."
"And was it impossible to follow him? Were there no means to
discover whither he was gone?"
"None; to elude all pursuit, he went out before any body in the
house was stirring, and took his servant with him."
"Have you, then, been to Sir Robert?"
"I have been to Cavendish-Square, but there, it seems, he has not
appeared all night; I traced him, through his servants, from the
Opera to a gaminghouse, where I found he had amused himself till
this morning."
The uneasiness of Cecilia now encreased every moment; and Mr
Monckton, seeing he had no other chance of satisfying her, offered
his service to go again in search of both the gentlemen, and
endeavour to bring her better information. She accepted the proposal
with gratitude, and he departed.
Soon after she was joined by Mr Arnott, who, though seized with all
the horrors of jealousy at sight of her apprehensions, was so
desirous to relieve them, that without even making any merit of
obliging her, he almost instantly set out upon the same errand that
employed Mr Monckton, and determined not to mention his design till
he found whether it would enable him to bring her good tidings.
He was scarce gone when she was told that Mr Delvile begged to have
the honour of speaking to her. Surprised at this condescension, she
desired he might immediately be admitted; but much was her surprise
augmented, when, instead of seeing her ostentatious guardian, she
again beheld her masquerade friend, the white domino.
He entreated her pardon for an intrusion neither authorised by
acquaintance nor by business, though somewhat, he hoped, palliated,
by his near connection with one who was privileged to take an
interest in her affairs: and then, hastening to the motives which
had occasioned his visit, "when I had the honour," he said, "of
seeing you last night at the Opera-house, the dispute which had just
happened between two gentlemen, seemed to give you an uneasiness
which could not but be painful to all who observed it, and as among
that number I was not the least moved, you will forgive, I hope, my
eagerness to be the first to bring you intelligence that nothing
fatal has happened, or is likely to happen."
"You do me, sir," said Cecilia, "much honour; and indeed you relieve
me from a suspense extremely disagreeable. The accommodation, I
suppose, was brought about this morning?"
"I find," answered he, smiling, "you now expect too much; but hope
is never so elastic as when it springs from the ruins of terror."
"What then is the matter? Are they at last, not safe?"
"Yes, perfectly safe; but I cannot tell you they have never been in
danger."
"Well, if it is now over I am contented: but you will very much
oblige me, sir, if you will inform me what has passed."
"You oblige me, madam, by the honour of your commands. I saw but too
much reason to apprehend that measures the most violent would follow
the affray of last night; yet as I found that the quarrel had been
accidental, and the offence unpremeditated, I thought it not
absolutely impossible that an expeditious mediation might effect a
compromise: at least it was worth trying; for though wrath slowly
kindled or long nourished is sullen and intractable, the sudden
anger that has not had time to impress the mind with a deep sense of
injury, will, when gently managed, be sometimes appeased with the
same quickness it is excited: I hoped, therefore, that some trifling
concession from Sir Robert, as the aggressor,--"
"Ah sir!" cried Cecilia, "that, I fear, was not to be obtained!"
"Not by me, I must own," he answered; "but I was not willing to
think of the difficulty, and therefore ventured to make the
proposal: nor did I leave the Opera-house till I had used every
possible argument to persuade Sir Robert an apology would neither
stain his courage nor his reputation. But his spirit brooked not the
humiliation."
"Spirit!" cried Cecilia, "how mild a word! What, then, could poor Mr
Belfield resolve upon?"
"That, I believe, took him very little time to decide. I discovered,
by means of a gentleman at the Opera who was acquainted with him,
where he lived, and I waited upon him with an intention to offer my
services towards settling the affair by arbitration: for since you
call him poor Mr Belfield, I think you will permit me, without
offence to his antagonist, to own that his gallantry, though too
impetuous for commendation, engaged me in his interest."
"I hope you don't think," cried Cecilia, "that an offence to his
antagonist must necessarily be an offence to me?"
"Whatever I may have thought," answered he, looking at her with
evident surprise, "I certainly did not wish that a sympathy
offensive and defensive had been concluded between you. I could not,
however, gain access to Mr Belfield last night, but the affair dwelt
upon my mind, and this morning I called at his lodging as soon as it
was light."
"How good you have been!" cried Cecilia; "your kind offices have
not, I hope, all proved ineffectual!"
"So valorous a Don Quixote," returned he, laughing, "certainly
merited a faithful Esquire! He was, however, gone out, and nobody
knew whither. About half an hour ago I called upon him again; he was
then just returned home."
"Well, Sir?"
"I saw him; the affair was over; and in a short time he will be
able, if you will allow him so much honour, to thank you for these
enquiries."
"He is then wounded?"
"He is a little hurt, but Sir Robert is perfectly safe. Belfield
fired first, and missed; the Baronet was not so successless."
"I am grieved to hear it, indeed! And where is the wound?"
"The ball entered his right side, and the moment he felt it, he
fired his second pistol in the air. This I heard from his servant.
He was brought home carefully and slowly; no surgeon had been upon
the spot, but one was called to him immediately. I stayed to enquire
his opinion after the wound had been dressed: he told me he had
extracted the ball, and assured me Mr Belfield was not in any
danger. Your alarm, madam, last night, which had always been present
to me, then encouraged me to take the liberty of waiting upon you;
for I concluded you could yet have had no certain intelligence, and
thought it best to let the plain and simple fact out-run the
probable exaggeration of rumour."
Cecilia thanked him for his attention, and Mrs Harrel then making
her appearance, he arose and said, "Had my father known the honour I
have had this morning of waiting upon Miss Beverley, I am sure I
should have been charged with his compliments, and such a commission
would somewhat have lessened the presumption of this visit; but I
feared lest while I should be making interest for my credentials,
the pretence of my embassy might be lost, and other couriers, less
scrupulous, might obtain previous audiences, and anticipate my
dispatches."
He then took his leave.
"This white domino, at last then," said Cecilia, "is the son of Mr
Delvile! and thence the knowledge of my situation which gave me so
much surprise:--a son how infinitely unlike his father!"
"Yes," said Mrs Harrel, "and as unlike his mother too, for I assure
you she is more proud and haughty even than the old gentleman. I
hate the very sight of her, for she keeps every body in such awe
that there's nothing but restraint in her presence. But the son is a
very pretty young man, and much admired; though I have only seen him
in public, for none of the family visit here."
Mr Monckton, who now soon returned, was not a little surprised to
find that all the intelligence he meant to communicate was already
known: and not the more pleased to hear that the white domino, to
whom before he owed no good-will, had thus officiously preceded him.
Mr Arnott, who also came just after him, had been so little
satisfied with the result of his enquiries, that from the fear of
encreasing Cecilia's uneasiness, he determined not to make known
whither he had been; but he soon found his forbearance was of no
avail, as she was already acquainted with the duel and its
consequences. Yet his unremitting desire to oblige her urged him
twice in the course of the same day to again call at Mr Belfield's
lodgings, in order to bring her thence fresh and unsolicited
intelligence.
Before breakfast was quite over, Miss Larolles, out of breath with
eagerness, came to tell the news of the duel, in her way to church,
as it was Sunday morning! and soon after Mrs Mears, who also was
followed by other ladies, brought the same account, which by all was
addressed to Cecilia, with expressions of concern that convinced
her, to her infinite vexation, she was generally regarded as the
person chiefly interested in the accident.
Mr Harrel did not return till late, but then seemed in very high
spirits: "Miss Beverley," he cried, "I bring you news that will
repay all your fright; Sir Robert is not only safe, but is come off
conqueror."
"I am very sorry, Sir," answered Cecilia, extremely provoked to be
thus congratulated, "that any body conquered, or any body was
vanquished."
"There is no need for sorrow," cried Mr Harrel, "or for any thing
but joy, for he has not killed his man; the victory, therefore, will
neither cost him a flight nor a trial. To-day he means to wait upon
you, and lay his laurels at your feet."
"He means, then, to take very fruitless trouble," said Cecilia, "for
I have not any ambition to be so honoured."
"Ah, Miss Beverley," returned he, laughing, "this won't do now! it
might have passed a little while ago, but it won't do now, I promise
you!"
Cecilia, though much displeased by this accusation, found that
disclaiming it only excited further raillery, and therefore
prevailed upon herself to give him a quiet hearing, and scarce any
reply.
At dinner, when Sir Robert arrived, the dislike she had originally
taken to him, encreased already into disgust by his behaviour the
preceding evening, was now fixed into the strongest aversion by the
horror she conceived of his fierceness, and the indignation she felt
excited by his arrogance. He seemed, from the success of this duel,
to think himself raised to the highest pinnacle of human glory;
triumph sat exulting on his brow; he looked down on whoever he
deigned to look at all, and shewed that he thought his notice an
honour, however imperious the manner in which it was accorded.
Upon Cecilia, however, he cast an eye of more complacency; he now
believed her subdued, and his vanity revelled in the belief: her
anxiety had so thoroughly satisfied him of her love, that she had
hardly the power left to undeceive him; her silence he only
attributed to admiration, her coldness to fear, and her reserve to
shame.
Sickened by insolence so undisguised and unauthorised, and incensed
at the triumph of his successful brutality, Cecilia with pain kept
her seat, and with vexation reflected upon the necessity she was
under of passing so large a portion of her time in company to which
she was so extremely averse.
After dinner, when Mrs Harrel was talking of her party for the
evening, of which Cecilia declined making one, Sir Robert, with a
sort of proud humility, that half feared rejection, and half
proclaimed an indifference to meeting it, said, "I don't much care
for going further myself, if Miss Beverley will give me the honour
of taking my tea with her."
Cecilia, regarding him with much surprise, answered that she had
letters to write into the country, which would confine her to her
own room for the rest of the evening. The Baronet, looking at his
watch, instantly cried, "Faith, that is very fortunate, for I have
just recollected an engagement at the other end of the town which
had slipt my memory."
Soon after they were all gone, Cecilia received a note from Mrs
Delvile, begging the favour of her company the next morning to
breakfast. She readily accepted the invitation, though she was by no
means prepared, by the character she had heard of her, to expect
much pleasure from an acquaintance with that lady.
CHAPTER vi
A FAMILY PARTY.
Cecilia the next morning, between nine and ten o'clock, went to St
James'-Square; she found nobody immediately ready to receive her,
but in a short time was waited upon by Mr Delvile.
After the usual salutations, "Miss Beverley," he said, "I have given
express orders to my people, that I may not be interrupted while I
have the pleasure of passing some minutes in conversation with you
before you are presented to Mrs Delvile."
And then, with an air of solemnity, he led her to a seat, and having
himself taken possession of another, continued his speech.
"I have received information, from authority which I cannot doubt,
that the indiscretion of certain of your admirers last Saturday at
the Opera-house occasioned a disturbance which to a young woman of
delicacy I should imagine must be very alarming: now as I consider
myself concerned in your fame and welfare from regarding you as my
ward, I think it is incumbent upon me to make enquiries into such of
your affairs as become public; for I should feel in some measure
disgraced myself, should it appear to the world, while you are under
my guardianship, that there was any want of propriety in the
direction of your conduct."
Cecilia, not much flattered by this address, gravely answered that
she fancied the affair had been misrepresented to him.
"I am not much addicted," he replied, "to give ear to any thing
lightly; you must therefore permit me to enquire into the merits of
the cause, and then to draw my own inferences. And let me, at the
same time, assure you there is no other young lady who has any right
to expect such an attention from me. I must begin by begging you to
inform me upon what grounds the two gentlemen in question, for such,
by courtesy, I presume they are called, thought themselves entitled
publicly to dispute your favour?"
"My favour, Sir!" cried Cecilia, much amazed.
"My dear," said he, with a complacency meant to give her courage, "I
know the question is difficult for a young lady to answer; but be
not abashed, I should be sorry to distress you, and mean to the
utmost of my power to save your blushes. Do not, therefore, fear me;
consider me as your guardian, and assure yourself I am perfectly
well disposed to consider you as my ward. Acquaint me, then, freely,
what are the pretensions of these gentlemen?"
"To me, Sir, they have, I believe, no pretensions at all."
"I see you are shy," returned he, with encreasing gentleness, "I see
you cannot be easy with me; and when I consider how little you are
accustomed to me, I do not wonder. But pray take courage; I think it
necessary to inform myself of your affairs, and therefore I beg you
will speak to me with freedom."
Cecilia, more and more mortified by this humiliating condescension,
again assured him he had been misinformed, and was again, though
discredited, praised for her modesty, when, to her great relief,
they were interrupted by the entrance of her friend the _white
domino_.
"Mortimer," said Mr Delvile, "I understand you have already had the
pleasure of seeing this young lady?"
"Yes, Sir," he answered, "I have more than once had that happiness,
but I have never had the honour of being introduced to her."
"Miss Beverley, then," said the father, "I must present to you Mr
Mortimer Delvile, my son; and, Mortimer, in Miss Beverley I desire
you will remember that you respect a ward of your father's."
"I will not, Sir," answered he, "forget an injunction my own
inclinations had already out-run."
Mortimer Delvile was tall and finely formed, his features, though
not handsome, were full of expression, and a noble openness of
manners and address spoke the elegance of his education, and the
liberality of his mind.
When this introduction was over, a more general conversation took
place, till Mr Delvile, suddenly rising, said to Cecilia, "You will
pardon me, Miss Beverley, if I leave you for a few minutes; one of
my tenants sets out to-morrow morning for my estate in the North,
and he has been two hours waiting to speak with me. But if my son is
not particularly engaged, I am sure he will be so good as to do the
honours of the house till his mother is ready to receive you."
And then, graciously waving his hand, he quitted the room.
"My father," cried young Delvile, "has left me an office which,
could I execute it as perfectly as I shall willingly, would be
performed without a fault."
"I am very sorry," said Cecilia, "that I have so much mistaken your
hour of breakfast; but let me not be any restraint upon you, I shall
find a book, or a newspaper, or something to fill up the time till
Mrs Delvile honours me with a summons."
"You can only be a restraint upon me," answered he, "by commanding
me from your presence. I breakfasted long ago, and am now just come
from Mr Belfield. I had the pleasure, this morning, of being
admitted into his room."
"And how, Sir, did you find him?"
"Not so well, I fear, as he thinks himself; but he was in high
spirits, and surrounded by his friends, whom he was entertaining
with all the gaiety of a man in full health, and entirely at his
ease; though I perceived, by the frequent changes of his
countenance, signs of pain and indisposition, that made me, however
pleased with his conversation, think it necessary to shorten my own
visit, and to hint to those who were near me the propriety of
leaving him quiet."
"Did you see his surgeon, Sir?"
"No; but he told me he should only have one dressing more of his
wound, and then get rid of the whole business by running into the
country."
"Were you acquainted with him, Sir, before this accident?"
"No, not at all; but the little I have seen of him has strongly
interested me in his favour: at Mr Harrel's masquerade, where I
first met with him, I was extremely entertained by his humour,--
though there, perhaps, as I had also the honour of first seeing Miss
Beverley, I might be too happy to feel much difficulty in being
pleased. And even at the Opera he had the advantage of finding me in
the same favourable disposition, as I had long distinguished you
before I had taken any notice of him. I must, however, confess I did
not think his anger that evening quite without provocation,--but I
beg your pardon, I may perhaps be mistaken, and you, who know the
whole affair, must undoubtedly be better able to account for what
happened."
Here he fixed his eyes upon Cecilia, with a look of curiosity that
seemed eager to penetrate into her sentiments of the two
antagonists.
"No, certainly," she answered, "he had all the provocation that ill-
breeding could give him."
"And do you, madam," cried he, with much surprize, "judge of this
matter with such severity?"
"No, not with severity, simply with candour."
"With candour? alas, then, poor Sir Robert! Severity were not half
so bad a sign for him!"
A servant now came in, to acquaint Cecilia that Mrs Delvile waited
breakfast for her.
This summons was immediately followed by the re-entrance of Mr
Delvile, who, taking her hand, said he would himself present her to
his lady, and with much graciousness assured her of a kind
reception.
The ceremonies preceding this interview, added to the character she
had already heard of Mrs Delvile, made Cecilia heartily wish it
over; but, assuming all the courage in her power, she determined to
support herself with a spirit that should struggle against the
ostentatious superiority she was prepared to expect.
