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Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 2

by Fanny Burney · English · Gutenberg #7146 · 641,576 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 2

Author: Fanny Burney


        
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7146]
                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 2 ***




Produced by Delphine Lettau, Juliet Sutherland, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team









CECILIA

or

MEMOIRS OF AN HEIRESS

VOLUME II (of III)

By Frances Burney

Edited by R. Brimley Johnson

Illustrated by M. Cubitt Cooke (Illustrations not available in this
edition)





CONTENTS

BOOK IV. Continued.

CHAPTER x. -- A MURMURING.



BOOK V.

CHAPTER i. -- A ROUT.

CHAPTER ii. -- A BROAD HINT.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN ACCOMMODATION.

CHAPTER iv. -- A DETECTION.

CHAPTER v. -- A SARCASM.

CHAPTER vi. -- A SURMISE.

CHAPTER vii. -- A BOLD STROKE.

CHAPTER viii. -- A MISER'S MANSION.

CHAPTER ix. -- A DECLARATION.

CHAPTER x. -- A GAMESTER'S CONSCIENCE.

CHAPTER xi. -- A PERSECUTION.

CHAPTER xii. -- A MAN OF BUSINESS.

CHAPTER xiii. -- A SOLUTION.



BOOK VI

CHAPTER i. -- A DEBATE.

CHAPTER ii. -- A RAILING.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN ANTIQUE MANSION.

CHAPTER iv. -- A RATTLE.

CHAPTER v. -- A STORM.

CHAPTER vi. -- A MYSTERY.

CHAPTER vii. -- AN ANECDOTE.

CHAPTER viii. -- A CONFERENCE.

CHAPTER ix. -- AN ATTACK.

CHAPTER x. -- A RETREAT.

CHAPTER xi. -- A WORRY.



BOOK VII.

CHAPTER i. -- A RENOVATION.

CHAPTER ii. -- A VISIT.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN INCIDENT.

CHAPTER iv. -- A PROPOSITION.

CHAPTER v. -- A LETTER.

CHAPTER vi. -- A DISCUSSION.

CHAPTER vii. -- A RETROSPECTION.

CHAPTER viii. -- AN EMBARRASSMENT.

CHAPTER ix. -- A TORMENT.



BOOK VIII.

CHAPTER i









BOOK IV. Continued.







CHAPTER x. -- A MURMURING.

Unable to relieve herself from this perplexity, Cecilia, to divert her
chagrin, again visited Miss Belfield. She had then the pleasure to hear
that her brother was much recovered, and had been able, the preceding
day, to take an airing, which he had borne so well that Mr Rupil had
charged him to use the same exercise every morning.

“And will he?” said Cecilia.

“No, madam, I am sadly afraid not,” she answered, “for coach hire is
very expensive, and we are willing, now, to save all we can in order to
help fitting him out for going abroad.”

Cecilia then earnestly entreated her to accept some assistance; but she
assured her she did not dare without the consent of her mother, which,
however, she undertook to obtain.

The next day, when Cecilia called to hear her success, Mrs Belfield,
who hitherto had kept out of sight, made her appearance. She found her,
alike in person, manners and conversation, a coarse and ordinary woman,
not more unlike her son in talents and acquired accomplishments, than
dissimilar to her daughter in softness and natural delicacy.

The moment Cecilia was seated, she began, without waiting for any
ceremony, or requiring any solicitation, abruptly to talk of her
affairs, and repiningly to relate her misfortunes.

“I find, madam,” she said, “you have been so kind as to visit my
daughter Henny a great many times, but as I have no time for company,
I have always kept out of the way, having other things to do than sit
still to talk. I have had a sad time of it here, ma'am, with my poor
son's illness, having no conveniencies about me, and much ado to make
him mind me; for he's all for having his own way, poor dear soul, and
I'm sure I don't know who could contradict him, for it's what I never
had the heart to do. But then, ma'am, what is to come of it? You see how
bad things go! for though I have got a very good income, it won't do for
every thing. And if it was as much again, I should want to save it all
now. For here my poor son, you see, is reduced all in a minute, as one
may say, from being one of the first gentlemen in the town, to a mere
poor object, without a farthing in the world!”

“He is, however, I hope now much better in his health?” said Cecilia.

“Yes, madam, thank heaven, for if he was worse, those might tell of it
that would, for I'm sure I should never live to hear of it. He has been
the best son in the world, madam, and used [to] nothing but the best
company, for I spared neither pains nor cost to bring him up genteely,
and I believe there's not a nobleman in the land that looks more
the gentleman. However, there's come no good of it, for though his
acquaintances was all among the first quality, he never received the
value of a penny from the best of them. So I have no great need to be
proud. But I meant for the best, though I have often enough wished I had
not meddled in the matter, but left him to be brought up in the shop, as
his father was before him.”

“His present plan, however,” said Cecilia, “will I hope make you ample
amends both for your sufferings and your tenderness.”

“What, madam, when he's going to leave me, and settle in foreign parts?
If you was a mother yourself, madam, you would not think that such good
amends.”

“Settle?” said Cecilia. “No, he only goes for a year or two.”

“That's more than I can say, madam, or any body else; and nobody knows
what may happen in that time. And how I shall keep myself up when he's
beyond seas, I am sure I don't know, for he has always been the pride of
my life, and every penny I saved for him, I thought to have been paid in
pounds.”

“You will still have your daughter, and she seems so amiable, that I am
sure you can want no consolation she will not endeavour to give you.”

“But what is a daughter, madam, to such a son as mine? a son that I
thought to have seen living like a prince, and sending his own coach for
me to dine with him! And now he's going to be taken away from me, and
nobody knows if I shall live till he comes back. But I may thank myself,
for if I had but been content to see him brought up in the shop--yet all
the world would have cried shame upon it, for when he was quite a child
in arms, the people used all to say he was born to be a gentleman, and
would live to make many a fine lady's heart ache.”

“If he can but make your heart easy,” said Cecilia, smiling, “we will
not grieve that the fine ladies should escape the prophecy.”

“O, ma'am, I don't mean by that to say he has been over gay among the
ladies, for it's a thing I never heard of him; and I dare say if any
lady was to take a fancy to him, she'd find there was not a modester
young man in the world. But you must needs think what a hardship it is
to me to have him turn out so unlucky, after all I have done for him,
when I thought to have seen him at the top of the tree, as one may say!”

