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Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 1

by Fanny Burney · English · Gutenberg #6346 · 636,896 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 1

Author: Fanny Burney


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6346]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CECILIA; OR, MEMOIRS OF AN HEIRESS — VOLUME 1 ***




Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and the Online
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CECILIA, Volume 1 (of 3)

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 Harrel'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 

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