She found her seated upon a sofa, from which, however, she arose at
her approach; but the moment Cecilia beheld her, all the
unfavourable impressions with which she came into her presence
immediately vanished, and that respect which the formalities of her
introduction had failed to inspire, her air, figure, and countenance
instantaneously excited.
She was not more than fifty years of age; her complection, though
faded, kept the traces of its former loveliness, her eyes, though
they had lost their youthful fire, retained a lustre that evinced
their primeval brilliancy, and the fine symmetry of her features,
still uninjured by the siege of time, not only indicated the
perfection of her juvenile beauty, but still laid claim to
admiration in every beholder. Her carriage was lofty and commanding;
but the dignity to which high birth and conscious superiority gave
rise, was so judiciously regulated by good sense, and so happily
blended with politeness, that though the world at large envied or
hated her, the few for whom she had herself any regard, she was
infallibly certain to captivate.
The surprise and admiration with which Cecilia at the first glance
was struck proved reciprocal: Mrs Delvile, though prepared for youth
and beauty, expected not to see a countenance so intelligent, nor
manners so well formed as those of Cecilia: thus mutually astonished
and mutually pleased, their first salutations were accompanied by
looks so flattering to both, that each saw in the other, an
immediate prepossession in her favour, and from the moment that they
met, they seemed instinctively impelled to admire.
"I have promised Miss Beverley, madam," said Mr Delvile to his lady,
"that you would give her a kind reception; and I need not remind you
that my promises are always held sacred."
"But I hope you have not also promised," cried she, with quickness,
"that I should give _you_ a kind reception, for I feel at this
very moment extremely inclined to quarrel with you."
"Why so, madam?"
"For not bringing us together sooner; for now I have seen her, I
already look back with regret to the time I have lost without the
pleasure of knowing her."
"What a claim is this," cried young Delvile, "upon the benevolence
of Miss Beverley! for if she has not now the indulgence by frequent
and diligent visits to make some reparation, she must consider
herself as responsible for the dissension she will occasion."
"If peace depends upon my visits," answered Cecilia, "it may
immediately be proclaimed; were it to be procured only by my
absence, I know not if I should so readily agree to the conditions."
"I must request of you, madam," said Mr Delvile, "that when my son
and I retire, you will bestow half an hour upon this young lady, in
making enquiries concerning the disturbance last Saturday at the
Opera-house. I have not, myself, so much time to spare, as I have
several appointments for this morning; but I am sure you will not
object to the office, as I know you to be equally anxious with
myself, that the minority of Miss Beverley should pass without
reproach."
"Not only her minority, but her maturity," cried young Delvile,
warmly, "and not only her maturity, but her decline of life will
pass, I hope, not merely without reproach, but with fame and
applause!"
"I hope so too;" replied Mr Delvile: "I wish her well through every
stage of her life, but for her minority alone it is my business to
do more than wish. For that, I feel my own honour and my own credit
concerned; my honour, as I gave it to the Dean that I would
superintend her conduct, and my credit, as the world is acquainted
with the claim she has to my protection."
"I will not make any enquiries," said Mrs Delvile, turning to
Cecilia with a sweetness that recompensed her for the haughtiness of
her guardian, "till I have had some opportunity of convincing Miss
Beverley, that my regard for her merits they should be answered."
"You see, Miss Beverley," said Mr Delvile, "how little reason you
had to be afraid of us; Mrs Delvile is as much disposed in your
favour as myself, and as desirous to be of service to you.
Endeavour, therefore, to cast off this timidity, and to make
yourself easy. You must come to us often; use will do more towards
removing your fears, than all the encouragement we can give you."
"But what are the fears," cried Mrs Delvile, "that Miss Beverley can
have to remove? unless, indeed, she apprehends her visits will make
us encroachers, and that the more we are favoured with her presence,
the less we shall bear her absence."
"Pray, son," said Mr Delvile, "what was the name of the person who
was Sir Robert Floyer's opponent? I have again forgotten it."
"Belfield, sir."
"True; it is a name I am perfectly unacquainted with: however, he
may possibly be a very good sort of man; but certainly his opposing
himself to Sir Robert Floyer, a man of some family, a gentleman,
rich, and allied to some people of distinction, was a rather strange
circumstance: I mean not, however, to prejudge the case; I will hear
it fairly stated; and am the more disposed to be cautious in what I
pronounce, because I am persuaded Miss Beverley has too much sense
to let my advice be thrown away upon her."
"I hope so, Sir; but with respect to the disturbance at the Opera, I
know not that I have the least occasion to trouble you."
"If your measures," said he, very gravely, "are already taken, the
Dean your uncle prevailed upon me to accept a very useless office;
but if any thing is yet undecided, it will not, perhaps, be amiss
that I should be consulted. Mean time, I will only recommend to you
to consider that Mr Belfield is a person whose name nobody has
heard, and that a connection with Sir Robert Floyer would certainly
be very honourable for you."
"Indeed, Sir," said Cecilia, "here is some great mistake; neither of
these gentlemen, I believe, think of me at all."
"They have taken, then," cried young Delvile with a laugh, "a very
extraordinary method to prove their indifference!"
"The affairs of Sir Robert Floyer," continued Mr Delvile, "are
indeed, I am informed, in some disorder; but he has a noble estate,
and your fortune would soon clear all its incumbrances. Such an
alliance, therefore, would be mutually advantageous: but what would
result from a union with such a person as Mr Belfield? he is of no
family, though in that, perhaps, you would not be very scrupulous;
but neither has he any money; what, then, recommends him?"
"To me, Sir, nothing!" answered Cecilia.
"And to me," cried young Delvile, "almost every thing! he has wit,
spirit, and understanding, talents to create admiration, and
qualities, I believe, to engage esteem!"
"You speak warmly," said Mrs Delvile; "but if such is his character,
he merits your earnestness. What is it you know of him?"
"Not enough, perhaps," answered he, "to coolly justify my praise;
but he is one of those whose first appearance takes the mind by
surprise, and leaves the judgment to make afterwards such terms as
it can. Will you, madam, when he is recovered, permit me to
introduce him to you?"
"Certainly;" said she, smiling; "but have a care your recommendation
does not disgrace your discernment."
"This warmth of disposition, Mortimer," cried Mr Delvile, "produces
nothing but difficulties and trouble: you neglect the connections I
point out, and which a little attention might render serviceable as
well as honourable, and run precipitately into forming such as can
do you no good among people of rank, and are not only profitless in
themselves, but generally lead you into expence and inconvenience.
You are now of an age to correct this rashness: think, therefore,
better of your own consequence, than thus idly to degrade yourself
by forming friendships with every shewy adventurer that comes in
your way."
"I know not, Sir," answered he, "how Mr Belfield deserves to be
called an adventurer: he is not, indeed, rich; but he is in a
profession where parts such as his seldom fail to acquire riches;
however, as to me his wealth can be of no consequence, why should my
regard to him wait for it? if he is a young man of worth and
honour--"
"Mortimer," interrupted Mr Delvile, "whatever he is, we know he is
not a man of rank, and whatever he may be, we know he cannot become
a man of family, and consequently for Mortimer Delvile he is no
companion. If you can render him any service, I shall commend your
so doing; it becomes your birth, it becomes your station in life to
assist individuals, and promote the general good: but never in your
zeal for others forget what is due to yourself, and to the ancient
and honourable house from which you are sprung."
"But can we entertain Miss Beverley with nothing better than family
lectures?" cried Mrs Delvile.
"It is for me," said young Delvile, rising, "to beg pardon of Miss
Beverley for having occasioned them: but when she is so good as to
honour us with her company again, I hope I shall have more
discretion."
He then left the room; and Mr Delvile also rising to go, said, "My
dear, I commit you to very kind hands; Mrs Delvile, I am sure, will
be happy to hear your story; speak to her, therefore, without
reserve. And pray don't imagine that I make you over to her from any
slight; on the contrary, I admire and commend your modesty very
much; but my time is extremely precious, and I cannot devote so much
of it to an explanation as your diffidence requires."
And then, to the great joy of Cecilia, he retired; leaving her much
in doubt whether his haughtiness or his condescension humbled her
most.
"These men," said Mrs Delvile, "can never comprehend the pain of a
delicate female mind upon entering into explanations of this sort: I
understand it, however, too well to inflict it. We will, therefore,
have no explanations at all till we are better acquainted, and then
if you will venture to favour me with any confidence, my best
advice, and, should any be in my power, my best services shall be at
your command."
"You do me, madam, much honour," answered Cecilia, "but I must
assure you I have no explanation to give."
"Well, well, at present," returned Mrs Delvile, "I am content to
hear that answer, as I have acquired no right to any other: but
hereafter I shall hope for more openness: it is promised me by your
countenance, and I mean to claim the promise by my friendship."
"Your friendship will both honour and delight me, and whatever are
your enquiries, I shall always be proud to answer them; but indeed,
with regard to this affair--"
"My dear Miss Beverley," interrupted Mrs Delvile, with a look of
arch incredulity, "men seldom risk their lives where an escape is
without hope of recompence. But we will not now say a word more upon
the subject. I hope you will often favour me with your company, and
by the frequency of your visits, make us both forget the shortness
of our acquaintance."
Cecilia, finding her resistance only gave birth to fresh suspicion,
now yielded, satisfied that a very little time must unavoidably
clear up the truth. But her visit was not therefore shortened; the
sudden partiality with which the figure and countenance of Mrs
Delvile had impressed her, was quickly ripened into esteem by the
charms of her conversation: she found her sensible, well bred, and
high spirited, gifted by nature with superior talents, and polished
by education and study with all the elegant embellishments of
cultivation. She saw in her, indeed, some portion of the pride she
had been taught to expect, but it was so much softened by elegance,
and so well tempered with kindness, that it elevated her character,
without rendering her manners offensive.
With such a woman, subjects of discourse could never be wanting, nor
fertility of powers to make them entertaining: and so much was
Cecilia delighted with her visit, that though her carriage was
announced at twelve o'clock, she reluctantly concluded it at two;
and in taking her leave, gladly accepted an invitation to dine with
her new friend three days after; who, equally pleased with her young
guest, promised before that time to return her visit.
CHAPTER vii
AN EXAMINATION.
Cecilia found Mrs Harrel eagerly waiting to hear some account how
she had passed the morning, and fully persuaded that she would leave
the Delviles with a determination never more, but by necessity, to
see them: she was, therefore, not only surprised but disappointed,
when instead of fulfilling her expectations, she assured her that
she had been delighted with Mrs Delvile, whose engaging qualities
amply recompensed her for the arrogance of her husband; that her
visit had no fault but that of being too short, and that she had
already appointed an early day for repeating it.
Mrs Harrel was evidently hurt by this praise, and Cecilia, who
perceived among all her guardians a powerful disposition to hatred
and jealousy, soon dropt the subject: though so much had she been
charmed with Mrs Delvile, that a scheme of removal once more
occurred to her, notwithstanding her dislike of her stately
guardian.
At dinner, as usual, they were joined by Sir Robert Floyer, who grew
more and more assiduous in his attendance, but who, this day,
contrary to his general custom of remaining with the gentlemen, made
his exit before the ladies left the table; and as soon as he was
gone, Mr Harrel desired a private conference with Cecilia.
They went together to the drawing-room, where, after a flourishing
preface upon the merits of Sir Robert Floyer, he formally acquainted
her that he was commissioned by that gentleman, to make her a tender
of his hand and fortune.
Cecilia, who had not much reason to be surprised at this overture,
desired him to tell the Baronet, she was obliged to him for the
honour he intended her, at the same time that she absolutely
declined receiving it.
Mr Harrel, laughing, told her this answer was very well for a
beginning, though it would by no means serve beyond the first day of
the declaration; but when Cecilia assured him she should firmly
adhere to it, he remonstrated with equal surprise and discontent
upon the reasons of her refusal. She thought it sufficient to tell
him that Sir Robert did not please her, but, with much raillery, he
denied the assertion credit, assuring her that he was universally
admired by the ladies, that she could not possibly receive a more
honourable offer, and that he was reckoned by every body the finest
gentleman about the town. His fortune, he added, was equally
unexceptionable with his figure and his rank in life; all the world,
he was certain, would approve the connexion, and the settlement made
upon her should be dictated by herself.
Cecilia begged him to be satisfied with an answer which she never
could change, and to spare her the enumeration of particular
objections, since Sir Robert was wholly and in every respect
disagreeable to her.
"What, then," cried he, "could make you so frightened for him at the
Opera-house? There has been but one opinion about town ever since of
your prepossession in his favour."
"I am extremely concerned to hear it; my fright was but the effect
of surprise, and belonged not more to Sir Robert than to Mr
Belfield."
He told her that nobody else thought the same, that her marriage
with the Baronet was universally expected, and, in conclusion,
notwithstanding her earnest desire that he would instantly and
explicitly inform Sir Robert of her determination, he repeatedly
refused to give him any final answer till she had taken more time
for consideration.
Cecilia was extremely displeased at this irksome importunity, and
still more chagrined to find her incautious emotion at the Opera-
house, had given rise to suspicions of her harbouring a partiality
for a man whom every day she more heartily disliked.
While she was deliberating in what manner she could clear up this
mistake, which, after she was left alone, occupied all her thoughts,
she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Monckton, whose joy in
meeting her at length by herself exceeded not her own, for charmed
as he was that he could now examine into the state of her affairs,
she was not less delighted that she could make them known to him.
After mutual expressions, guarded, however, on the part of Mr.
Monckton, though unreserved on that of Cecilia, of their
satisfaction in being again able to converse as in former times, he
asked if she would permit him, as the privilege of their long
acquaintance, to speak to her with sincerity.
She assured him he could not more oblige her.
"Let me, then," said he, "enquire if yet that ardent confidence in
your own steadiness, which so much disdained my fears that the
change of your residence might produce a change in your sentiments,
is still as unshaken as when we parted in Suffolk? Or whether
experience, that foe to unpractised refinement, has already taught
you the fallibility of theory?"
"When I assure you," replied Cecilia, "that your enquiry gives me no
pain, I think I have sufficiently answered it, for were I conscious
of any alteration, it could not but embarrass and distress me. Very
far, however, from finding myself in the danger with which you
threatened me, of _forgetting Bury, its inhabitants and its
environs_, I think with pleasure of little else, since London,
instead of bewitching, has greatly disappointed me."
"How so?" cried Mr Monckton, much delighted.
"Not," answered she, "in itself, not in its magnificence, nor in its
diversions, which seem to be inexhaustible; but these, though
copious as instruments of pleasure, are very shallow as sources of
happiness: the disappointment, therefore, comes nearer home, and
springs not from London, but from my own situation."
"Is that, then, disagreeable to you?"
"You shall yourself judge, when I have told you that from the time
of my quitting your house till this very moment, when I have again
the happiness of talking with you, I have never once had any
conversation, society or intercourse, in which friendship or
affection have had any share, or my mind has had the least
interest."
She then entered into a detail of her way of life, told him how
little suited to her taste was the unbounded dissipation of the
Harrels, and feelingly expatiated upon the disappointment she had
received from the alteration in the manners and conduct of her young
friend. "In her," she continued, "had I found the companion I came
prepared to meet, the companion from whom I had so lately parted,
and in whose society I expected to find consolation for the loss of
yours and of Mrs Charlton's, I should have complained of nothing;
the very places that now tire, might then have entertained me, and
all that now passes for unmeaning dissipation, might then have worn
the appearance of variety and pleasure. But where the mind is wholly
without interest, every thing is languid and insipid; and accustomed
as I have long been to think friendship the first of human
blessings, and social converse the greatest of human enjoyments, how
ever can I reconcile myself to a state of careless indifference, to
making acquaintance without any concern either for preserving or
esteeming them, and to going on from day to day in an eager search
of amusement, with no companion for the hours of retirement, and no
view beyond that of passing the present moment in apparent gaiety
and thoughtlessness?"
Mr Monckton, who heard these complaints with secret rapture, far
from seeking to soften or remove, used his utmost endeavours to
strengthen and encrease them, by artfully retracing her former way
of life, and pointing out with added censures the change in it she
had been lately compelled to make: "a change," he continued, "which
though ruinous of your time, and detrimental to your happiness, use
will, I fear, familiarize, and familiarity render pleasant."