“He will yet, I hope,” said Cecilia, “make you rejoice in all your
kindness to him; his health is already returning, and his affairs wear
again a more prosperous aspect.”

“But do you suppose, ma'am, that having him sent two or three hundred
miles away from me; with some young master to take care of, is the way
to make up to me what I have gone through for him? why I used to deny
myself every thing in the world, in order to save money to buy him smart
cloaths, and let him go to the Opera, and Ranelagh, and such sort of
places, that he might keep himself in fortune's way! and now you see the
end of it! here he is, in a little shabby room up two pairs of stairs,
with not one of the great folks coming near him, to see if he's so much
as dead or alive.”

“I do not wonder,” said Cecilia, “that you resent their shewing so
little gratitude for the pleasure and entertainment they have formerly
received from him but comfort yourself that it will at least secure
you from any similar disappointment, as Mr Belfield will, in future, be
guarded from forming such precarious expectations.”

“But what good will that do me, ma'am, for all the money he has been
throwing after them all this while? do you think I would have scraped it
up for him, and gone without every thing in the world, to see it all end
in this manner? why he might as well have been brought up the commonest
journeyman, for any comfort I shall have of him at this rate. And
suppose he should be drowned in going beyond seas? what am I to do
then?”

“You must not,” said Cecilia, “indulge such fears; I doubt not but your
son will return well, and return all that you wish.”

“Nobody knows that, ma'am; and the only way to be certain is for him not
to go at all; and I'm surprised, ma'am, you can wish him to make such a
journey to nobody knows where, with nothing but a young master that he
must as good as teach his A. B. C. all the way they go!”

“Certainly,” said Cecilia, amazed at this accusation, “I should not
wish him to go abroad, if any thing more eligible could be, done by his
remaining in England but as no prospect of that sort seems before him,
you must endeavour to reconcile yourself to parting with him.”

“Yes, but how am I to do that, when I don't know if ever I shall see him
again? Who could have thought of his living so among the great folks,
and then coming to want! I'm sure I thought they'd have provided for
him like a son of their own, for he used to go about to all the public
places just as they did themselves. Day after day I used to be counting
for when he would come to tell me he'd got a place at court, or
something of that sort, for I never could tell what it would be; and
then the next news I heard, was that he was shut up in this poor bit of
place, with nobody troubling their heads about him! however, I'll never
be persuaded but he might have done better, if he would but have spoke
a good word for himself, or else have let me done it for him; instead
of which, he never would so much as let me see any of his grand friends,
though I would not have made the least scruple in the world to have
asked them for any thing he had a mind to.”

Cecilia again endeavoured to give her comfort; but finding her only
satisfaction was to express her discontent, she arose to take leave.
But, turning first to Miss Belfield, contrived to make a private
enquiry whether she might repeat her offer of assistance. A downcast and
dejected look answering in the affirmative, she put into her hand a ten
pound bank note, and wishing them good morning, hurried out of the room.

Miss Belfield was running after her, but stopt by her mother, who called
out, “What is it?--How much is it?--Let me look at it!”--And then,
following Cecilia herself, she thanked her aloud all the way down stairs
for her genteelness, assuring her she would not fail making it known to
her son.

Cecilia at this declaration turned back, and exhorted her by no means
to mention it; after which she got into her chair, and returned home;
pitying Miss Belfield for the unjust partiality shewn to her brother,
and excusing the proud shame he had manifested of his relations, from
the vulgarity and selfishness of her who was at the head of them.

Almost a fortnight had now elapsed since her explanation with young
Delvile, yet not once had he been in Portman-square, though in the
fortnight which had preceded, scarce a day had passed which had not
afforded him some pretence for calling there.

At length a note arrived from Mrs Delvile. It contained the most
flattering reproaches for her long absence, and a pressing invitation
that she would dine and spend the next day with her.

Cecilia, who had merely denied herself the pleasure of this visit from
an apprehension of seeming too desirous of keeping up the connection,
now, from the same sense of propriety, determined upon making it,
wishing equally to avoid all appearance of consciousness, either by
seeking or avoiding the intimacy of the family.

Not a little was her anxiety to know in what manner young Delvile would
receive her, whether he would be grave or gay, agitated, as during their
last conversation, or easy, as in the meetings which had preceded it.

She found Mrs Delvile, however, alone; and, extremely kind to her, yet
much surprised, and half displeased, that she had so long been absent.
Cecilia, though somewhat distressed what excuses to offer, was happy to
find herself so highly in favour, and not very reluctant to promise more
frequent visits in future.

They were then summoned to dinner; but still no young Delvile was
visible; they were joined only by his father, and she found that no one
else was expected.

Her astonishment now was greater than ever, and she could account by no
possible conjecture for a conduct so extraordinary. Hitherto, whenever
she had visited in St James's-square by appointment, the air with which
he had received her, constantly announced that he had impatiently waited
her arrival; he had given up other engagements to stay with her, he
had openly expressed his hopes that she would never be long absent,
and seemed to take a pleasure in her society to which every other was
inferior. And now, how striking the difference! he forbore all visits at
the house where she resided, he even flew from his own when he knew she
was approaching it!

Nor was this the only vexation of which this day was productive; Mr
Delvile, when the servants were withdrawn after dinner, expressed some
concern that he had been called from her during their last conversation,
and added that he would take the present opportunity to talk with her
upon some matters of importance.

He then began the usual parading prelude, which, upon all occasions, he
thought necessary, in order to enhance the value of his interposition,
remind her of her inferiority, and impress her with a deeper sense of
the honour which his guardianship conferred upon her after which, he
proceeded to make a formal enquiry whether she had positively dismissed
Sir Robert Floyer?

She assured him she had.

“I understood my Lord Ernolf,” said he, “that you had totally
discouraged the addresses of his son?”

“Yes, Sir,” answered Cecilia, “for I never mean to receive them.”

“Have you, then, any other engagement?”

“No, Sir,” cried she, colouring between shame and displeasure, “none at
all.”

“This is a very extraordinary circumstance!” replied he; “the son of
an earl to be rejected by a young woman of no family, and yet no reason
assigned for it!”

This contemptuous speech so cruelly shocked Cecilia, that though he
continued to harangue her for a great part of the afternoon, she only
answered him when compelled by some question, and was so evidently
discomposed, that Mrs Delvile, who perceived her uneasiness with much
concern, redoubled her civilities and caresses, and used every method in
her power to oblige and enliven her.

Cecilia was not ungrateful for her care, and shewed her sense of it by
added respect and attention; but her mind was disturbed, and she quitted
the house as soon as she was able.

Mr Delvile's speech, from her previous knowledge of the extreme
haughtiness of his character, would not have occasioned her the smallest
emotion, had it merely related to him or to herself; but as it concerned
Lord Ernolf, she regarded it as also concerning his son, and she found
that, far from trying to promote the union Mr Monckton had told her he
had planned, he did not seem even to think of it, but, on the contrary,
proposed and seconded with all his interest another alliance.

This, added to the behaviour of young Delvile, made her suspect that
some engagement was in agitation on his own part, and that while she
thought him so sedulous only to avoid her, he was simply occupied in
seeking another. This painful suggestion, which every thing seemed to
confirm, again overset all her schemes, and destroyed all her visionary
happiness. Yet how to reconcile it with what had passed at their last
meeting she knew not; she had then every reason to believe that his
heart was in her power, and that courage, or an opportunity more
seasonable, was all he wanted to make known his devotion to her; why,
then, shun if he loved her? why, if he loved her not, seem so perturbed
at the explanation of her independence?

A very little time, however, she hoped would unravel this mystery; in
two days, the entertainment which Mr Harrel had planned, to deceive the
world by an appearance of affluence to which he had lost all title, was
to take place; young Delvile, in common with every other person who had
ever been seen at the house, had early received an invitation, which he
had readily promised to accept some time before the conversation that
seemed the period of their acquaintance had passed. Should he, after
being so long engaged, fail to keep his appointment, she could no longer
have any doubt of the justice of her conjecture; should he, on the
contrary, again appear, from his behaviour and his looks she might
perhaps be able to gather why he had so long been absent.









BOOK V.







CHAPTER i. -- A ROUT.

The day at length arrived of which the evening and the entrance of
company were, for the first time, as eagerly wished by Cecilia as by her
dissipated host and hostess. No expence and no pains had been spared to
render this long projected entertainment splendid and elegant; it was to
begin with a concert, which was to be followed by a ball, and succeeded
by a supper.

Cecilia, though unusually anxious about her own affairs, was not
so engrossed by them as to behold with indifference a scene of such
unjustifiable extravagance; it contributed to render her thoughtful and
uneasy, and to deprive her of all mental power of participating in the
gaiety of the assembly. Mr Arnott was yet more deeply affected by the
mad folly of the scheme, and received from the whole evening no other
satisfaction than that which a look of sympathetic concern from Cecilia
occasionally afforded him.

Till nine o'clock no company appeared, except Sir Robert Floyer,
who stayed from dinner time, and Mr Morrice, who having received an
invitation for the evening, was so much delighted with the permission
to again enter the house, that he made use of it between six and
seven o'clock, and before the family had left the dining parlour. He
apologized with the utmost humility to Cecilia for the unfortunate
accident at the Pantheon; but as to her it had been productive of
nothing but pleasure, by exciting in young Delvile the most flattering
alarm for her safety, she found no great difficulty in according him her
pardon.

Among those who came in the first crowd was Mr Monckton, who, had he
been equally unconscious of sinister views, would in following his own
inclination, have been as early in his attendance as Mr Morrice; but
who, to obviate all suspicious remarks, conformed to the fashionable
tardiness of the times.

Cecilia's chief apprehension for the evening was that Sir Robert Floyer
would ask her to dance with him, which she could not refuse without
sitting still during the ball, nor accept, after the reports she knew
to be spread, without seeming to give a public sanction to them. To Mr
Monckton therefore, innocently considering him as a married man and her
old friend, she frankly told her distress, adding, by way of excuse for
the hint, that the partners were to be changed every two dances.

Mr Monckton, though his principal study was carefully to avoid all
public gallantry or assiduity towards Cecilia, had not the forbearance
to resist this intimation, and therefore she had the pleasure of telling
Sir Robert, when he asked the honour of her hand for the two first
dances, that she was already engaged.

She then expected that he would immediately secure her for the two
following; but, to her great joy, he was so much piqued by the evident
pleasure with which she announced her engagement, that he proudly walked
away without adding another word.

Much satisfied with this arrangement, and not without hopes that, if
she was at liberty when he arrived, she might be applied to by young
Delvile, she now endeavoured to procure herself a place in the music
room.

This, with some difficulty, she effected; but though there was an
excellent concert, in which several capital performers played and sung,
she found it impossible to hear a note, as she chanced to be seated just
by Miss Leeson, and two other young ladies, who were paying one another
compliments upon their dress and their looks, settling to dance in the
same cotillon, guessing who would begin the minuets, and wondering
there were not more gentlemen. Yet, in the midst of this unmeaning
conversation, of which she remarked that Miss Leeson bore the principal
part, not one of them failed, from time to time, to exclaim with great
rapture “What sweet music!--” “Oh! how charming!” “Did you ever hear any
thing so delightful?--”

“Ah,” said Cecilia to Mr Gosport, who now approached her, “but for your
explanatory observations, how much would the sudden loquacity of this
supercilious lady, whom I had imagined all but dumb, have perplext me!”

“Those who are most silent to strangers,” answered Mr Gosport, “commonly
talk most fluently to their intimates, for they are deeply in arrears,
and eager to pay off their debts. Miss Leeson now is in her proper set,
and therefore appears in her natural character; and the poor girl's joy
in being able to utter all the nothings she has painfully hoarded while
separated from her coterie, gives to her now the wild transport of a
bird just let loose from a cage. I rejoice to see the little creature
at liberty, for what can be so melancholy as a forced appearance of
thinking, where there are no materials for such an occupation?”

Soon after, Miss Larolles, who was laughing immoderately, contrived to
crowd herself into their party, calling out to them, “O you have had the
greatest loss in the world! if you had but been in the next room just
now!--there's the drollest figure there you can conceive; enough to
frighten one to look at him.” And presently she added “O Lord, if you
stoop a little this way, you may see him!”