"These suspicions, sir," said Cecilia, "mortify me greatly; and why,
when far from finding me pleased, you hear nothing but repining,
should you still continue to harbour them?"
"Because your trial has yet been too short to prove your firmness,
and because there is nothing to which time cannot contentedly
accustom us."
"I feel not much fear," said Cecilia, "of standing such a test as
might fully satisfy you; but nevertheless, not to be too
presumptuous, I have by no means exposed myself to all the dangers
which you think surround me, for of late I have spent almost every
evening at home and by myself."
This intelligence was to Mr Monckton a surprise the most agreeable
he could receive. Her distaste for the amusements which were offered
her greatly relieved his fears of her forming any alarming
connection, and the discovery that while so anxiously he had sought
her every where in public, she had quietly passed her time by her
own fireside, not only re-assured him for the present, but gave him
information where he might meet with her in future.
He then talked of the duel, and solicitously led her to speak
[openly] of Sir Robert Floyer; and here too, his satisfaction was
entire; he found her dislike of him such as his knowledge of her
disposition made him expect, and she wholly removed his suspicions
concerning her anxiety about the quarrel, by explaining to him her
apprehensions of having occasioned it herself, from accepting the
civility of Mr Belfield, at the very moment she shewed her aversion
to receiving that of Sir Robert.
Neither did her confidence rest here; she acquainted him with the
conversation she had just had with Mr Harrel, and begged his advice
in what manner she might secure herself from further importunity.
Mr Monckton had now a new subject for his discernment. Every thing
had confirmed to him the passion which Mr Arnott had conceived for
Cecilia, and he had therefore concluded the interest of the Harrels
would be all in his favour: other ideas now struck him; he found
that Mr Arnott was given up for Sir Robert, and he determined
carefully to watch the motions both of the Baronet and her young
guardian, in order to discover the nature of their plans and
connection. Mean time, convinced by her unaffected aversion to the
proposals she had received, that she was at present in no danger
from the league he suspected, he merely advised her to persevere in
manifesting a calm repugnance to their solicitations, which could
not fail, before long, to dishearten them both.
"But Sir," cried Cecilia, "I now fear this man as much as I dislike
him, for his late fierceness and brutality, though they have
encreased my disgust, make me dread to shew it. I am impatient,
therefore, to have done with him, and to see him no more. And for
this purpose, I wish to quit the house of Mr Harrel, where he has
access at his pleasure."
"You can wish nothing more judiciously," cried he; "would you, then,
return into the country?"
"That is not yet in my power; I am obliged to reside with one of my
guardians. To-day I have seen Mrs Delvile, and--"
"Mrs Delvile?" interrupted Mr Monckton, in a voice of astonishment.
"Surely you do not think of removing into that family?"
"What can I do so well? Mrs Delvile is a charming woman, and her
conversation would afford me more entertainment and instruction in a
single day, than under this roof I should obtain in a twelvemonth."
"Are you serious? Do you really think of making such a change?"
"I really wish it, but I know not yet if it is practicable: on
Thursday, however, I am to dine with her, and then, if it is in my
power, I will hint to her my desire."
"And can Miss Beverley possibly wish," cried Mr Monckton with
earnestness, "to reside in such a house? Is not Mr Delvile the most
ostentatious, haughty, and self-sufficient of men? Is not his wife
the proudest of women? And is not the whole family odious to all the
world?"
"You amaze me!" cried Cecilia; "surely that cannot be their general
character? Mr Delvile, indeed, deserves all the censure he can meet
for his wearisome parade of superiority; but his lady by no means
merits to be included in the same reproach. I have spent this whole
morning with her, and though I waited upon her with a strong
prejudice in her disfavour, I observed in her no pride that exceeded
the bounds of propriety and native dignity."
"Have you often been at the house? Do you know the son, too?"
"I have seen him three or four times."
"And what do you think of him?"
"I hardly know enough of him to judge fairly."
"But what does he seem to you? Do you not perceive in him already
all the arrogance, all the contemptuous insolence of his father?"
"O no! far from it indeed; his mind seems to be liberal and noble,
open to impressions of merit, and eager to honour and promote it."
"You are much deceived; you have been reading your own mind, and
thought you had read his: I would advise you sedulously to avoid the
whole family; you will find all intercourse with them irksome and
comfortless: such as the father appears at once, the wife and the
son will, in a few more meetings, appear also. They are descended
from the same stock, and inherit the same self-complacency. Mr
Delvile married his cousin, and each of them instigates the other to
believe that all birth and rank would be at an end in the world, if
their own superb family had not a promise of support from their
hopeful Mortimer. Should you precipitately settle yourself in their
house, you would very soon be totally weighed down by their united
insolence."
Cecilia again and warmly attempted to defend them; but Mr Monckton
was so positive in his assertions, and so significant in his
insinuations to their discredit, that she was at length persuaded
she had judged too hastily, and, after thanking him for his counsel,
promised not to take any measures towards a removal without his
advice.
This was all he desired; and now, enlivened by finding that his
influence with her was unimpaired, and that her heart was yet her
own, he ceased his exhortations, and turned the discourse to
subjects more gay and general, judiciously cautious neither by
tedious admonitions to disgust, nor by fretful solicitude to alarm
her. He did not quit her till the evening was far advanced, and
then, in returning to his own house, felt all his anxieties and
disappointments recompensed by the comfort this long and
satisfactory conversation had afforded him. While Cecilia, charmed
with having spent the morning with her new acquaintance, and the
evening with her old friend, retired to rest better pleased with the
disposal of her time than she had yet been since her journey from
Suffolk.
CHAPTER viii
A TETE A TETE.
The two following days had neither event nor disturbance, except
some little vexation occasioned by the behaviour of Sir Robert
Floyer, who still appeared not to entertain any doubt of the success
of his addresses. This impertinent confidence she could only
attribute to the officious encouragement of Mr Harrel, and therefore
she determined rather to seek than to avoid an explanation with him.
But she had, in the mean time, the satisfaction of hearing from Mr
Arnott, who, ever eager to oblige her, was frequent in his
enquiries, that Mr Belfield was almost entirely recovered.
On Thursday, according to her appointment, she again went to St
James' Square, and being shewn into the drawing-room till dinner was
ready, found there only young Mr Delvile.
After some general conversation, he asked her how lately she had had
any news of Mr Belfield?
"This morning," she answered, "when I had the pleasure of hearing he
was quite recovered. Have you seen him again, sir?"
"Yes madam, twice."
"And did you think him almost well?"
"I thought," answered he, with some hesitation, "and I think still,
that your enquiries ought to be his cure."
"O," cried Cecilia, "I hope he has far better medicines: but I am
afraid I have been misinformed, for I see you do not think him
better."
"You must not, however," replied he, "blame those messengers whose
artifice has only had your satisfaction in view; nor should I be so
malignant as to blast their designs, if I did not fear that Mr
Belfield's actual safety may be endangered by your continual
deception."
"What deception, sir? I don't at all understand you. How is his
safety endangered?"
"Ah madam!" said he smiling, "what danger indeed is there that any
man would not risk to give birth to such solicitude! Mr Belfield
however, I believe is in none from which a command of yours cannot
rescue him."
"Then were I an hard-hearted damsel indeed not to issue it! but if
my commands are so medicinal, pray instruct me how to administer
them."
"You must order him to give up, for the present, his plan of going
into the country, where he can have no assistance, and where his
wound must be dressed only by a common servant, and to remain
quietly in town till his surgeon pronounces that he may travel
without any hazard."
"But is he, seriously, so mad as to intend leaving town without the
consent of his surgeon?"
"Nothing less than such an intention could have induced me to
undeceive you with respect to his recovery. But indeed I am no
friend to those artifices which purchase present relief by future
misery: I venture, therefore, to speak to you the simple truth, that
by a timely exertion of your influence you may prevent further
evil."
"I know not, Sir," said Cecilia, with the utmost surprise, "why you
should suppose I have any such influence; nor can I imagine that any
deception has been practiced."
"It is possible," answered he, "I may have been too much alarmed;
but in such a case as this, no information ought to be depended upon
but that of his surgeon. You, madam, may probably know his opinion?"
"Me?--No, indeed? I never saw his surgeon; I know not even who he
is."
"I purpose calling upon him to-morrow morning; will Miss Beverley
permit me afterwards the honour of communicating to her what may
pass?"
"I thank you, sir," said she, colouring very high; "but my
impatience is by no means so great as to occasion my giving you that
trouble."
Delvile, perceiving her change of countenance, instantly, and with
much respect, entreated her pardon for the proposal; which, however,
she had no sooner granted, than he said very archly, "Why indeed you
have not much right to be angry, since it was your own frankness
that excited mine. And thus, you find, like most other culprits, I
am ready to cast the blame of the offence upon the offended. I feel,
however, an irresistible propensity to do service to Mr Belfield;--
shall I sin quite beyond forgiveness if I venture to tell you how I
found him situated this morning?"
"No, certainly,--if you wish it, I can have no objection."
"I found him, then, surrounded by a set of gay young men, who, by
way of keeping up his spirits, made him laugh and talk without
ceasing: he assured me himself that he was perfectly well, and
intended to gallop out of town to-morrow morning; though, when I
shook hands with him at parting, I was both shocked and alarmed to
feel by the burning heat of the skin, that far from discarding his
surgeon, he ought rather to call in a physician."
"I am very much concerned to hear this account," said Cecilia; "but
I do not well understand what you mean should on my part follow it?"
"That," answered he, bowing, with a look of mock gravity, "I pretend
not to settle! In stating the case I have satisfied my conscience,
and if in hearing it you can pardon the liberty I have taken, I
shall as much honour the openness of your character, as I admire
that of your countenance."
Cecilia now, to her no little astonishment, found she had the same
mistake to clear up at present concerning Mr Belfield, that only
three days before she had explained with respect to the Baronet. But
she had no time to speak further upon the subject, as the entrance
of Mrs Delvile put an end to their discourse.
That lady received her with the most distinguishing kindness;
apologised for not sooner waiting upon her, and repeatedly declared
that nothing but indisposition should have prevented her returning
the favour of her first visit.
They were soon after summoned to dinner. Mr Delvile, to the infinite
joy of Cecilia, was out.
The day was spent greatly to her satisfaction. There was no
interruption from visitors, she was tormented by the discussion of
no disagreeable subjects, the duel was not mentioned, the
antagonists were not hinted at, she was teized with no self-
sufficient encouragement, and wearied with no mortifying affability;
the conversation at once was lively and rational, and though
general, was rendered interesting, by a reciprocation of good-will
and pleasure in the conversers.
The favourable opinion she had conceived both of the mother and the
son this long visit served to confirm: in Mrs Delvile she found
strong sense, quick parts, and high breeding; in Mortimer, sincerity
and vivacity joined with softness and elegance; and in both there
seemed the most liberal admiration of talents, with an openness of
heart that disdained all disguise. Greatly pleased with their
manners, and struck with all that was apparent in their characters,
she much regretted the prejudice of Mr Monckton, which now, with the
promise she had given him, was all that opposed her making an
immediate effort towards a change in her abode.
She did not take her leave till eleven o'clock, when Mrs Delvile,
after repeatedly thanking her for her visit, said she would not so
much encroach upon her good nature as to request another till she
had waited upon her in return; but added, that she meant very
speedily to pay that debt, in order to enable herself, by friendly
and frequent meetings, to enter upon the confidential commission
with which her guardian had entrusted her.
Cecilia was pleased with the delicacy which gave rise to this
forbearance, yet having in fact nothing either to relate or conceal,
she was rather sorry than glad at the delay of an explanation, since
she found the whole family was in an error with respect to the
situation of her affairs.
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER i
AN APPLICATION.
Cecilia, upon her return home, heard with some surprise that Mr and
Mrs Harrel were by themselves in the drawing-room; and, while she
was upon the stairs, Mrs Harrel ran out, calling eagerly, "Is that
my brother?"
Before she could make an answer, Mr Harrel, in the same impatient
tone, exclaimed, "Is it Mr Arnott?"
"No;" said Cecilia, "did you expect him so late?"
"Expect him? Yes," answered Mr Harrel, "I have expected him the
whole evening, and cannot conceive what he has done with himself."
"'Tis abominably provoking," said Mrs Harrel, "that he should be out
of the way just now when he is wanted. However, I dare say to-morrow
will do as well."
"I don't know that," cried Mr Harrel. "Reeves is such a wretch that
I am sure he will give me all the trouble in his power."
Here Mr Arnott entered; and Mrs Harrel called out "O brother, we
have been distressed for you cruelly; we have had a man here who has
plagued Mr Harrel to death, and we wanted you sadly to speak to
him."
"I should have been very glad," said Mr Arnott, "to have been of any
use, and perhaps it is not yet too late; who is the man?"
"O," cried Mr Harrel, carelessly, "only a fellow from that rascally
taylor who has been so troublesome to me lately. He has had the
impudence, because I did not pay him the moment he was pleased to
want his money, to put the bill into the hands of one Reeves, a
griping attorney, who has been here this evening, and thought proper
to talk to me pretty freely. I can tell the gentleman I shall not
easily forget his impertinence! however, I really wish mean time I
could get rid of him."
"How much is the bill, Sir?" said Mr Arnott.
"Why it's rather a round sum; but I don't know how it is, one's
bills mount up before one is aware: those fellows charge such
confounded sums for tape and buckram; I hardly know what I have had
of him, and yet he has run me up a bill of between three and four
hundred pound."
Here there was a general silence; till Mrs Harrel said "Brother,
can't you be so good as to lend us the money? Mr Harrel says he can
pay it again very soon."
"O yes, very soon," said Mr Harrel, "for I shall receive a great
deal of money in a little time; I only want to stop this fellow's
mouth for the present."
"Suppose I go and talk with him?" said Mr Arnott.
"O, he's a brute, a stock!" cried Mr Harrel, "nothing but the money
will satisfy him: he will hear no reason; one might as well talk to
a stone."
Mr Arnott now looked extremely distressed; but upon his sister's
warmly pressing him not to lose any time, he gently said, "If this
person will but wait a week or two, I should be extremely glad, for
really just now I cannot take up so much money, without such
particular loss and inconvenience, that I hardly know how to do it:
--but yet, if he will not be appeased, he must certainly have it."
"Appeased?" cried Mr Harrel, "you might as well appease the sea in a
storm! he is hard as iron."
Mr Arnott then, forcing a smile, though evidently in much
uneasiness, said he would not fail to raise the money the next
morning, and was taking his leave, when Cecilia, shocked that such
tenderness and good-nature should be thus grossly imposed upon,
hastily begged to speak with Mrs Harrel, and taking her into another
room, said, "I beseech you, my dear friend, let not your worthy
brother suffer by his generosity; permit me in the present exigence
to assist Mr Harrel: my having such a sum advanced can be of no
consequence; but I should grieve indeed that your brother, who so
nobly understands the use of money, should take it up at any
particular disadvantage."
"You are vastly kind," said Mrs Harrel, "and I will run and speak to
them about it: but which ever of you lends the money, Mr Harrel has
assured me he shall pay it very soon."
She then returned with the proposition. Mr Arnott strongly opposed
it, but Mr Harrel seemed rather to prefer it, yet spoke so
confidently of his speedy payment, that he appeared to think it a
matter of little importance from which he accepted it. A generous
contest ensued between Mr Arnott and Cecilia, but as she was very
earnest, she at length prevailed, and settled to go herself the next
morning into the city, in order to have the money advanced by Mr
Briggs, who had the management of her fortune entirely to himself,
her other guardians never interfering in the executive part of her
affairs.
This arranged, they all retired.
And then, with encreasing astonishment, Cecilia reflected upon the
ruinous levity of Mr Harrel, and the blind security of his wife; she
saw in their situation danger the most alarming, and in the
behaviour of Mr Harrel selfishness the most inexcusable; such
glaring injustice to his creditors, such utter insensibility to his
friends, took from her all wish of assisting him, though the
indignant compassion with which she saw the easy generosity of Mr
Arnott so frequently abused, had now, for his sake merely, induced
her to relieve him.