Then followed a general tittering, accompanied with exclamations of
“Lord, what a fright!” “It's enough to kill one with laughing to look at
him!” “Did you ever see such a horrid creature in your life?” And soon
after, one of them screamed out “O Lord, see!--he's grinning at Miss
Beverley!”

Cecilia then turned her head towards the door, and there, to her own
as well as her neighbours' amazement, she perceived Mr Briggs! who, in
order to look about him at his ease, was standing upon a chair, from
which, having singled her out, he was regarding her with a facetious
smirk, which, when it caught her eye, was converted into a familiar nod.

She returned his salutation, but was not much charmed to observe, that
presently descending from his exalted post, which had moved the wonder
and risibility of all the company, he made a motion to approach her; for
which purpose, regardless of either ladies or gentlemen in his way, he
sturdily pushed forward, with the same unconcerned hardiness he would
have forced himself through a crowd in the street; and taking not the
smallest notice of their frowns, supplications that he would stand
still, and exclamations of “Pray, Sir!”--“Lord, how troublesome!” and
“Sir, I do assure you here's no room!” he fairly and adroitly elbowed
them from him till he reached her seat; and then, with a waggish grin,
he looked round, to show he had got the better, and to see whom he had
discomposed.

When he had enjoyed this triumph, he turned to Cecilia, and chucking her
under the chin, said “Well, my little duck, how goes it? got to you at
last; squeezed my way; would not be nicked; warrant I'll mob with the
best of them! Look here! all in a heat!--hot as the dog days.”

And then, to the utter consternation of the company, he took off his wig
to wipe his head! which occasioned such universal horror, that all who
were near the door escaped into other, apartments, while those who were
too much enclosed, for flight, with one accord turned away their heads.

Captain Aresby, being applied to by some of the ladies to remonstrate
upon this unexampled behaviour, advanced to him, and said, “I am
quite abimé, Sir, to incommode you, but the commands of the ladies are
insuperable. Give me leave, Sir, to entreat that you would put on your
wig.”

“My wig?” cried he, “ay, ay, shall in a moment, only want to wipe my
head first.”

“I am quite assommé, Sir,” returned the Captain, “to disturb you, but
I must really hint you don't comprehend me; the ladies are extremely
inconvenienced by these sort of sights, and we make it a principle they
should never be accablées with them.”

“Anan!” cried Mr Briggs, staring.

“I say, Sir,” replied the Captain, “the ladies are quite au desespoir
that you will not cover your head.”

“What for?” cried he, “what's the matter with my head? ne'er a man here
got a better! very good stuff in it; won't change it with ne'er a one of
you!”

And then, half unconscious of the offence he had given, and half angry
at the rebuke he had received, he leisurely compleated his design, and
again put on his wig, settling it to his face with as much composure as
if he had performed the operation in his own dressing-room.

The Captain, having gained his point, walked away, making, however,
various grimaces of disgust, and whispering from side to side “he's the
most petrifying fellow I ever was obsedé by!”

Mr Briggs then, with much derision, and sundry distortions of
countenance, listened to an Italian song; after which, he bustled back
to the outer apartment, in search of Cecilia, who, ashamed of seeming
a party in the disturbance he had excited, had taken the opportunity of
his dispute with the Captain, to run into the next room; where, however,
he presently found her, while she was giving an account to Mr Gosport
of her connection with him, to which Morrice, ever curious and eager to
know what was going forward, was also listening.

“Ah, little chick!” cried he, “got to you again! soon out jostle those
jemmy sparks! But where's the supper? see nothing of the supper! Time to
go to bed,--suppose there is none; all a take in; nothing but a little
piping.”

“Supper, Sir?” cried Cecilia; “the Concert is not over yet. Was supper
mentioned in your card of invitation?”

“Ay, to be sure, should not have come else. Don't visit often; always
costs money. Wish I had not come now; wore a hole in my shoe; hardly a
crack in it before.”

“Why you did not walk, Sir?”

“Did, did; why not? Might as well have stayed away though; daubed my
best coat, like to have spoilt it.”

“So much the better for the taylors, Sir,” said Morrice, pertly, “for
then you must have another.”

“Another! what for? ha'n't had this seven years; just as good as new.”

“I hope,” said Cecilia, “you had not another fall?”

“Worse, worse; like to have lost my bundle.”

“What bundle, Sir?”

“Best coat and waistcoat; brought 'em in my handkerchief, purpose to
save them. When will Master Harrel do as much?”

“But had you no apprehensions, Sir,” said Mr Gosport drily, “that the
handkerchief would be the sooner worn out for having a knot tied in it?”

“Took care of that, tied it slack. Met an unlucky boy; little dog gave
it a pluck; knot slipt; coat and waistcoat popt out.”

“But what became of the boy, Sir?” cried Morrice, “I hope he got off?”

“Could not run for laughing; caught him in a minute; gave him something
to laugh for; drubbed him soundly.”

“O poor fellow!” cried Morrice with a loud hallow, “I am really sorry
for him. But pray, Sir, what became of your best coat and waistcoat
while you gave him this drubbing? did you leave them in the dirt?”

“No, Mr Nincompoop,” answered Briggs angrily, “I put them on a stall.”

“That was a perilous expedient, Sir,” said Mr Gosport, “and I should
fear might be attended with ill consequences, for the owner of the stall
would be apt to expect some little douçeur. How did you manage, Sir?”

“Bought a halfpenny worth of apples. Serve for supper to-morrow night.”

“But how, Sir, did you get your cloaths dried, or cleaned?”

“Went to an alehouse; cost me half a pint.”

“And pray, Sir,” cried Morrice, “where, at last, did you make your
toilette?”

“Sha'n't tell, sha'n't tell; ask no more questions. What signifies where
a man slips on a coat and waist-coat?”

“Why, Sir, this will prove an expensive expedition to you,” said Mr
Gosport, very gravely; “Have you cast up what it may cost you?”

“More than it's worth, more than it's worth,” answered he pettishly
“ha'n't laid out so much in pleasure these five years.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Morrice, hallowing aloud, “why it can't be more than
sixpence in all!”

“Sixpence?” repeated he scornfully, “if you don't know the value of
sixpence, you'll never be worth fivepence three farthings. How do think
got rich, hay?--by wearing fine coats, and frizzling my pate? No, no;
Master Harrel for that! ask him if he'll cast an account with me!--never
knew a man worth a penny with such a coat as that on.”

Morrice again laughed, and again Mr Briggs reproved him; and Cecilia,
taking advantage of the squabble, stole back to the music-room. Here, in
a few minutes, Mrs Panton, a lady who frequently visited at the house,
approached Cecilia, followed by a gentleman, whom she had never before
seen, but who was so evidently charmed with her, that he had looked
at no other object since his entrance into the house. Mrs Panton,
presenting him to her by the name of Mr Marriot, told her he had begged
her intercession for the honour of her hand in the two first dances; and
the moment she answered that she was already engaged, the same request
was made for the two following. Cecilia had then no excuse, and was
therefore obliged to accept him.

The hope she had entertained in the early part of the evening, was
already almost wholly extinguished; Delvile appeared not! though her
eye watched the entrance of every new visitor, and her vexation made her
believe that he alone, of all the town, was absent.

When the Concert was over, the company joined promiscuously for chat
and refreshments before the ball; and Mr Gosport advanced to Cecilia, to
relate a ridiculous dispute which had just passed between Mr Briggs and
Morrice.

“You, Mr Gosport,” said Cecilia, “who seem to make the minutiae of
absurd characters your study, can explain to me, perhaps, why Mr Briggs
seems to have as much pleasure in proclaiming his meanness, as in
boasting his wealth?”

“Because,” answered Mr Gosport, “he knows them, in his own affairs,
to be so nearly allied, that but for practising the one, he had
never possessed the other; ignorant, therefore, of all
discrimination,--except, indeed, of pounds, shillings and pence!--he
supposes them necessarily inseparable, because with him they were
united. What you, however, call meanness, he thinks wisdom, and
recollects, therefore, not with shame but with triumph, the various
little arts and subterfuges by which his coffers have been filled.”

Here Lord Ernolf, concluding Cecilia still disengaged from seeing her
only discourse with Mr Gosport and Mr Monckton, one of them was old
enough to be her father, and the other was a married man, advanced,
and presenting to her Lord Derford, his son, a youth not yet of age,
solicited for him the honour of her hand as his partner.

Cecilia, having a double excuse, easily declined this proposal; Lord
Ernolf, however, was too earnest to be repulsed, and told her he should
again try his interest when her two present engagements were fulfilled.
Hopeless, now, of young Delvile, she heard this intimation with
indifference; and was accompanying Mr Monckton into the ballroom, when
Miss Larolles, flying towards her with an air of infinite eagerness,
caught her hand, and said in a whisper “pray let me wish you joy!”

“Certainly!” said Cecilia, “but pray let me ask you of what?”

“O Lord, now,” answered she, “I am sure you know what I mean; but you
must know I have a prodigious monstrous great favour to beg of you; now
pray don't refuse me; I assure you if you do, I shall be so mortified
you've no notion.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Nothing but to let me be one of your bride maids. I assure you I shall
take it as the greatest favour in the world.”

“My bride maid!” cried Cecilia; “but do you not think the bridegroom
himself will be rather offended to find a bridesmaid appointed, before
he is even thought of?”

“O pray, now,” cried she, “don't be ill-natured, for if you are, you've
no idea how I shall be disappointed. Only conceive what happened to me
three weeks ago! you must know I was invited to Miss Clinton's wedding,
and so I made up a new dress on purpose, in a very particular sort of
shape, quite of my own invention, and it had the sweetest effect you can
conceive; well, and when the time came, do you know her mother happened
to die! Never any thing was so excessive unlucky, for now she won't be
married this half year, and my dress will be quite old and yellow; for
it's all white, and the most beautiful thing you ever saw in your life.”

“Upon my word you are very obliging!” cried Cecilia laughing; “and pray
do you make interest regularly round with all your female acquaintance
to be married upon this occasion, or am I the only one you think this
distress will work upon?”

“Now how excessive teazing!” cried Miss Larolles, “when you know so well
what I mean, and when all the town knows as well as myself.”

Cecilia then seriously enquired whether she had really any meaning at
all.

“Lord yes,” answered she, “you know I mean about Sir Robert Floyer; for
I'm told you've quite refused Lord Derford.”

“And are you also told that I have accepted Sir Robert Floyer?”

“O dear yes!--the jewels are bought, and the equipages are built; it's
quite a settled thing, I know very well.”

Cecilia then very gravely began an attempt to undeceive her; but the
dancing beginning also at the same time, she stayed not to hear her,
hurrying, with a beating heart, to the place of action. Mr Monckton and
his fair partner then followed, mutually exclaiming against Mr Harrel's
impenetrable conduct; of which Cecilia, however, in a short time
ceased wholly to think, for as soon as the first cotillon was over, she
perceived young Delvile just walking into the room.

Surprise, pleasure and confusion assailed her all at once; she had
entirely given up her expectation of seeing him, and an absence so
determined had led her to conclude he had pursuits which ought to make
her join in wishing it lengthened; but now he appeared, that conclusion,
with the fears that gave rise to it, vanished; and she regretted nothing
but the unfortunate succession of engagements which would prevent her
dancing with him at all, and probably keep off all conversation with him
till supper time.

She soon, however, perceived a change in his air and behaviour that
extremely astonished her; he looked grave and thoughtful, saluted her
at a distance, shewed no sign of any intention to approach her, regarded
the dancing and dancers as a public spectacle in which he had no chance
of personal interest, and seemed wholly altered, not merely with respect
to her, but to himself, as his former eagerness for her society was not
more abated than [his] former general gaiety.

She had no time, however, for comments, as she was presently called
to the second cotillon; but the confused and unpleasant ideas which,
without waiting for time or reflection, crowded upon her imagination
on observing his behaviour, were not more depressing to herself, than
obvious to her partner; Mr Monckton by the change in her countenance
first perceived the entrance of young Delvile, and by her apparent
emotion and uneasiness, readily penetrated into the state of her mind;
he was confirmed that her affections were engaged; he saw, too, that she
was doubtful with what return.