She resolved, however, as soon as the present difficulty was
surmounted, to make another attempt to open the eyes of Mrs Harrel
to the evils which so apparently threatened her, and press her to
exert all her influence with her husband, by means both of example
and advice, to retrench his expences before it should be absolutely
too late to save him from ruin.
She determined also at the same time dial she applied for the money
requisite for this debt, to take up enough for discharging her own
bill at the bookseller's, and putting in execution her plan of
assisting the Hills.
The next morning she arose early, and attended by her servant, set
out for the house of Mr Briggs, purposing, as the weather was clear
and frosty, to walk through Oxford Road, and then put herself into a
chair; and hoping to return to Mr Harrel's by the usual hour of
breakfast.
She had not proceeded far, before she saw a mob gathering, and the
windows of almost all the houses filling with spectators. She
desired her servant to enquire what this meant, and was informed
that the people were assembling to see some malefactors pass by in
their way to Tyburn.
Alarmed at this intelligence from the fear of meeting the unhappy
criminals, she hastily turned down die next street, but found that
also filling with people who were running to the scene she was
trying to avoid: encircled thus every way, she applied to a
maidservant who was standing at the door of a large house, and
begged leave to step in till the mob was gone by. The maid
immediately consented, and she waited here while she sent her man
for a chair.
He soon arrived with one; but just as she returned to the street
door, a gentleman, who was hastily entering the house, standing back
to let her pass, suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Beverley!" and looking at
him, she perceived young Delvile.
"I cannot stop an instant," cried she, running down the steps, "lest
the crowd should prevent the chair from going on."
"Will you not first," said he, handing her in, "tell me what news
you have heard?"
"News?" repeated she. "No, I have heard none!"
"You will only, then, laugh at me for those officious offers you did
so well to reject?"
"I know not what offers you mean!"
"They were indeed superfluous, and therefore I wonder not you have
forgotten them. Shall I tell the chairmen whither to go?"
"To Mr Briggs. But I cannot imagine what you mean."
"To Mr Briggs!" repeated he, "O live for ever French beads and
Bristol stones! fresh offers may perhaps be made there, impertinent,
officious, and useless as mine!"
He then told her servant the direction, and, making his bow, went
into the house she had just quitted.
Cecilia, extremely amazed by this short, but unintelligible
conversation, would again have called upon him to explain his
meaning, but found the crowd encreasing so fast that she could not
venture to detain the chair, which with difficulty made its way to
the adjoining streets: but her surprize at what had passed so
entirely occupied her, that when she stopt at the house of Mr
Briggs, she had almost forgotten what had brought her thither.
The foot-boy, who came to the door, told her that his master was at
home, but not well.
She desired he might be acquainted that she wished to speak to him
upon business, and would wait upon him again at any hour when he
thought he should be able to see her.
The boy returned with an answer that she might call again the next
week.
Cecilia, knowing that so long a delay would destroy all the kindness
of her intention, determined to write to him for the money, and
therefore went into the parlour, and desired to have pen and ink.
The boy, after making her wait some time in a room without any fire,
brought her a pen and a little ink in a broken tea-cup, saying
"Master begs you won't spirt it about, for he's got no more; and all
our blacking's as good as gone."
"Blacking?" repeated Cecilia.
"Yes, Miss; when Master's shoes are blacked, we commonly gets a
little drap of fresh ink."
Cecilia promised to be careful, but desired him to fetch her a sheet
of paper.
"Law, Miss," cried the boy, with a grin, "I dare say master'd as
soon give you a bit of his nose! howsever, I'll go ax."
In a few minutes he again returned, and brought in his hand a slate
and a black lead pencil; "Miss," cried he, "Master says how you may
write upon this, for he supposes you've no great matters to say."
Cecilia, much astonished at this extreme parsimony, was obliged to
consent, but as the point of the pencil was very blunt, desired the
boy to get her a knife that she might cut it. He obeyed, but said
"Pray Miss, take care it ben't known, for master don't do such a
thing once in a year, and if he know'd I'd got you the knife, he'd
go nigh to give me a good polt of the head."
Cecilia then wrote upon the slate her desire to be informed in what
manner she should send him her receipt for 600 pounds, which she
begged to have instantly advanced.
The boy came back grinning, and holding up his hands, and said,
"Miss, there's a fine piece of work upstairs! Master's in a peck of
troubles; but he says how he'll come down, if you'll stay till he's
got his things on."
"Does he keep his bed, then? I hope I have not made him rise?"
"No, Miss, he don't keep his bed, only he must get ready, for he
wears no great matters of cloaths when he's alone. You are to know,
Miss," lowering his voice, "that that day as he went abroad with our
sweep's cloaths on, he comed home in sich a pickle you never see! I
believe somebody'd knocked him in the kennel; so does Moll; but
don't you say as I told you! He's been special bad ever since. Moll
and I was as glad as could be, because he's so plaguy sharp; for, to
let you know, Miss, he's so near, it's partly a wonder how he lives
at all: and yet he's worth a power of money, too."
"Well, well," said Cecilia, not very desirous to encourage his
forwardness, "if I want any thing, I'll call for you."
The boy, however, glad to tell his tale, went on.
"Our Moll won't stay with him above a week longer, Miss, because she
says how she can get nothing to eat, but just some old stinking salt
meat, that's stayed in the butcher's shop so long, it would make a
horse sick to look at it. But Moll's pretty nice; howsever, Miss, to
let you know, we don't get a good meal so often as once a quarter!
why this last week we ha'n't had nothing at all but some dry musty
red herrings; so you may think, Miss, we're kept pretty sharp!"
He was now interrupted by hearing Mr Briggs coming down the stairs,
upon which, abruptly breaking off his complaints, he held up his
finger to his nose in token of secrecy, and ran hastily into the
kitchen.
The appearance of Mr Briggs was by no means rendered more attractive
by illness and negligence of dress. He had on a flannel gown and
night cap; his black beard, of many days' growth, was long and grim,
and upon his nose and one of his cheeks was a large patch of brown
paper, which, as he entered the room, he held on with both his
hands.
Cecilia made many apologies for having disturbed him, and some civil
enquiries concerning his health.
"Ay, ay," cried he, pettishly, "bad enough: all along of that
trumpery masquerade; wish I had not gone! Fool for my pains."
"When were you taken ill, Sir?"
"Met with an accident; got a fall, broke my head, like to have lost
my wig. Wish the masquerade at old Nick! thought it would cost
nothing, or would not have gone. Warrant sha'n't get me so soon to
another!"
"Did you fall in going home, Sir?"
"Ay, ay, plump in the kennel; could hardly get out of it; felt
myself a going, was afraid to tear my cloaths, knew the rascal would
make me pay for them, so by holding up the old sack, come bolt on my
face! off pops my wig; could not tell what to do; all as dark as
pitch!"
"Did not you call for help?"
"Nobody by but scrubs, knew they would not help for nothing.
Scrawled out as I could, groped about for my wig, found it at last,
all soused in the mud; stuck to my head like Turner's cerate,"
"I hope, then, you got into a hackney coach?"
"What for? to make things worse? was not bad enough, hay?--must pay
two shillings beside?"
"But how did you find yourself when you got home, Sir?"
"How? why wet as muck; my head all bumps, my cheek all cut, my nose
big as two! forced to wear a plaister; half ruined in vinegar. Got a
great cold; put me in a fever; never been well since."
"But have you had no advice, Sir? Should not you send for a
physician?"
"What to do, hay? fill me with jallop? can get it myself, can't I?
Had one once; was taken very bad, thought should have popt off;
began to flinch, sent for the doctor, proved nothing but a cheat!
cost me a guinea, gave it at fourth visit, and he never came again!
---warrant won't have no more!"
Then perceiving upon the table some dust from the black lead pencil,
"What's here?" cried he, angrily, "who's been cutting the pencil?
wish they were hanged; suppose it's the boy; deserves to be
horsewhipped: give him a good banging."
Cecilia immediately cleared him, by acknowledging she had herself
been the culprit.
"Ay, ay," cried he, "thought as much all the time! guessed how it
was; nothing but ruin and waste; sending for money, nobody knows
why; wanting 600 pounds--what to do? throw it in the dirt? Never
heard the like! Sha'n't have it, promise you that," nodding his
head, "shan't have no such thing!"
"Sha'n't have it?" cried Cecilia, much surprised, "why not, Sir?"
"Keep it for your husband; get you one soon: won't have no juggling.
Don't be in a hurry; one in my eye."
Cecilia then began a very earnest expostulation, assuring him she
really wanted the money, for an occasion which would not admit of
delay. Her remonstrances, however, he wholly disregarded, telling
her that girls knew nothing of the value of money, and ought not to
be trusted with it; that he would not hear of such extravagance, and
was resolved not to advance her a penny. Cecilia was both provoked
and confounded by a refusal so unexpected, and as she thought
herself bound in honour to Mr Harrel not to make known the motive of
her urgency, she was for some time totally silenced: till
recollecting her account with the bookseller, she determined to rest
her plea upon that, persuaded that he could not, at least, deny her
money to pay her own bills. He heard her, however, with the utmost
contempt; "Books?" he cried, "what do you want with books? do no
good; all lost time; words get no cash." She informed him his
admonitions were now too late, as she had already received them, and
must therefore necessarily pay for them. "No, no," cried he, "send
'em back, that's best; keep no such rubbish, won't turn to account;
do better without 'em." "That, Sir, will be impossible, for I have
had them some time, and cannot expect the bookseller to take them
again." "Must, must," cried he, "can't help himself; glad to have
'em too. Are but a minor, can't be made pay a farthing." Cecilia
with much indignation heard such fraud recommended, and told him she
could by no means consent to follow his advice. But she soon found,
to her utter amazement, that he steadily refused to give her any
other, or to bestow the slightest attention upon her expostulations,
sturdily saying that her uncle had left her a noble estate, and he
would take care to see it put in proper hands, by getting her a good
and careful husband.
"I have no intention, no wish, Sir," cried she, "to break into the
income or estate left me by my uncle; on the contrary, I hold them
sacred, and think myself bound in conscience never to live beyond
them: but the L10,000 bequeathed me by my Father, I regard as more
peculiarly my own property, and therefore think myself at liberty to
dispose of it as I please."
"What," cried he, in a rage, "make it over to a scrubby bookseller!
give it up for an old pot-hook? no, no, won't suffer it; sha'n't be,
sha'n't be, I say! if you want some books, go to Moorfields, pick up
enough at an old stall; get 'em at two pence a-piece; dear enough,
too."
Cecilia for some time hoped he was merely indulging his strange and
sordid humour by an opposition that was only intended to teize her;
but she soon found herself extremely mistaken: he was immoveable in
obstinacy, as he was incorrigible in avarice; he neither troubled
himself with enquiries nor reasoning, but was contented with
refusing her as a child might be refused, by peremptorily telling
her she did not know what she wanted, and therefore should not have
what she asked.
And with this answer, after all that she could urge, she was
compelled to leave the house, as he complained that his brown paper
plaister wanted fresh dipping in vinegar, and he could stay talking
no longer.
The disgust with which this behaviour filled her, was doubled by the
shame and concern of returning to the Harrels with her promise
unperformed; she deliberated upon every method that occurred to her
of still endeavouring to serve them, but could suggest nothing,
except trying to prevail upon Mr Delvile to interfere in her favour.
She liked not, indeed, the office of solicitation to so haughty a
man, but, having no other expedient, her repugnance gave way to her
generosity, and she ordered the chairmen to carry her to St James's
Square.
CHAPTER ii
A PERPLEXITY.
And here, at the door of his Father's house, and just ascending the
steps, she perceived young Delvile.
"Again!" cried he, handing her out of the chair, "surely some good
genius is at work for me this morning!"
She told him she should not have called so early, now she was
acquainted with the late hours of Mrs Delvile, but that she merely
meant to speak with his Father, for two minutes, upon business.
He attended her up stairs; and finding she was in haste, went
himself with her message to Mr Delvile: and soon returned with an
answer that he would wait upon her presently.
The strange speeches he had made to her when they first met in the
morning now recurring to her memory, she determined to have them
explained, and in order to lead to the subject, mentioned the
disagreeable situation in which he had found her, while she was
standing up to avoid the sight of the condemned malefactors.
"Indeed?" cried he, in a tone of voice somewhat incredulous, "and
was that the purpose for which you stood up?"
"Certainly, Sir;--what other could I have?"
"None, surely!" said he, smiling, "but the accident was singularly
opportune."
"Opportune?" cried Cecilia, staring, "how opportune? this is the
second time in the same morning that I am not able to understand
you!"
"How _should_ you understand what is so little intelligible?"
"I see you have some meaning which I cannot fathom, why, else,
should it be so extraordinary that I should endeavour to avoid a
mob? or how could it be opportune that I should happen to meet with
one?"
He laughed at first without making any answer; but perceiving she
looked at him with impatience, he half gaily, half reproachfully,
said, "Whence is it that young ladies, even such whose principles
are most strict, seem universally, in those affairs where their
affections are concerned, to think hypocrisy necessary, and deceit
amiable? and hold it graceful to disavow to-day, what they may
perhaps mean publicly to acknowledge to-morrow?"
Cecilia, who heard these questions with unfeigned astonishment,
looked at him with the utmost eagerness for an explanation.
"Do you so much wonder," he continued, "that I should have hoped in
Miss Beverley to have seen some deviation from such rules? and have
expected more openness and candour in a young lady who has given so
noble a proof of the liberality of her mind and understanding?"
"You amaze me beyond measure!" cried she, "what rules, what candour,
what liberality, do you mean?"
"Must I speak yet more plainly? and if I do, will you bear to hear
me?"
"Indeed I should be extremely glad if you would give me leave to
understand you."
"And may I tell you what has charmed me, as well as what I have
presumed to wonder at?"
"You may tell me any thing, if you will but be less mysterious."
"Forgive then the frankness you invite, and let me acknowledge to
you how greatly I honour the nobleness of your conduct. Surrounded
as you are by the opulent and the splendid, unshackled by
dependance, unrestrained by authority, blest by nature with all that
is attractive, by situation with all that is desirable,--to slight
the rich, and disregard the powerful, for the purer pleasure of
raising oppressed merit, and giving to desert that wealth in which
alone it seemed deficient--how can a spirit so liberal be
sufficiently admired, or a choice of so much dignity be too highly
extolled?"
"I find," cried Cecilia, "I must forbear any further enquiry, for
the more I hear, the less I understand."
"Pardon me, then," cried he, "if here I return to my first question:
whence is it that a young lady who can think so nobly, and act so
disinterestedly, should not be uniformly great, simple in truth, and
unaffected in sincerity? Why should she be thus guarded, where
frankness would do her so much honour? Why blush in owning what all
others may blush in envying?"
"Indeed you perplex me intolerably," cried Cecilia, with some
vexation, "why Sir, will you not be more explicit?"
"And why, Madam," returned he, with a laugh, "would you tempt me to
be more impertinent? have I not said strange things already?"
"Strange indeed," cried she, "for not one of them can I comprehend!"
"Pardon, then," cried he, "and forget them all! I scarce know myself
what urged me to say them, but I began inadvertently, without
intending to go on, and I have proceeded involuntarily, without
knowing how to stop. The fault, however, is ultimately your own, for
the sight of you creates an insurmountable desire to converse with
you, and your conversation a propensity equally incorrigible to take
some interest in your welfare."
He would then have changed the discourse, and Cecilia, ashamed of
pressing him further, was for some time silent; but when one of the
servants came to inform her that his master meant to wait upon her
directly, her unwillingness to leave the matter in suspense induced
her, somewhat abruptly, to say, "Perhaps, Sir, you are thinking of
Mr Belfield?"
"A happy conjecture!" cried he, "but so wild a one, I cannot but
marvel how it should occur to you!"
"Well, Sir," said she, "I must acknowledge I now understand your
meaning; but with respect to what has given rise to it, I am as much
a stranger as ever."
The entrance of Mr Delvile here closed the conversation.
He began with his usual ostentatious apologies, declaring he had so
many people to attend, so many complaints to hear, and so many
grievances to redress, that it was impossible for him to wait upon
her sooner, and not without difficulty that he waited upon her now.