The grief with which he made the first discovery, was somewhat lessened
by the hopes he conceived from, the second; yet the evening was to him
as painful as to Cecilia, since he now knew that whatever prosperity'
might ultimately attend his address and assiduity, her heart was not
her own to bestow; and that even were he sure of young Delvile's
indifference, and actually at liberty to make proposals for himself,
the time of being first in her esteem was at an end, and the long-earned
good opinion which he had hoped would have ripened into affection, might
now be wholly undermined by the sudden impression of a lively stranger,
without trouble to himself, and perhaps without pleasure!

Reflections such as these wholly embittered the delight he had promised
himself from dancing with her, and took from him all power to combat the
anxiety with which she was seized; when the second cotillon, therefore,
was over, instead of following her to a seat, or taking the privilege of
his present situation to converse with her, the jealousy rising in his
breast robbed him of all satisfaction, and gave to him no other desire
than to judge its justice by watching her motions at a distance.

Mean while Cecilia, inattentive whether he accompanied or quitted her
proceeded to the first vacant seat. Young Delvile was standing near it,
and, in a short time, but rather as if he could not avoid than as if he
wished it, he came to enquire how she did.

The simplest question, in the then situation of her mind, was sufficient
to confuse her, and though she answered, she hardly knew what he had
asked. A minute's recollection, however, restored an apparent composure,
and she talked to him of Mrs Delvile, with her usual partial regard
for that lady, and with an earnest endeavour to seem unconscious of any
alteration in his behaviour.

Yet, to him, even this trifling and general conversation was evidently
painful, and he looked relieved by the approach of Sir Robert Floyer,
who soon after joined them.

At this time a young lady who was sitting by Cecilia, called to a
servant who was passing, for a glass of lemonade; Cecilia desired
he would bring her one also; but Delvile, not sorry to break off the
discourse, said he would himself be her cup-bearer, and for that purpose
went away.

A moment after, the servant returned with some lemonade to Cecilia's
neighbour, and Sir Robert, taking a glass from him, brought it to
Cecilia at the very instant young Delvile came with another.

“I think I am before hand with you, Sir,” said the insolent Baronet.

“No, Sir,” answered young Delvile, “I think we were both in together;
Miss Beverley, however, is steward of the race, and we must submit to
her decision.”

“Well, madam,” cried Sir Robert, “here we stand, waiting your pleasure.
Which is to be the happy man!”

“Each, I hope,” answered Cecilia, with admirable presence of mind,
“since I expect no less than that you will both do me the honour of
drinking my health.”

This little contrivance, which saved her alike from shewing favour or
giving offence, could not but be applauded by both parties; and while
they obeyed her orders, she took a third glass herself from the servant.

While this was passing, Mr Briggs, again perceiving her, stumpt hastily
towards her, calling out “Ah ha! my duck! what's that? got something
nice? Come here, my lad, taste it myself.”

He then took a glass, but having only put it to his mouth, made a wry
face, and returned it, saying “Bad! bad! poor punch indeed!--not a drop
of rum in it!

“So much the better, Sir,” cried Morrice, who diverted himself by
following him, “for then you see the master of the house spares in
something, and you said he spared in nothing.”

“Don't spare in fools!” returned Mr Briggs, “keeps them in plenty.”

“No, Sir, nor in any out of the way characters,” answered Morrice.

“So much the worse,” cried Briggs, “so much the worse! Eat him out of
house and home; won't leave him a rag to his back nor a penny in his
pocket. Never mind 'em, my little duck; mind none of your guardians but
me; t'other two a'n't worth a rush.”

Cecilia, somewhat ashamed of this speech, looked towards young Delvile,
in whom it occasioned the first smile she had seen that evening.

“Been looking about for you!” continued Briggs, nodding
sagaciously; “believe I've found one will do. Guess what I
mean;--£100,0000--hay?--what say to that? any thing better at the west
end of the town?”

“£100,000!” cried Morrice, “and pray, Sir, who may this be?”

“Not you, Mr jackanapes! sure of that. A'n't quite positive he'll have
you, neither. Think he will, though.”

“Pray; Sir, what age is he?” cried the never daunted Morrice.

“Why about--let's see--don't know, never heard,--what signifies?”

“But, Sir, he's an old man, I suppose, by being so rich?”

“Old? no, no such thing; about my own standing.”

“What, Sir, and do you propose him for an husband to Miss Beverley?”

“Why not? know ever a one warmer? think Master Harrel will get her a
better? or t'other old Don, in the grand square?”

“If you please, Sir,” cried Cecilia hastily, “we will talk of this
matter another time.”

“No, pray,” cried young Delvile, who could not forbear laughing, “let it
be discussed now.”

“Hate 'em,” continued Mr Briggs, “hate 'em both! one spending more than
he's worth, cheated and over-reached by fools, running into gaol to
please a parcel of knaves; t'other counting nothing but uncles and
grandfathers, dealing out fine names instead of cash, casting up more
cousins than guineas--”

Again Cecilia endeavoured to silence him, but, only chucking her under
the chin, he went on, “Ay, ay, my little duck, never mind 'em; one of
'em i'n't worth a penny, and t'other has nothing in his pockets but
lists of the defunct. What good will come of that? would not give
twopence a dozen for 'em! A poor set of grandees, with nothing but a
tie-wig for their portions!”

Cecilia, unable to bear this harangue in the presence of young Delvile,
who, however, laughed it off with a very good grace, arose with an
intention to retreat, which being perceived by Sir Robert Floyer, who
had attended to this dialogue with haughty contempt, he came forward,
and said, “now then, madam, may I have the honour of your hand?”

“No, Sir,” answered Cecilia, “I am engaged.”

“Engaged again?” cried he, with the air of a man who thought himself
much injured.

“Glad of it, glad of it!” said Mr Briggs; “served very right! have
nothing to say to him, my chick!”

“Why not, Sir?” cried Sir Robert, with an imperious look.

“Sha'n't have her, sha'n't have her! can tell you that; won't consent;
know you of old.”

“And what do you know of me, pray Sir?”

“No good, no good; nothing to say to you; found fault with my nose!
ha'n't forgot it.”

At this moment Mr Marriot came to claim his partner, who, very willing
to quit this scene of wrangling and vulgarity, immediately attended
him. Miss Larolles, again flying up to her, said “O my dear, we are all
expiring to know who that creature is! I never saw such a horrid fright
in my life!”