Mean time his son almost immediately retired: and Cecilia, instead
of listening to this harangue, was only disturbing herself with
conjectures upon what had just passed. She saw that young Delvile
concluded she was absolutely engaged to Mr Belfield, and though she
was better pleased that any suspicion should fall there than upon
Sir Robert Floyer, she was yet both provoked and concerned to be
suspected at all. An attack so earnest from almost any other person
could hardly have failed being very offensive to her, but in the
manners of young Delvile good breeding was so happily blended with
frankness, that his freedom seemed merely to result from the
openness of his disposition, and even in its very act pleaded its
own excuse.
Her reverie was at length interrupted by Mr Delvile's desiring to
know in what he could serve her.
She told him she had present occasion for L600, and hoped he would
not object to her taking up that sum.
"Six hundred pounds," said he, after some deliberation, "is rather
an extraordinary demand for a young lady in your situation; your
allowance is considerable, you have yet no house, no equipage, no
establishment; your expences, I should imagine, cannot be very
great--"
He stopt, and seemed weighing her request.
Cecilia, shocked at appearing extravagant, yet too generous to
mention Mr Harrel, had again recourse to her bookseller's bill,
which she told him she was anxious to discharge.
"A bookseller's bill?" cried he; "and do you want L600 for a
bookseller's bill?"
"No, Sir," said she, stammering, "no,--not all for that,--I have
some other--I have a particular occasion--"
"But what bill at all," cried he, with much surprise, "can a young
lady have with a bookseller? The Spectator, Tatler and Guardian,
would make library sufficient for any female in the kingdom, nor do
I think it like a gentlewoman to have more. Besides, if you ally
yourself in such a manner as I shall approve and recommend, you
will, in all probability, find already collected more books than
there can ever be any possible occasion for you to look into. And
let me counsel you to remember that a lady, whether so called from
birth or only from fortune, should never degrade herself by being
put on a level with writers, and such sort of people."
Cecilia thanked him for his advice, but confessed that upon the
present occasion it came too late, as the books were now actually in
her own possession.
"And have you taken," cried he, "such a measure as this without
consulting me? I thought I had assured you my opinion was always at
your service when you were in any dilemma."
"Yes, Sir," answered Cecilia; "but I knew how much you were
occupied, and wished to avoid taking up your time."
"I cannot blame your modesty," he replied, "and therefore, as you
have contracted the debt, you are, in honour, bound to pay it. Mr
Briggs, however, has the entire management of your fortune, my many
avocations obliging me to decline so laborious a trust; apply,
therefore, to him, and, as things are situated, I will make no
opposition to your demand."
"I have already, Sir," said Cecilia, "spoke to Mr Briggs, but--"
"You went to him first, then?" interrupted Mr Delvile, with a look
of much displeasure.
"I was unwilling, Sir, to trouble you till I found it unavoidable."
She then acquainted him with Mr Briggs' refusal, and entreated he
would do her the favour to intercede in her behalf, that the money
might no longer be denied her.
Every word she spoke his pride seemed rising to resent, and when,
she had done, after regarding her some time with apparent
indignation, he said, "_I_ intercede! _I_ become an
agent!"
Cecilia, amazed to find him thus violently irritated, made a very
earnest apology for her request; but without paying her any
attention, he walked up and down the room, exclaiming, "an agent!
and to Mr Briggs!--This is an affront I could never have expected!
why did I degrade myself by accepting this humiliating office? I
ought to have known better!" Then, turning to Cecilia, "Child," he
added, "for whom is it you take me, and for what?"
Cecilia again, though affronted in her turn, began some
protestations of respect; but haughtily interrupting her, he said,
"If of me, and of my rank in life you judge by Mr Briggs or by Mr
Harrel, I may be subject to proposals such as these every day;
suffer me, therefore, for your better information, to hint to you,
that the head of an ancient and honourable house, is apt to think
himself somewhat superior to people but just rising from dust and
obscurity."
Thunderstruck by this imperious reproof, she could attempt no
further vindication; but when he observed her consternation, he was
somewhat appeased, and hoping he had now impressed her with a proper
sense of his dignity, he more gently said, "You did not, I believe,
intend to insult me."
"Good Heaven, Sir; no!" cried Cecilia, "nothing was more distant
from my thoughts: if my expressions have been faulty, it has been
wholly from ignorance."
"Well, well, we will think then no more of it."
She then said she would no longer detain him, and, without daring to
again mention her petition, she wished him good morning.
He suffered her to go, yet, as she left the room, graciously said,
"Think no more of my displeasure, for it is over: I see you were not
aware of the extraordinary thing you proposed. I am sorry I cannot
possibly assist you; on any other occasion you may depend upon my
services; but you know Mr Briggs, you have seen him yourself,--
judge, then, how a man of any fashion is to accommodate himself with
such a person!"
Cecilia concurred, and, courtsying, took her leave.
"Ah!" thought she, in her way home, "how happy is it for me that I
followed the advice of Mr Monckton! else I had surely made interest
to become an inmate of that house, and then indeed, as he wisely
foresaw, I should inevitably have been overwhelmed by this pompous
insolence! no family, however amiable, could make amends for such a
master of it."
CHAPTER iii
AN ADMONITION.
The Harrels and Mr Arnott waited the return of Cecilia with the
utmost impatience; she told them with much concern the failure of
her embassy, which Mr Harrel heard with visible resentment and
discontent, while Mr Arnott, entreating him not to think of it,
again made an offer of his services, and declared he would disregard
all personal convenience for the pleasure of making him and his
sister easy.
Cecilia was much mortified that she had not the power to act the
same part, and asked Mr Harrel whether he believed his own influence
with Mr Briggs would be more successful.
"No, no," answered he, "the old curmudgeon would but the rather
refuse. I know his reason, and therefore am sure all pleas will be
vain. He has dealings in the alley, and I dare say games with your
money as if it were his own. There is, indeed, one way--but I do not
think you would like it--though I protest I hardly know why not--
however, 'tis as well let alone."
Cecilia insisted upon hearing what he meant, and, after some
hesitation, he hinted that there were means by which, with very
little inconvenience, she might borrow the money.
Cecilia, with that horror natural to all unpractised minds at the
first idea of contracting a voluntary debt, started at this
suggestion, and seemed very ill disposed to listen to it. Mr Harrel,
perceiving her repugnance, turned to Mr Arnott, and said, "Well, my
good brother, I hardly know how to suffer you to sell out at such a
loss, but yet, my present necessity is so urgent--"
"Don't mention it," cried Mr Arnott, "I am very sorry I let you know
it; be certain, however, that while I have anything, it is yours and
my sister's."
The two gentlemen we then retiring together; but Cecilia, shocked
for Mr Arnott, though unmoved by Mr Harrel, stopt them to enquire
what was the way by which it was meant she could borrow the money?
Mr Harrel seemed averse to answer, but she would not be refused; and
then he mentioned a Jew, of whose honesty he had made undoubted
trial, and who, as she was so near being of age, would accept very
trifling interest for whatever she should like to take up.
The heart of Cecilia recoiled at the very mention of a _Jew_,
and _taking up money upon interest_; but, impelled strongly by
her own generosity to emulate that of Mr Arnott, she agreed, after
some hesitation, to have recourse to this method.
Mr Harrel then made some faint denials, and Mr Arnott protested he
had a thousand times rather sell out at any discount, than consent
to her taking such a measure; but, when her first reluctance was
conquered, all that he urged served but to shew his worthiness in a
stronger light, and only increased her desire of saving him from
such repeated imposition.
Her total ignorance in what manner to transact this business, made
her next put it wholly into the hands of Mr Harrel, whom she begged
to take up 600 pounds, upon such terms as he thought equitable, and
to which, what ever they might be, she would sign her name.
He seemed somewhat surprised at the sum, but without any question or
objection undertook the commission: and Cecilia would not lessen it,
because unwilling to do more for the security of the luxurious Mr
Harrel, than for the distresses of the laborious Hills.
Nothing could be more speedy than the execution of this affair, Mr
Harrel was diligent and expert, the whole was settled that morning,
and, giving to the Jew her bond for the payment at the interest he
required, she put into the hands of Mr Harrel L350, for which he
gave his receipt, and she kept the rest for her own purposes.
She intended the morning after this transaction to settle her
account with the bookseller. When she went into the parlour to
breakfast, she was somewhat surprised to see Mr Harrel seated there,
in earnest discourse with his wife. Fearful of interrupting a
_tete-a-tete_ so uncommon, she would have retired, but Mr
Harrel, calling after her, said, "O pray come in! I am only telling
Priscilla a piece of my usual ill luck. You must know I happen to be
in immediate want of L200, though only for three or four days, and I
sent to order honest old Aaron to come hither directly with the
money, but it so happens that he went out of town the moment he had
done with us yesterday, and will not be back again this week. Now I
don't believe there is another Jew in the kingdom who will let me
have money upon the same terms; they are such notorious rascals,
that I hate the very thought of employing them."
Cecilia, who could not but understand what this meant, was too much
displeased both by his extravagance and his indelicacy, to feel at
all inclined to change the destination of the money she had just
received; and therefore coolly agreed that it was unfortunate, but
added nothing more.
"O, it is provoking indeed," cried he, "for the extra-interest I
must pay one of those extortioners is absolutely so much money
thrown away."
Cecilia, still without noticing these hints, began her breakfast. Mr
Harrel then said he would take his tea with them: and, while he was
buttering some dry toast, exclaimed, as if from sudden recollection,
"O Lord, now I think of it, I believe, Miss Beverley, you can lend
me this money yourself for a day or two. The moment old Aaron comes
to town, I will pay you."
Cecilia, whose generosity, however extensive, was neither
thoughtless nor indiscriminate, found something so repulsive in this
gross procedure, that instead of assenting to his request with her
usual alacrity, she answered very gravely that the money she had
just received was already appropriated to a particular purpose, and
she knew not how to defer making use of it.
Mr Harrel was extremely chagrined by this reply, which was by no
means what he expected; but, tossing down a dish of tea, he began
humming an air, and soon recovered his usual unconcern.
In a few minutes, ringing his bell, he desired a servant to go to Mr
Zackery, and inform him that he wanted to speak with him
immediately.
"And now," said he, with a look in which vexation seemed struggling
with carelessness, "the thing is done! I don't like, indeed, to get
into such hands, for 'tis hard ever to get out of them when once one
begins,--and hitherto I have kept pretty clear. But there's no help
for it--Mr Arnott cannot just now assist me--and so the thing must
take its course. Priscilla, why do you look so grave?"
"I am thinking how unlucky it is my Brother should happen to be
unable to lend you this money."
"O, don't think about it; I shall get rid of the man very soon I
dare say--I hope so, at least--I am sure I mean it."
Cecilia now grew a little disturbed; she looked at Mrs. Harrel, who
seemed also uneasy, and then, with some hesitation, said "Have you
really never, Sir, employed this man before?"
"Never in my life: never any but old Aaron. I dread the whole race;
I have a sort of superstitious notion that if once I get into their
clutches, I shall never be my own man again; and that induced me to
beg your assistance. However, 'tis no great matter."
She then began to waver; she feared there might be future mischief
as well as present inconvenience, in his applying to new usurers,
and knowing she had now the power to prevent him, thought herself
half cruel in refusing to exert it. She wished to consult Mr.
Monckton, but found it necessary to take her measures immediately,
as the Jew was already sent for, and must in a few moments be either
employed or discarded.
Much perplext how to act, between a desire of doing good, and a fear
of encouraging evil, she weighed each side hastily, but while still
uncertain which ought to preponderate, her kindness for Mrs. Harrel
interfered, and, in the hope of rescuing her husband from further
bad practices, she said she would postpone her own business for the
few days he mentioned, rather than see him compelled to open any new
account with so dangerous a set of men.
He thanked her in his usual negligent manner, and accepting the 200
pounds, gave her his receipt for it, and a promise she should be paid
in a week.
Mrs. Harrel, however, seemed more grateful, and with many embraces
spoke her sense of this friendly good nature. Cecilia, happy from
believing she had revived in her some spark of sensibility,
determined to avail herself of so favourable a symptom, and enter at
once upon the disagreeable task she had set herself, of representing
to her the danger of her present situation.
As soon, therefore, as breakfast was done, and Mr Arnott, who came
in before it was over, was gone, with a view to excite her attention
by raising her curiosity, she begged the favour of a private
conference in her own room, upon matters of some importance.
She began with hoping that the friendship in which they had so long
lived would make her pardon the liberty she was going to take, and
which nothing less than their former intimacy, joined to strong
apprehensions for her future welfare, could authorise; "But oh
Priscilla!" she continued, "with open eyes to see your danger, yet
not warn you of it, would be a reserve treacherous in a friend, and
cruel even in a fellow-creature."
"What danger?" cried Mrs Harrel, much alarmed, "do you think me ill?
do I look consumptive?"
"Yes, consumptive indeed!" said Cecilia, "but not, I hope, in your
constitution."
And then, with all the tenderness in her power, she came to the
point, and conjured her without delay to retrench her expences, and
change her thoughtless way of life for one more considerate and
domestic.
Mrs Harrel, with much simplicity, assured her _she did nothing but
what every body else did_, and that it was quite impossible for
her to _appear in the world_ in any other manner.
"But how are you to appear hereafter?" cried Cecilia, "if now you
live beyond your income, you must consider that in time your income
by such depredations will be exhausted."
"But I declare to you," answered Mrs Harrel, "I never run in debt
for more than half a year, for as soon as I receive my own money, I
generally pay it away every shilling: and so borrow what I want till
pay day comes round again."
"And that," said Cecilia, "seems a method expressly devised for
keeping you eternally comfortless: pardon me, however, for speaking
so openly, but I fear Mr Harrel himself must be even still less
attentive and accurate in his affairs, or he could not so frequently
be embarrassed. And what is to be the result? look but, my dear
Priscilla, a little forward, and you will tremble at the prospect
before you!"
Mrs Harrel seemed frightened at this speech, and begged to know what
she would have them do?
Cecilia then, with equal wisdom and friendliness, proposed a general
reform in the household, the public and private expences of both;
she advised that a strict examination might be made into the state
of their affairs, that all their bills should be called in, and
faithfully paid, and that an entire new plan of life should be
adopted, according to the situation of their fortune and income when
cleared of all incumbrances.
"Lord, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs Harrel, with a look of astonishment,
"why Mr Harrel would no more do all this than fly! If I was only to
make such a proposal, I dare say he would laugh in my face."
"And why?"
"Why?--why because it would seem such an odd thing--it's what nobody
thinks of--though I am sure I am very much obliged to you for
mentioning it. Shall we go down stairs? I think I heard somebody
come in.
"No matter who comes in," said Cecilia, "reflect for a moment upon
my proposal, and, at least, if you disapprove it, suggest something
more eligible."
"Oh, it's a very good proposal, that I agree," said Mrs Harrel,
looking very weary, "but only the thing is it's quite impossible."
"Why so? why is it impossible?"
"Why because--dear, I don't know--but I am sure it is."
"But what is your reason? What makes you sure of it?"
"Lord, I can't tell--but I know it is--because--I am very certain it
is."
Argument such as this, though extremely fatiguing to the
understanding of Cecilia, had yet no power to _blunt her
purpose_: she warmly expostulated against the weakness of her
defence, strongly represented the imprudence of her conduct, and
exhorted her by every tie of justice, honour and discretion to set
about a reformation.
"Why what can I do?" cried Mrs Harrel, impatiently, "one must live a
little like other people. You would not have me stared at, I
suppose; and I am sure I don't know what I do that every body else
does not do too."
"But were it not better," said Cecilia, with more energy, "to think
less of _other people_, and more of _yourself?_ to consult
your own fortune, and your own situation in life, instead of being
blindly guided by those of _other people_? If, indeed, _other
people_ would be responsible for your losses, for the diminution
of your wealth, and for the disorder of your affairs, then might you
rationally make their way of life the example of yours: but you
cannot flatter yourself such will be the case; you know better; your
losses, your diminished fortune, your embarrassed circumstances will
be all your own! pitied, perhaps, by some, but blamed by more, and
assisted by none!"