Cecilia was beginning to satisfy her, but some more young ladies coming
up to join in the request, she endeavoured to pass on; “O but,” cried
Miss Larolles, detaining her, “do pray stop, for I've something to tell
you that's so monstrous you've no idea. Do you know Mr Meadows has not
danced at all! and he's been standing with Mr Sawyer, and looking on all
the time, and whispering and laughing so you've no notion. However, I
assure you, I'm excessive glad he did not ask me, for all I have been
sitting still all this time, for I had a great deal rather sit still, I
assure you; only I'm sorry I put on this dress, for any thing would have
done just to look on in that stupid manner.”

Here Mr Meadows sauntered towards them; and all the young ladies
began playing with their fans, and turning their heads another way, to
disguise the expectations his approach awakened; and Miss Larolles, in
a hasty whisper to Cecilia, cried, “Pray don't take any notice of what
I said, for if he should happen to ask me, I can't well refuse him, you
know, for if I do, he'll be so excessive affronted you can't think.”

Mr Meadows then, mixing in the little group, began, with sundry
grimaces, to exclaim “how intolerably hot it is! there's no such thing
as breathing. How can anybody think of dancing! I am amazed Mr Harrel
has not a ventilator in this room. Don't you think it would be a great
improvement?”

This speech, though particularly addressed to no one, received
immediately an assenting answer from all the young ladies.

Then, turning to Miss Larolles, “Don't you dance?” he said.

“Me?” cried she, embarrassed, “yes, I believe so,--really I don't
know,--I a'n't quite determined.”

“O, do dance!” cried he, stretching himself and yawning, “it always
gives me spirits to see you.”

Then, turning suddenly to Cecilia, without any previous ceremony of
renewing his acquaintance, either by speaking or bowing, he abruptly
said “Do you love dancing, ma'am?”

“Yes, Sir, extremely well.”

“I'm very glad to hear it. You have one thing, then, to soften
existence.”

“Do you dislike it yourself?”

“What dancing? Oh dreadful! how it was ever adopted in a civilized
country I cannot find out; 'tis certainly a Barbarian exercise, and of
savage origin. Don't you think so, Miss Larolles?”

“Lord no,” cried Miss Larolles, “I assure you I like it better than any
thing; I know nothing so delightful, I declare I dare say I could not
live without it; I should be so stupid you can't conceive.”

“Why I remember,” said Mr Marriot, “when Mr Meadows was always dancing
himself. Have you forgot, Sir, when you used to wish the night would
last for ever, that you might dance without ceasing?”

Mr Meadows, who was now intently surveying a painting that was over the
chimney-piece, seemed not to hear this question, but presently called
out “I am amazed Mr Harrel can suffer such a picture as this to be in
his house. I hate a portrait, 'tis so wearisome looking at a thing that
is doing nothing!”

“Do you like historical pictures, Sir, any better?”

“O no, I detest them! views of battles, murders, and death! Shocking!
shocking!--I shrink from them with horror!”

“Perhaps you are fond of landscapes?”

“By no means! Green trees and fat cows! what do they tell one? I hate
every thing that is insipid.”

“Your toleration, then,” said Cecilia, “will not be very extensive.”

“No,” said he, yawning, “one can tolerate nothing! one's patience is
wholly exhausted by the total tediousness of every thing one sees, and
every body one talks with. Don't you find it so, ma'am?”

“Sometimes!” said Cecilia, rather archly.

“You are right, ma'am, extremely right; one does not know what in the
world to do with one's self. At home, one is killed with meditation,
abroad, one is overpowered by ceremony; no possibility of finding ease
or comfort. You never go into public, I think, ma'am?”

“Why not to be much marked, I find!” said Cecilia, laughing.

“O, I beg your pardon! I believe I saw you one evening at Almack's; I
really beg your pardon, but I had quite forgot it.”

“Lord, Mr Meadows,” said Miss Larolles, “don't you know you are meaning
the Pantheon? only conceive how you forget things!”

“The Pantheon, was it? I never know one of those places from another.
I heartily wish they were all abolished; I hate public places. 'Tis
terrible to be under the same roof with a set of people who would care
nothing if they saw one expiring!”

“You are, at least, then, fond of the society of your friends?”

“O no! to be worn out by seeing always the same faces!--one is sick to
death of friends; nothing makes one so melancholy.”

Cecilia now went to join the dancers, and Mr Meadows, turning to Miss
Larolles, said, “Pray don't let me keep you from dancing; I am afraid
you'll lose your place.”

“No,” cried she, bridling, “I sha'n't dance at all.”

“How cruel!” cried he, yawning, “when you know how it exhilarates me
to see you! Don't you think this room is very close? I must go and try
another atmosphere,--But I hope you will relent, and dance?”

And then, stretching his arms as if half asleep, he sauntered into the
next room, where he flung himself upon a sofa till the ball was over.

The new partner of Cecilia, who was a wealthy, but very simple young
man, used his utmost efforts to entertain and oblige her, and, flattered
by the warmth of his own desire, he fancied that he succeeded; though,
in a state of such suspence and anxiety, a man of brighter talents had
failed.

At the end of the two dances, Lord Ernolf again attempted to engage her
for his son, but she now excused herself from dancing any more, and
sat quietly as a spectatress till the rest of the company gave over. Mr
Marriot, however, would not quit her, and she was compelled to support
with him a trifling conversation, which, though irksome to herself, to
him, who had not seen her in her happier hour, was delightful.

She expected every instant to be again joined by young Delvile, but
the expectation was disappointed; he came not; she concluded he was in
another apartment; the company was summoned to supper, she then thought
it impossible to miss him; but, after waiting and looking for him in
vain, she found he had already left the house.

The rest of the evening she scarce knew what passed, for she attended
to nothing; Mr Monckton might watch, and Mr Briggs might exhort her, Sir
Robert might display his insolence, or Mr Marriot his gallantry,--all
was equally indifferent, and equally unheeded; and before half the
company left the house, she retired to her own room.

She spent the night in the utmost disturbance; the occurrences of the
evening with respect to young Delvile she looked upon as decisive; if
his absence had chagrined her, his presence had still more shocked her,
since, while she was left to conjecture, though she had fears she had
hopes, and though all she saw was gloomy, all she expected was pleasant;
but they had now met, and those expectations proved fallacious. She knew
not, indeed, how to account for the strangeness of his conduct; but in
seeing it was strange, she was convinced it was unfavourable; he had
evidently avoided her while it was in his power, and when, at last, he
was obliged to meet her, he was formal, distant, and reserved.