"Good Lord, Miss Beverley!" cried Mrs Harrel, starting, "you talk
just as if we were ruined!"
"I mean not that," replied Cecilia, "but I would fain, by pointing
out your danger, prevail with you to prevent in time so dreadful a
catastrophe."
Mrs Harrel, more affronted than alarmed, heard this answer with much
displeasure, and after a sullen hesitation, peevishly said, "I must
own I don't take it very kind of you to say such frightful things to
me; I am sure we only live like the rest of the world, and I don't
see why a man of Mr Harrel's fortune should live any worse. As to
his having now and then a little debt or two, it is nothing but what
every body else has. You only think it so odd, because you a'n't
used to it: but you are quite mistaken if you suppose he does not
mean to pay, for he told me this morning that as soon as ever he
receives his rents, he intends to discharge every bill he has in the
world."
"I am very glad to hear it," answered Cecilia, "and I heartily wish
he may have the resolution to adhere to his purpose. I feared you
would think me impertinent, but you do worse in believing me unkind:
friendship and good-will could alone have induced me to hazard what
I have said to you. I must, however, have done; though I cannot
forbear adding that I hope what has already passed will sometimes
recur to you."
They then separated; Mrs Harrel half angry at remonstrances she
thought only censorious, and Cecilia offended at her pettishness and
folly, though grieved at her blindness.
She was soon, however, recompensed for this vexation by a visit from
Mrs Delvile, who, finding her alone, sat with her some time, and by
her spirit, understanding and elegance, dissipated all her chagrin.
From another circumstance, also, she received much pleasure, though
a little perplexity; Mr Arnott brought her word that Mr Belfield,
almost quite well, had actually left his lodgings, and was gone into
the country.
She now half suspected that the account of his illness given her by
young Delvile, was merely the effect of his curiosity to discover
her sentiments of him; yet when she considered how foreign to his
character appeared every species of artifice, she exculpated him
from the design, and concluded that the impatient spirit of Belfield
had hurried him away, when really unfit for travelling. She had no
means, however, to hear more of him now he had quitted the town, and
therefore, though uneasy, she was compelled to be patient.
In the evening she had again a visit from Mr Monckton, who, though
he was now acquainted how much she was at home, had the forbearance
to avoid making frequent use of that knowledge, that his attendance
might escape observation.
Cecilia, as usual, spoke to him of all her affairs with the utmost
openness; and as her mind was now chiefly occupied by her
apprehensions for the Harrels, she communicated to him the
extravagance of which they were guilty, and hinted at the distress
that from time to time it occasioned; but the assistance she had
afforded them her own delicacy prevented her mentioning.
Mr Monckton scrupled not from this account instantly to pronounce
Harrel a _ruined man_; and thinking Cecilia, from her
connection with him, in much danger of being involved in his future
difficulties, he most earnestly exhorted her to suffer no inducement
to prevail with her to advance him any money, confidently affirming
she would have little chance of being ever repaid.
Cecilia listened to this charge with much alarm, but readily
promised future circumspection. She confessed to him the conference
she had had in the morning with Mrs Harrel, and after lamenting her
determined neglect of her affairs, she added, "I cannot but own that
my esteem for her, even more than my affection, has lessened almost
every day since I have been in her house; but this morning, when I
ventured to speak to her with earnestness, I found her powers of
reasoning so weak, and her infatuation to luxury and expence so
strong, that I have ever since felt ashamed of my own discernment in
having formerly selected her for my friend."
"When you gave her that title," said Mr Monckton, "you had little
choice in your power; her sweetness and good-nature attracted you;
childhood is never troubled with foresight, and youth is seldom
difficult: she was lively and pleasing, you were generous and
affectionate; your acquaintance with her was formed while you were
yet too young to know your own worth, your fondness of her grew from
habit, and before the inferiority of her parts had weakened your
regard, by offending your judgment, her early marriage separated you
from her entirely. But now you meet again the scene is altered;
three years of absence spent in the cultivation of an understanding
naturally of the first order, by encreasing your wisdom, has made
you more fastidious; while the same time spent by her in mere
idleness and shew, has hurt her disposition, without adding to her
knowledge, and robbed her of her natural excellencies, without
enriching her with acquired ones. You see her now with impartiality,
for you see her almost as a stranger, and all those deficiencies
which retirement and inexperience had formerly concealed, her
vanity, and her superficial acquaintance with the world, have now
rendered glaring. But folly weakens all bands: remember, therefore,
if you would form a solid friendship, to consult not only the heart
but the head, not only the temper, but the understanding."
"Well, then," said Cecilia, "at least it must be confessed I have
judiciously chosen _you_!"
"You have, indeed, done me the highest honour," he answered.
They then talked of Belfield, and Mr Monckton confirmed the account
of Mr Arnott, that he had left London in good health. After which,
he enquired if she had seen any thing more of the Delviles?
"Yes," said Cecilia, "Mrs. Delvile called upon me this morning. She
is a delightful woman; I am sorry you know her not enough to do her
justice."
"Is she civil to you?"
"Civil? she is all kindness!"
"Then depend upon it she has something in view: whenever that is not
the case she is all insolence. And Mr Delvile,--pray what do you
think of him?"
"O, I think him insufferable! and I cannot sufficiently thank you
for that timely caution which prevented my change of habitation. I
would not live under the same roof with him for the world!"
"Well, and do you not now begin also to see the son properly?"
"Properly? I don't understand you."
"Why as the very son of such parents, haughty and impertinent."
"No, indeed; he has not the smallest resemblance [to] his father,
and if he resembles his mother, it is only what every one must wish
who impartially sees her."
"You know not that family. But how, indeed, should you, when they
are in a combination to prevent your getting that knowledge? They
have all their designs upon you, and if you are not carefully upon
your guard, you will be the dupe to them."
"What can you possibly mean?"
"Nothing but what every body else must immediately see; they have a
great share of pride, and a small one of wealth; you seem by fortune
to be flung in their way, and doubtless they mean not to neglect so
inviting an opportunity of repairing their estates."
"Indeed you are mistaken; I am certain they have no such intention:
on the contrary, they all even teasingly persist in thinking me
already engaged elsewhere."
She then gave him a history of their several suspicions.
"The impertinence of report," she added, "has so much convinced them
that Sir Robert Floyer and Mr Belfield fought merely as rivals, that
I can only clear myself of partiality for one of them, to have it
instantly concluded I feel it for the other. And, far from seeming
hurt that I appear to be disposed of, Mr Delvile openly seconds the
pretensions of Sir Robert, and his son officiously persuades me that
I am already Mr Belfield's."
"Tricks, nothing but tricks to discover your real situation."
He then gave her some general cautions to be upon her guard against
their artifices, and changing the subject, talked, for the rest of
his visit, upon matters of general entertainment.
CHAPTER iv
AN EVASION.
Cecilia now for about a fortnight passed her time without incident;
the Harrels continued their accustomed dissipation, Sir Robert
Floyer, without even seeking a private conference, persevered in his
attentions, and Mr Arnott, though still silent and humble, seemed
only to live by the pleasure of beholding her. She spent two whole
days with Mrs Delvile, both of which served to confirm her
admiration of that lady and of her son; and she joined the parties
of the Harrels, or stayed quietly at home, according to her spirits
and inclinations: while she was visited by Mr Monckton often enough
to satisfy him with her proceedings, yet too seldom to betray either
to herself or to the world any suspicion of his designs.
Her L200 pounds however, which was to have been returned at the end
if the first week, though a fortnight was now elapsed, had not even
been mentioned; she began to grow very impatient, but not knowing
what course to pursue, and wanting courage to remind Mr Harrel of
his promise, she still waited the performance of it without
speaking.
At this time, preparations were making in the family for removing to
Violet-bank to spend the Easter holidays: but Cecilia, who was too
much grieved at such perpetual encrease of unnecessary expences to
have any enjoyment in new prospects of entertainment, had at present
some business of her own which gave her full employment.
The poor carpenter, whose family she had taken under her protection,
was just dead, and, as soon as the last duties had been paid him,
she sent for his widow, and after trying to console her for the loss
she had suffered, assured her she was immediately ready to fulfil
the engagement into which she had entered, of assisting her to
undertake some better method of procuring a livelihood; and
therefore desired to know in what manner she could serve her, and
what she thought herself able to do.
The good woman, pouring forth thanks and praises innumerable,
answered that she had a Cousin, who had offered, for a certain
premium, to take her into partnership in a small haberdasher's shop.
"But then, madam," continued she, "it's quite morally impossible I
should raise such a sum, or else, to be sure, such a shop as that,
now I am grown so poorly, would be quite a heaven upon earth to me:
for my strength, madam, is almost all gone away, and when I do any
hard work, it's quite a piteous sight to see me, for I am all in a
tremble after it, just as if I had an ague, and yet all the time my
hands, madam, will be burning like a coal!"
"You have indeed been overworked," said Cecilia, "and it is high
time your feeble frame should have some rest. What is the sum your
cousin demands?"
"O madam, more than I should be able to get together in all my life!
for earn what I will, it goes as fast as it conies, because there's
many mouths, and small pay, and two of the little ones that can't
help at all;--and there's no Billy, madam, to work for us now!"
"But tell me, what is the sum?"
"Sixty pound, madam."
"You shall have it!" cried the generous Cecilia, "if the situation
will make you happy, I will give it you myself."
The poor woman wept her thanks, and was long before she could
sufficiently compose herself to answer the further questions of
Cecilia, who next enquired what could be done with the children? Mrs
Hill, however, hitherto hopeless of such a provision for herself,
had for them formed no plan. She told her, therefore, to go to her
cousin, and consult upon this subject, as well as to make
preparations for her own removal.
The arrangement of this business now became her favourite
occupation. She went herself to the shop, which was a very small one
in Fetter-lane, and spoke with Mrs Roberts, the cousin; who agreed
to take the eldest girl, now sixteen years of age, by way of helper;
but said she had room for no other: however, upon Cecilia's offering
to raise the premium, she consented that the two little children
should also live in the house, where they might be under the care of
their mother and sister.
There were still two others to be disposed of; but as no immediate
method of providing for them occurred to Cecilia, she determined,
for the present, to place them in some cheap school, where they
might be taught plain work, which could not but prove a useful
qualification for whatever sort of business they might hereafter
attempt.
Her plan was to bestow upon Mrs Hill and her children L100 by way of
putting them all into a decent way of living; and, then, from time
to time, to make them such small presents as their future exigencies
or changes of situation might require.
Now, therefore, payment from Mr Harrel became immediately necessary,
for she had only L50 of the L600 she had taken up in her own
possession, and her customary allowance was already so appropriated
that she could make from it no considerable deduction.
There is something in the sight of laborious indigence so affecting
and so respectable, that it renders dissipation peculiarly
contemptible, and doubles the odium of extravagance: every time
Cecilia saw this poor family, her aversion to the conduct and the
principles of Mr Harrel encreased, while her delicacy of shocking or
shaming him diminished, and she soon acquired for them what she had
failed to acquire for herself, the spirit and resolution to claim
her debt.
One morning, therefore, as he was quitting the breakfast room, she
hastily arose, and following, begged to have a moment's discourse
with him. They went together to the library, and after some
apologies, and much hesitation, she told him she fancied he had
forgotten the L200 which she had lent him.
"The L200," cried he; "O, ay, true!--I protest it had escaped me.
Well, but you don't want it immediately?"
"Indeed I do, if you can conveniently spare it."
"O yes, certainly!--without the least doubt!--Though now I think of
it--it's extremely unlucky, but really just at this time--why did
not you put me in mind of it before?"
"I hoped you would have remembered it yourself."
"I could have paid you two days ago extremely well--however, you
shall certainly have it very soon, that you may depend upon, and a
day or two can make no great difference to you."
He then wished her good morning, and left her.
Cecilia, very much provoked, regretted that she had ever lent it at
all, and determined for the future strictly to follow the advice of
Mr. Monckton in trusting him no more.
Two or three days passed on, but still no notice was taken either of
the payment or of the debt. She then resolved to renew her
application, and be more serious and more urgent with him; but she
found, to her utter surprise, this was not in her power, and that
though she lived under the same roof with him, she had no
opportunity to enforce her claim. Mr. Harrel, whenever she desired
to speak with him, protested he was so much hurried he had not a
moment to spare: and even when, tired of his excuses, she pursued
him out of the room, he only quickened his speed, smiling, however,
and bowing, and calling out "I am vastly sorry, but I am so late now
I cannot stop an instant; however, as soon as I come back, I shall
be wholly at your command."
When he came back, however, Sir Robert Floyer, or some other
gentleman, was sure to be with him, and the difficulties of
obtaining an audience were sure to be encreased. And by this method,
which he constantly practised, of avoiding any private conversation,
he frustrated all her schemes of remonstrating upon his delay, since
her resentment, however great, could never urge her to the
indelicacy of dunning him in presence of a third person.
She was now much perplext herself how to put into execution her
plans for the Hills: she knew it would be as vain to apply for money
to Mr. Briggs, as for payment to Mr. Harrel. Her word, however, had
been given, and her word she held sacred: she resolved, therefore,
for the present, to bestow upon them the 50 pounds she still retained,
and, if the rest should be necessary before she became of age, to
spare it, however inconveniently, from her private allowance, which,
by the will of her uncle, was 500 pounds a year, 250 pounds of which
Mr Harrel received for her board and accommodations.
Having settled this matter in her own mind, she went to the lodging
of Mrs Hill, in order to conclude the affair. She found her and all
her children, except the youngest, hard at work, and their honest
industry so much strengthened her compassion, that her wishes for
serving them grew every instant more liberal.
Mrs Hill readily undertook to make her cousin accept half the
premium for the present, which would suffice to fix her, with three
of her children, in the shop: Cecilia then went with her to Fetter-
lane, and there, drawing up herself an agreement for their entering
into partnership, she made each of them sign it and take a copy, and
kept a third in her own possession: after which, she gave a
promissory note to Mrs Roberts for the rest of the money.
She presented Mrs Hill, also, with 10 pounds to clothe them all
decently, and enable her to send two of the children to school;
and assured her that she would herself pay for their board and
instruction, till she should be established in her business, and
have power to save money for that purpose.
She then put herself into a chair to return home, followed by the
prayers and blessings of the whole family.
CHAPTER v
AN ADVENTURE.
Never had the heart of Cecilia felt so light, so gay, so glowing as
after the transaction of this affair: her life had never appeared to
her so important, nor her wealth so valuable. To see five helpless
children provided for by herself, rescued from the extremes of
penury and wretchedness, and put in a way to become useful to
society, and comfortable to themselves; to behold their feeble
mother, snatched from the hardship of that labour which, over-
powering her strength, had almost destroyed her existence, now
placed in a situation where a competent maintenance might be earned
without fatigue, and the remnant of her days pass in easy
employment--to view such sights, and have power to say "_These
deeds are mine!_" what, to a disposition fraught with tenderness
and benevolence, could give purer self-applause, or more exquisite
satisfaction?
Such were the pleasures which regaled the reflections of Cecilia
when, in her way home, having got out of her chair to walk through
the upper part of Oxford Street, she was suddenly met by the old
gentleman whose emphatical addresses to her had so much excited her
astonishment.
He was passing quick on, but stopping the moment he perceived her,
he sternly called out "Are you proud? are you callous? are you hard
of heart so soon?"
"Put me, if you please, to some trial!" cried Cecilia, with the
virtuous courage of a self-acquitting conscience.
"I already have!" returned he, indignantly, "and already I have
found you faulty!"
"I am sorry to hear it," said the amazed Cecilia, "but at least I
hope you will tell me in what?"
"You refused me admittance," he answered, "yet I was your friend,
yet I was willing to prolong the term of your genuine
[tranquillity]! I pointed out to you a method of preserving peace
with your own soul; I came to you in behalf of the poor, and
instructed you how to merit their prayers; you heard me, you were
susceptible, you complied! I meant to have repeated the lesson, to
have tuned your whole heart to compassion, and to have taught you
the sad duties of sympathising humanity. For this purpose I called
again, but again I was not admitted! Short was the period of my
absence, yet long enough for the completion of your downfall!"
"Good heaven," cried Cecilia, "how dreadful is this language! when
have you called, Sir? I never heard you had been at the house. Far
from refusing you admittance, I wished to see you."
"Indeed?" cried he, with some softness, "and are you, in truth, not
proud? not callous? not hard of heart? Follow me, then, and visit
the humble and the poor, follow me, and give comfort to the fallen
and dejected!"
At this invitation, however desirous to do good, Cecilia started;
the strangeness of the inviter, his flightiness, his authoritative
manner, and the uncertainty whither or to whom he might carry her,
made her fearful of proceeding: yet a benevolent curiosity to see as
well as serve the objects of his recommendation, joined to the
eagerness of youthful integrity to clear her own character from the
aspersion of hard-heartedness, soon conquered her irresolution, and
making a sign to her servant to keep near her, she followed as her
conductor led.
He went on silently and solemnly till he came to Swallow-street,
then turning into it, he stopt at a small and mean-looking house,
knocked at the door, and without asking any question of the man who
opened it, beckoned her to come after him, and hastened up some
narrow winding stairs.
Cecilia again hesitated; but when she recollected that this old man,
though little known, was frequently seen, and though with few people
acquainted, was by many personally recognized, she thought it
impossible he could mean her any injury. She ordered her servant,
however, to come in, and bid him keep walking up and down the stairs
till she returned to him. And then she obeyed the directions of her
guide.
He proceeded till he came to the second floor, then, again beckoning
her to follow him, he opened a door, and entered a small and very
meanly furnished apartment.
And here, to her infinite astonishment, she perceived, employed in
washing some china, a very lovely young woman, [genteelly] dressed,
and appearing hardly seventeen years of age.
The moment they came in, with evident marks of confusion, she
instantly gave over her work, hastily putting the basin she was
washing upon the table, and endeavouring to hide the towel with
which she was wiping it behind her chair.
The old gentleman, advancing to her with quickness, said, "How is he
now? Is he better? will he live?"
"Heaven forbid he should not!" answered the young woman with
emotion, "but, indeed, he is no better!"
"Look here," said he, pointing to Cecilia, "I have brought you one
who has power to serve you, and to relieve your distress: one who is
rolling in affluence, a stranger to ill, a novice in the world;
unskilled in the miseries she is yet to endure, unconscious of the
depravity into which she is to sink! receive her benefactions while
yet she is untainted, satisfied that while, she aids you, she is
blessing herself!"
The young woman, blushing and abashed, said, "You are very good to
me, Sir, but there is no occasion--there is no need--I have not any
necessity--I am far from being so very much in want--"
"Poor, simple soul!" interrupted the old man, "and art thou ashamed
of poverty? Guard, guard thyself from other shames, and the
wealthiest may envy thee! Tell her thy story, plainly, roundly,
truly; abate nothing of thy indigence, repress nothing of her
liberality. The Poor not impoverished by their own Guilt, are Equals
of the Affluent, not enriched by their own Virtue. Come, then, and
let me present ye to each other! young as ye both are, with many
years and many sorrows to encounter, lighten the burthen of each
other's cares, by the heart-soothing exchange of gratitude for
beneficence!"
He then took a hand of each, and joining them between his own,
"_You_," he continued, "who, though rich, are not hardened, and
you, who though poor, are not debased, why should ye not love, why
should ye not cherish each other? The afflictions of life are
tedious, its joys are evanescent; ye are now both young, and, with
little to enjoy, will find much to suffer. Ye are both, too, I
believe, innocent--Oh could ye always remain so!--Cherubs were ye
then, and the sons of men might worship you!"
He stopt, checked by his own rising emotion; but soon resuming his
usual austerity, "Such, however," he continued, "is not the
condition of humanity; in pity, therefore, to the evils impending
over both, be kind to each other! I leave you together, and to your
mutual tenderness I recommend you!"
Then, turning particularly to Cecilia, "Disdain not," he said, "to
console the depressed; look upon her without scorn, converse with
her without contempt: like you, she is an orphan, though not like
you, an heiress;--like her, you are fatherless, though not like her
friendless! If she is awaited by the temptations of adversity, you,
also, are surrounded by the corruptions of prosperity. Your fall is
most probable, her's most excusable;--commiserate _her_
therefore now,--by and by she may commiserate _you_?"
And with these words he left the room.
A total silence for some time succeeded his departure: Cecilia found
it difficult to recover from the surprise into which she had been
thrown sufficiently for speech: in following her extraordinary
director, her imagination had painted to her a scene such as she had
so lately quitted, and prepared her to behold some family in
distress, some helpless creature in sickness, or some children in
want; but of these to see none, to meet but one person, and that one
fair, young, and delicate,--an introduction so singular to an object
so unthought of, deprived her of all power but that of shewing her
amazement.
Mean while the young woman looked scarcely less surprised, and
infinitely more embarrassed. She surveyed her apartment with
vexation, and her guest with confusion; she had listened to the
exhortation of the old man with visible uneasiness, and now he was
gone, seemed overwhelmed with shame and chagrin.
Cecilia, who in observing these emotions felt both her curiosity and
her compassion encrease, pressed her hand as she parted with it,
and, when a little recovered, said, "You must think this a strange
intrusion; but the gentleman who brought me hither is perhaps so
well known to you, as to make his singularities plead with you their
own apology."
"No indeed, madam," she answered, bashfully, "he is very little
known to me; but he is very good, and very desirous to do me
service:--not but what I believe he thinks me much worse off than I
really am, for, I assure you, madam, whatever he has said, I am not
ill off at all--hardly."
The various doubts to her disadvantage, which had at first, from her
uncommon situation, arisen in the mind of Cecilia, this anxiety to
disguise, not display her distress, considerably removed, since it
cleared her of all suspicion of seeking by artifice and imposition
to play upon her feelings.
With a gentleness, therefore, the most soothing, she replied, "I
should by no means have broken in upon you thus unexpectedly, if I
had not concluded my conductor had some right to bring me. However,
since we are actually met, let us remember his injunctions, and
endeavour not to part till, by a mutual exchange of good-will, each
has added a friend to the other."
"You are condescending, indeed, madam," answered the young woman,
with an air the most humble, "looking as you look, to talk of a
friend when you come to such a place as this! up two pair of stairs!
no furniture! no servant! every thing in such disorder!--indeed I
wonder at Mr. Albany! he should not--but he thinks every body's
affairs may be made public, and does not care what he tells, nor who
hears him;--he knows not the pain he gives, nor the mischief he may
do."
"I am very much concerned," cried Cecilia, more and more surprised
at all she heard, "to find I have been thus instrumental to
distressing you. I was ignorant whither I was coming, and followed
him, believe me, neither from curiosity nor inclination, but simply
because I knew not how to refuse him. He is gone, however, and I
will therefore relieve you by going too: but permit me to leave
behind me a small testimony that the intention of my coming was not
mere impertinence."
She then took out her purse; but the young woman, starting back with
a look of resentful mortification, exclaimed, "No, madam! you are
quite mistaken; pray put up your purse; I am no beggar! Mr Albany
has misrepresented me, if he has told you I am."
Cecilia, mortified in her turn at this unexpected rejection of an
offer she had thought herself invited to make, stood some moments
silent; and then said, "I am far from meaning to offend you, and I
sincerely beg your pardon if I have misunderstood the charge just
now given to me."
"I have nothing to pardon, madam," said she, more calmly, "except,
indeed, to Mr Albany; and to him, 'tis of no use to be angry, for he
minds not what I say! he is very good, but he is very strange, for
he thinks the whole world made to live in common, and that every one
who is poor should ask, and every one who is rich should give: he
does not know that there are many who would rather starve."
"And are you," said Cecilia, half-smiling, "of that number?"
"No, indeed, madam! I have not so much greatness of mind. But those
to whom I belong have more fortitude and higher spirit. I wish I
could imitate them!"
Struck with the candour and simplicity of this speech, Cecilia now
felt a warm desire to serve her, and taking her hand, said, "Forgive
me, but though I see you wish me gone, I know not how to leave you:
recollect, therefore, the charge that has been given to us both, and
if you refuse my assistance one way, point out to me in what other I
may offer it."
"You are very kind, madam," she answered, "and I dare say you are
very good; I am sure you look so, at least. But I want nothing; I do
very well, and I have hopes of doing better. Mr Albany is too
impatient. He knows, indeed, that I am not extremely rich, but he is
much to blame if he supposes me therefore an object of charity, and
thinks me so mean as to receive money from a stranger."
"I am truly sorry," cried Cecilia, "for the error I have committed,
but you must suffer me to make my peace with you before we part:
yet, till I am better known to you, I am fearful of proposing terms.
Perhaps you will permit me to leave you my direction, and do me the
favour to call upon me yourself?"
"O no, madam! I have a sick relation whom I cannot leave: and
indeed, if he were well, he would not like to have me make an
acquaintance while I am in this place."
"I hope you are not his only nurse? I am sure you do not look able
to bear such fatigue. Has he a physician? Is he properly attended?"
"No, madam; he has no physician, and no attendance at all!"
"And is it possible that in such a situation you can refuse to be
assisted? Surely you should accept some help for him, if not for
yourself."
"But what will that signify when, if I do, he will not make use of
it? and when he had a thousand and a thousand times rather die, than
let any one know he is in want?"
"Take it, then, unknown to him; serve him without acquainting him
you serve him. Surely you would not suffer him to perish without
aid?"
"Heaven forbid! But what can I do? I am under his command, madam,
not he under mine!"
"Is he your father?--Pardon my question, but your youth seems much
to want such a protector."
"No, madam, I have no father! I was happier when I had! He is my
brother."
"And what is his illness?"
"A fever."
"A fever, and without a physician! Are you sure, too, it is not
infectious?"
"O yes, too sure!"
"Too sure? how so?"
"Because I know too well the occasion of it!"
"And what is the occasion?" cried Cecilia, again taking her hand,
"pray trust me; indeed you shall not repent your confidence. Your
reserve hitherto has only raised you in my esteem, but do not carry
it so far as to mortify me by a total rejection of my good offices."
"Ah madam!" said the young woman, sighing, "you ought to be good, I
am sure, for you will draw all out of me by such kindness as this!
the occasion was a neglected wound, never properly healed."
"A wound? is he in the army?"
"No,--he was shot through the side in a duel."
"In a duel?" exclaimed Cecilia, "pray what is his name?"
"O that I must not tell you! his name is a great secret now, while
he is in this poor place, for I know he had almost rather never see
the light again than have it known."
"Surely, surely," cried Cecilia, with much emotion, "he cannot--I
hope he cannot be Mr Belfield?"
"Ah Heaven!" cried the young woman, screaming, "do you then know
him?"
Here, in mutual astonishment, they looked at each other.
"You are then," said Cecilia, "the sister of Mr Belfield? And Mr
Belfield is thus sick, his wound is not yet healed,--and he is
without any help!"
"And who, madam, are _you_?" cried she, "and how is it you know
him?"
"My name is Beverley."
"Ah!" exclaimed she again, "I fear I have done nothing but mischief!
I know very well who you are now, madam, but if my brother discovers
that I have betrayed him, he will take it very unkind, and perhaps
never forgive me."
"Be not alarmed," cried Cecilia; "rest assured he shall never know
it. Is he not now in the country?"
"No, madam, he is now in the very next room."
"But what is become of the surgeon who used to attend him, and why
does he not still visit him?"
"It is in vain, now, to hide any thing from you; my brother deceived
him, and said he was going out of town merely to get rid of him."
"And what could induce him to act so strangely?"
"A reason which you, madam, I hope, will never know, Poverty!--he
would not run up a bill he could not pay."
"Good Heaven!--But what can be done for him? He must not be suffered
to linger thus; we must contrive some method of relieving and
assisting him, whether he will consent or not."
"I fear that will not be possible. One of his friends has already
found him out, and has written him the kindest letter! but he would
not answer it, and would not see him, and was only fretted and
angry."
"Well," said Cecilia, "I will not keep you longer, lest he should be
alarmed by your absence. To-morrow morning, with your leave, I will
call upon you again, and then, I hope, you will permit me to make
some effort to assist you."
"If it only depended upon me, madam," she answered, "now I have the
honour to know who you are, I believe I should not make much
scruple, for I was not brought up to notions so high as my brother.
Ah! happy had it been for him, for me, for all his family, if he had
not had them neither!"
Cecilia then repeated her expressions of comfort and kindness, and
took her leave.
This little adventure gave her infinite concern; all the horror
which the duel had originally occasioned her, again returned; she
accused herself with much bitterness for having brought it on; and
finding that Mr Belfield was so cruelly a sufferer both in his
health and his affairs, she thought it incumbent upon her to relieve
him to the utmost of her ability.
His sister, too, had extremely interested her; her youth, and the
uncommon artlessness of her conversation, added to her melancholy
situation, and the loveliness of her person, excited in her a desire
to serve, and an inclination to love her; and she determined, if she
found her as deserving as she seemed engaging, not only to assist
her at present, but, if her distresses continued, to received her
into her own house in future.
Again she regretted the undue detention of her L200. What she now
had to spare was extremely inadequate to what she now wished to
bestow, and she looked forward to the conclusion of her minority
with encreasing eagerness. The generous and elegant plan of life she
then intended to pursue, daily gained ground in her imagination, and
credit in her opinion.
CHAPTER vi
A MAN OF GENIUS.
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Cecilia went in a
chair to Swallow-street; she enquired for Miss Belfield, and was
told to go up stairs: but what was her amazement to meet, just
coming out of the room into which she was entering, young Delvile!
They both started, and Cecilia, from the seeming strangeness of her
situation, felt a confusion with which she had hitherto been
unacquainted. But Delvile, presently recovering from his surprise,
said to her, with an expressive smile, "How good is Miss Beverley
thus to visit the sick! and how much better might I have had the
pleasure of seeing Mr Belfield, had I but, by prescience, known her
design, and deferred my own enquiries till he had been revived by
hers!"
And then, bowing and wishing her good morning, he glided past her.
Cecilia, notwithstanding the openness and purity of her intentions,
was so much disconcerted by this unexpected meeting, and pointed
speech, that she had not the presence of mind to call him back and
clear herself: and the various interrogatories and railleries which
had already passed between them upon the subject of Mr Belfield,
made her suppose that what he had formerly suspected he would now
think confirmed, and conclude that all her assertions of
indifference, proceeded merely from that readiness at hypocrisy upon
particular subjects, of which he had openly accused her whole Sex.
This circumstance and this apprehension took from her for a while
all interest in the errand upon which she came; but the benevolence
of her heart soon brought it back, when, upon going into the room,
she saw her new favourite in tears.
"What is the matter?" cried she, tenderly; "no new affliction I hope
has happened? Your brother is not worse?"
"No, madam, he is much the same; I was not then crying for him."
"For what then? tell me, acquaint me with your sorrows, and assure
yourself you tell them to a friend."
"I was crying, madam, to find so much goodness in the world, when I
thought there was so little! to find I have some chance of being
again happy, when I thought I was miserable for ever! Two whole
years have I spent in nothing but unhappiness, and I thought there
was nothing else to be had; but yesterday, madam, brought me you,
with every promise of nobleness and protection; and to-day, a friend
of my brother's has behaved so generously, that even my brother has
listened to him, and almost consented to be obliged to him!"
"And have you already known so much sorrow," said Cecilia, "that
this little dawn of prosperity should wholly overpower your spirits?
Gentle, amiable girl! may the future recompense you for the past,
and may Mr Albany's kind wishes be fulfilled in the reciprocation of
our comfort and affection!"
They then entered into a conversation which the sweetness of
Cecilia, and the gratitude of Miss Belfield, soon rendered
interesting, friendly and unreserved: and in a very short time,
whatever was essential in the story or situation of the latter was
fully communicated. She gave, however, a charge the most earnest,
that her brother should never be acquainted with the confidence she
had made.
Her father, who had been dead only two years, was a linen-draper in
the city; he had six daughters, of whom herself was the youngest,
and only one son. This son, Mr Belfield, was alike the darling of
his father, mother, and sisters: he was brought up at Eaton, no
expence was spared in his education, nothing was denied that could
make him happy. With an excellent understanding he had uncommon
quickness of parts, and his progress in his studies was rapid and
honourable: his father, though he always meant him for his successor
in his business, heard of his improvement with rapture, often
saying, "My boy will be the ornament of the city, he will be the
best scholar in any shop in London."
He was soon, however, taught another lesson; when, at the age of
sixteen, he returned home, and was placed in the shop, instead of
applying his talents, as his father had expected, to trade, he both
despised and abhorred the name of it; when serious, treating it with
contempt, when gay, with derision.
He was seized, also, with a most ardent desire to finish his
education, like those of his school-fellows who left Eaton at the
same time, at one of the Universities; and, after many difficulties,
this petition, at the intercession of his mother, was granted, old
Mr Belfield telling him he hoped a little more learning would give
him a little more sense, and that when he became a _finished
student_, he would not only know the true value of business, but
understand how to get money, and make a bargain, better than any man
whatsoever within Temple Bar.
These expectations, equally shortsighted, were also equally
fallacious with the former: the son again returned, and returned, as
his father had hoped, a _finished student_; but, far from being
more tractable, or better disposed for application to trade, his
aversion to it now was more stubborn, and his opposition more hardy
than ever. The young men of fashion with whom he had formed
friendships at school, or at the University, and with whom, from the
indulgence of his father, he was always able to vie in expence, and
from the indulgence of Nature to excel in capacity, earnestly sought
the continuance of his acquaintance, and courted and coveted the
pleasure of his conversation: but though he was now totally
disqualified for any other society, he lost all delight in their
favour from the fear they should discover his abode, and sedulously
endeavoured to avoid even occasionally meeting them, lest any of his
family should at the same time approach him: for of his family,
though wealthy, worthy, and independent, he was now so utterly
ashamed, that the mortification the most cruel he could receive, was
to be asked his address, or told he should be visited.
Tired, at length, of evading the enquiries made by some, and forcing
faint laughs at the detection made by others, he privately took a
lodging at the west end of the town, to which he thence forward
directed all his friends, and where, under various pretences, he
contrived to spend the greatest part of his time.
In all his expensive deceits and frolics, his mother was his never-
failing confidant and assistant; for when she heard that the
companions of her son were men of fashion, some born to titles,
others destined to high stations, she concluded he was in the
certain road to honour and profit, and frequently distressed
herself, without ever repining, in order to enable him to preserve
upon equal terms, connections which she believed so conducive to his
future grandeur.
In this wild and unsettled manner he passed some time, struggling
incessantly against the authority of his father, privately abetted
by his mother, and constantly aided and admired by his sisters:
till, sick of so desultory a way of life, he entered himself a
volunteer in the army.
How soon he grew tired of this change has already been related,
[Footnote: Book 1, Chap. II.] as well as his reconciliation with
his father, and his becoming a student at the Temple: for the father
now grew as weary of opposing, as the young man of being opposed.
Here, for two or three years, he lived in happiness uninterrupted;
he extended his acquaintance among the great, by whom he was no
sooner known than caressed and admired, and he frequently visited
his family, which, though he blushed to own in public, he
affectionately loved in private. His profession, indeed, was but
little in his thoughts, successive engagements occupying almost all
his hours. Delighted with the favour of the world, and charmed to
find his presence seemed the signal for entertainment, he soon
forgot the uncertainty of his fortune, and the inferiority of his
rank: the law grew more and more fatiguing, pleasure became more and
more alluring, and, by degrees, he had not a day unappropriated to
some party or amusement; voluntarily consigning the few leisure
moments his gay circle afforded him, to the indulgence of his fancy
in some hasty compositions in verse, which were handed about in
manuscript, and which contributed to keep him in fashion.
Such was his situation at the death of his father; a new scene was
then opened to him, and for some time he hesitated what course to
pursue.
Old Mr Belfield, though he lived in great affluence, left not behind
him any considerable fortune, after the portions of his daughters,
to each of whom he bequeathed L2000, had been deducted from it. But
his stock in trade was great, and his business was prosperous and
lucrative.
His son, however, did not merely want application and fortitude to
become his successor, but skill and knowledge; his deliberation,
therefore, was hasty, and his resolution improvident; he determined
to continue at the Temple himself, while the shop, which he could by
no means afford to relinquish, should be kept up by another name,
and the business of it be transacted by an agent; hoping thus to
secure and enjoy its emoluments, without either the trouble or the
humiliation of attendance.
But this scheme, like most others that have their basis in vanity,
ended in nothing but mortification and disappointment: the shop
which under old Mr. Belfield had been flourishing and successful,
and enriched himself and all his family, could now scarce support
the expences of an individual. Without a master, without that
diligent attention to its prosperity which the interest of
possession alone can give, and the authority of a principal alone
can enforce, it quickly lost its fame for the excellence of its
goods, and soon after its customers from the report of its
declension. The produce, therefore, diminished every month; he was
surprised, he was provoked; he was convinced he was cheated, and
that his affairs were neglected; but though he threatened from time
to time to enquire into the real state of the business, and
investigate the cause of its decay, he felt himself inadequate to
the task; and now first lamented that early contempt of trade, which
by preventing him acquiring some knowledge of it while he had youth
and opportunity, made him now ignorant what redress to seek, though
certain of imposition and injury.
But yet, however disturbed by alarming suggestions in his hours of
retirement, no alteration was made in the general course of his
life; he was still the darling of his friends, and the leader in all
parties, and still, though his income was lessened, his expences
encreased.
Such were his circumstances at the time Cecilia first saw him at the
house of Mr. Monckton: from which, two days after her arrival in
town, he was himself summoned, by an information that his agent had
suddenly left the kingdom.
The fatal consequence of this fraudulent elopement was immediate
bankruptcy.
His spirits, however, did not yet fail him; as he had never been the
nominal master of the shop, he escaped all dishonour from its ruin,
and was satisfied to consign what remained to the mercy of the
creditors, so that his own name should not appear in the
_Gazette_.
Three of his sisters were already extremely well married to
reputable tradesmen; the two elder of those who were yet single were
settled with two of those who were married, and Henrietta, the
youngest, resided with her mother, who had a comfortable annuity,
and a small house at Padington.
Bereft thus through vanity and imprudence of all the long labours of
his father, he was now compelled to think seriously of some actual
method of maintenance; since his mother, though willing to sacrifice
to him even the nourishment which sustained her, could do for him
but little, and that little he had too much justice to accept. The
law, even to the most diligent and successful, is extremely slow of
profit, and whatever, from his connections and abilities might be
hoped hereafter, at present required an expence which he was no
longer able to support.
It remained then to try his influence with his friends among the
great and the powerful.
His canvas proved extremely honourable; every one promised
something, and all seemed delighted to have an opportunity of
serving him.
Pleased with finding the world so much better than report had made
it, he now saw the conclusion of his difficulties in the prospect of
a place at court.
Belfield, with half the penetration with which he was gifted, would
have seen in any other man the delusive idleness of expectations no
better founded; but though discernment teaches us the folly of
others, experience singly can teach us our own! he flattered himself
that his friends had been more wisely selected than the friends of
those who in similar circumstances had been beguiled, and he
suspected not the fraud of his vanity, till he found his invitations
daily slacken, and that his time was at his own command.
All his hopes now rested upon one friend and patron,
Mr Floyer, an uncle of Sir Robert Floyer, a man of power in the
royal household, with whom he had lived in great intimacy, and who
at this period had the disposal of a place which he solicited. The
only obstacle that seemed in his way was from Sir Robert himself,
who warmly exerted his interest in favour of a friend of his own. Mr
Floyer, however, assured Belfield of the preference, and only begged
his patience till he could find some opportunity of appeasing his
nephew.
And this was the state of his affairs at the time of his quarrel at
the Opera-house. Already declared opponents of each other, Sir
Robert felt double wrath that for _him_ Cecilia should reject
his civilities; while Belfield, suspecting he presumed upon his
known dependence on his uncle to affront him, felt also double
indignation at the haughtiness of his behaviour. And thus, slight as
seemed to the world the cause of their contest, each had private
motives of animosity that served to stimulate revenge.
The very day after this duel, Mr Floyer wrote him word that he was
now obliged in common decency to take the part of his nephew, and
therefore had already given the place to the friend he had
recommended.
This was the termination of his hopes, and the signal of his ruin!
To the pain of his wound he became insensible, from the superior
pain of this unexpected miscarriage; yet his pride still enabled him
to disguise his distress, and to see all the friends whom this
accident induced to seek him, while from the sprightliness he forced
in order to conceal his anguish, he appeared to them more lively and
more entertaining than ever.
But these efforts, when left to himself and to nature, only sunk him
the deeper in sadness; he found an immediate change in his way of
life was necessary, yet could not brook to make it in sight of those
with whom he had so long lived in all the brilliancy of equality. A
high principle of honour which still, in the midst of his gay
career, had remained uncorrupted, had scrupulously guarded him from
running in debt, and therefore, though of little possessed, that
little was strictly his own. He now published that he was going out
of town for the benefit of purer air, discharged his surgeon, took a
gay leave of his friends, and trusting no one with his secret but
his servant, was privately conveyed to mean and cheap lodgings in
Swallow-street.
Here, shut up from every human being he had formerly known, he
purposed to remain till he grew better, and then again to seek his
fortune in the army.
His present situation, however, was little calculated to contribute
to his recovery; the dismission of the surgeon, the precipitation of
his removal, the inconveniencies of his lodgings, and the
unseasonable deprivation of long customary indulgencies, were
unavoidable delays of his amendment; while the mortification of his
present disgrace, and the bitterness of his late disappointment,
preyed incessantly upon his mind, robbed him of rest, heightened his
fever, and reduced him by degrees to a state so low and dangerous,
that his servant, alarmed for his life, secretly acquainted his
mother with his illness and retreat.
The mother, almost distracted by this intelligence, instantly, with
her daughter, flew to his lodgings. She wished to have taken him
immediately to her house at Padington, but he had suffered so much
from his first removal, that he would not consent to another. She
would then have called in a physician, but he refused even to see
one; and she had too long given way to all his desires and opinions,
to have now the force of mind for exerting the requisite authority
of issuing her orders without consulting him.
She begged, she pleaded, indeed, and Henrietta joined in her
entreaties; but sickness and vexation had not rendered him tame,
though they had made him sullen: he resisted their prayers, and
commonly silenced them by assurances that their opposition to the
plan he had determined to pursue, only inflamed his fever, and
retarded his recovery.
The motive of an obduracy so cruel to his friends was the fear of a
detection which he thought not merely prejudicial to his affairs,
but dishonourable to his character: for, without betraying any
symptom of his distress, he had taken a general leave of his
acquaintance upon pretence of going out of town, and he could ill
endure to make a discovery which would at once proclaim his
degradation and his deceit.
Mr. Albany had accidentally broken in upon him, by mistaking his
room for that of another sick person in the same house, to whom his
visit had been intended; but as he knew and reverenced that old
gentleman, he did not much repine at his intrusion.
He was not so easy when the same discovery was made by young
Delvile, who, chancing to meet his servant in the street, enquired
concerning his master's health, and surprising from him its real
state, followed him home; where, soon certain of the change in his
affairs by the change of his habitation, he wrote him a letter, in
which, after apologizing for his freedom, he warmly declared that
nothing could make him so happy as being favoured with his commands,
if, either through himself or his friends, he could be so fortunate
as to do him any service.
Belfield, deeply mortified at this detection of his situation,
returned only a verbal answer of cold thanks, and desired he would
not speak of his being in town, as he was not well enough to be
seen.
This reply gave almost equal mortification to young Delvile, who
continued, however, to call at the door with enquiries how he went
on, though he made no further attempt to see him.
Belfield, softened at length by the kindness of this conduct,
determined to admit him; and he was just come from paying his first
visit, when he was met by Cecilia upon the stairs.
His stay with him had been short, and he had taken no notice either
of his change of abode, or his pretence of going into the country;
he had talked to him only in general terms, and upon general
subjects, till he arose to depart, and then he re-urged his offers
of service with so much openness and warmth, that Belfield, affected
by his earnestness, promised he would soon see him again, and
intimated to his delighted mother and sister, that he would frankly
consult with him upon his affairs.
Such was the tale which, with various minuter circumstances, Miss
Belfield communicated to Cecilia. "My mother," she added, "who never
quits him, knows that you are here, madam, for she heard me talking
with somebody yesterday, and she made me tell her all that had
passed, and that you said you would come again this morning."
Cecilia returned many acknowledgments for this artless and
unreserved communication, but could not, when it was over, forbear
enquiring by what early misery she had already, though so very
young, spent _two years in nothing but unhappiness_?
"Because," she answered, "when my poor father died all our family
separated, and I left every body to go and live with my mother at
Padington; and I was never a favourite with my mother--no more,
indeed, was any body but my brother, for she thinks all the rest of
the world only made for his sake. So she used to deny both herself
and me almost common necessaries, in order to save up money to make
him presents: though, if he had known how it was done, he would only
have been angry instead of taking them. However, I should have
regarded nothing that had but been for his benefit, for I loved him
a great deal more than my own convenience; but sums that would
distress us for months to save up, would by him be spent in a day,
and then thought of no more! Nor was that all--O no! I had much
greater uneasiness to suffer; for I was informed by one of my
brothers-in-law how ill every thing went, and that certain ruin
would come to my poor brother from the treachery of his agent; and
the thought of this was always preying upon my mind, for I did not
dare tell it my mother, for fear it should put her out of humour,
for, sometimes, she is not very patient; and it mattered little what
any of us said to my brother, for he was too gay and too confident
to believe his danger."
"Well but," said Cecilia, "I hope, now, all will go better; if your
brother will consent to see a physician--"
"Ah, madam! that is the thing I fear he never will do, because of
being seen in these bad lodgings. I would kneel whole days to
prevail with him, but he is unused to controul, and knows not how to
submit to it; and he has lived so long among the great, that he
forgets he was not born as high as themselves. Oh that he had never
quitted his own family! If he had not been spoilt by ambition, he
had the best heart and sweetest disposition in the world. But living
always with his superiors, taught him to disdain his own relations,
and be ashamed of us all; and yet now, in the hour of his distress--
who else comes to help him?"
Cecilia then enquired if she wanted not assistance for herself and
her mother, observing that they did not seem to have all the
conveniencies to which they were entitled.
"Why indeed, madam," she replied, with an ingenuous smile, "when you
first came here I was a little like my brother, for I was sadly
ashamed to let you see how ill we lived! but now you know the worst,
so I shall fret about it no more."
"But this cannot be your usual way of life; I fear the misfortunes
of Mr Belfield have spread a ruin wider than his own."
"No indeed; he took care from the first not to involve us in his
hazards, for he is very generous, madam, and very noble in all his
notions, and could behave to us all no better about money matters
than he has ever done. But from the moment we came to this dismal
place, and saw his distress, and that he was sunk so low who used
always to be higher than any of us, we had a sad scene indeed! My
poor mother, whose whole delight was to think that he lived like a
nobleman, and who always flattered herself that he would rise to be
as great as the company he kept, was so distracted with her
disappointment, that she would not listen to reason, but immediately
discharged both our servants, said she and I should do all the work
ourselves, hired this poor room for us to live in, and sent to order
a bill to be put upon her house at Padington, for she said she would
never return to it any more."
"But are you, then," cried Cecilia, "without any servant?"
"We have my brother's man, madam, and so he lights our fires, and
takes away some of our litters; and there is not much else to be
done, except sweeping the rooms, for we eat nothing but cold meat
from the cook shops."
"And how long is this to last?"
"Indeed I cannot tell; for the real truth is, my poor mother has
almost lost her senses; and ever since our coming here, she has been
so miserable and so complaining, that indeed, between her and my
brother, I have almost lost mine too! For when she found all her
hopes at an end, and that her darling son, instead of being rich and
powerful, and surrounded by friends and admirers, all trying who
should do the most for him, was shut up by himself in this poor
little lodging, and instead of gaining more, had spent all he was
worth at first, with not a creature to come near him, though ill,
though confined, though keeping his bed!--Oh madam, had you seen my
poor mother when she first cast her eyes upon him in that
condition!--indeed you could never have forgotten it!"
"I wonder not at her disappointment," cried Cecilia; "with
expectations so sanguine, and a son of so much merit, it might well
indeed be bitter." |