The more she recollected and dwelt upon the difference of his behaviour
in their preceding meeting, the more angry as well as amazed she became
at the change, and though she still concluded the pursuit of some other
object occasioned it, she could find no excuse for his fickleness if
that pursuit was recent, nor for his caprice if it was anterior.









CHAPTER ii. -- A BROAD HINT.

The next day Cecilia, to drive Delvile a little from her thoughts,
which she now no longer wished him to occupy, again made a visit to Miss
Belfield, whose society afforded her more consolation than any other she
could procure.

She found her employed in packing up, and preparing to remove to another
lodging, for her brother, she said, was so much better, that he did not
think it right to continue in so disgraceful a situation.

She talked with her accustomed openness of her affairs, and the interest
which Cecilia involuntarily took in them, contributed to lessen her
vexation in thinking of her own. “The generous friend of my brother,”
 said she, “who, though but a new acquaintance to him, has courted him
in all his sorrows, when every body else forsook him, has brought him at
last into a better way of thinking. He says there is a gentleman whose
son is soon going abroad, who he is almost sure will like my brother
vastly, and in another week, he is to be introduced to him. And so, if
my mother can but reconcile herself to parting with him, perhaps we may
all do well again.”

“Your mother,” said Cecilia, “when he is gone, will better know the
value of the blessing she has left in her daughter.”

“O no, madam, no; she is wrapt up in him, and cares nothing for all the
world besides. It was always so, and we have all of us been used to it.
But we have had a sad scene since you were so kind as to come last; for
when she told him what you had done, he was almost out of his senses
with anger that we had acquainted you with his distress, and he said it
was publishing his misery, and undoing whatever his friend or himself
could do, for it was making him ashamed to appear in the world, even
when his affairs might be better. But I told him again and again that
you had as much sweetness as goodness, and instead of hurting his
reputation, would do him nothing but credit.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “Mrs Belfield mentioned the circumstance
at all; it would have been better, for many reasons, that he should not
have heard of it.”

“She hoped it would please him,” answered Miss Belfield, “however, he
made us both promise we would take no such step in future, for he said
we were not reduced to so much indigence, whatever he was; and that as
to our accepting money from other people, that we might save up our own
for him, it would be answering no purpose, for he should think himself a
monster to make use of it.”

“And what said your mother?”

“Why she gave him a great many promises that she would never vex him
about it again; and indeed, much as I know we are obliged to you, madam,
and gratefully as I am sure I would lay down my life to serve you, I am
very glad in this case that my brother has found it out. For though I so
much wish him to do something for himself, and not to be so proud, and
live in a manner he has no right to do, I think, for all that, that it
is a great disgrace to my' poor father's honest memory, to have us turn
beggars after his death, when he left us all so well provided for, if we
had but known how to be satisfied.”

“There is a natural rectitude in your heart,” said Cecilia, “that the
ablest casuists could not mend.”

She then enquired whither they were removing, and Miss Belfield told her
to Portland Street, Oxford Road, where they were to have two apartments
up two pair of stairs, and the use of a very good parlour, in which her
brother might see his friends. “And this,” added she, “is a luxury for
which nobody can blame him, because if he has not the appearance of a
decent home, no gentleman will employ him.”

The Padington house, she said, was already let, and her mother was
determined not to hire another, but still to live as penuriously as
possible, in order, notwithstanding his remonstrances, to save all she
could of her income for her son.

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Belfield,
who very familiarly said she came to tell Cecilia they were all in the
wrong box in letting her son know of the £10 bank note, “for,” continued
she, “he has a pride that would grace a duke, and he thinks nothing of
his hardships, so long as nobody knows of them. So another time we must
manage things better, and when we do him any good, not let him know a
word of the matter. We'll settle it all among ourselves, and one day or
other he'll be glad enough to thank us.”

Cecilia, who saw Miss Belfield colour with shame at the freedom of this
hint, now arose to depart; but Mrs Belfield begged her not to go so
soon, and pressed her with such urgency to again sit down, that she was
obliged to comply.

She then began a warm commendation of her son, lavishly praising all his
good qualities, and exalting even his defects, concluding with saying
“But, ma'am, for all he's such a complete gentleman, and for all he's
made so much of, he was so diffident, I could not get him to call and
thank you for the present you made him, though, when he went his last
airing, I almost knelt to him to do it. But, with all his merit, he
wants as much encouragement as a lady, for I can tell you it is not a
little will do for him.”

Cecilia, amazed at this extraordinary speech, looked from the mother to
the daughter in order to discover its meaning, which, however, was soon
rendered plainer by what followed.

“But pray now, ma'am, don't think him the more ungrateful for his
shyness, for young ladies so high in the world as you are, must go
pretty good lengths before a young man will get courage to speak to
them. And though I have told my son over and over that the ladies never
like a man the worse for being a little bold, he's so much down in the
mouth that it has no effect upon him. But it all comes of his being
brought up at the university, for that makes him think he knows better
than I can tell him. And so, to be sure, he does. However, for all that,
it is a hard thing upon a mother to find all she says goes just for
nothing. But I hope you'll excuse him, ma'am, for it's nothing in the
world but his over-modesty.”

Cecilia now stared with a look of so much astonishment and displeasure,
that Mrs Belfield, suspecting she had gone rather too far, added “I beg
you won't take what I've said amiss, ma'am, for we mothers of families
are more used to speak out than maiden ladies. And I should not have
said so much, but only I was afraid you would misconstrue my son's
backwardness, and so that he might be flung out of your favour at last,
and all for nothing but having too much respect for you.”

“O dear mother!” cried Miss Belfield, whose face was the colour of
scarlet, “pray!”--

“What's the matter now?” cried Mrs Belfield; “you are as shy as
your brother; and if we are all to be so, when are we to come to an
understanding?”

“Not immediately, I believe indeed,” said Cecilia, rising, “but that we
may not plunge deeper in our mistakes, I will for the present take my
leave.”

“No, ma'am,” cried Mrs Belfield, stopping her, “pray don't go yet, for
I've got a great many things I want to talk to you about. In the first
place, ma'am, pray what is your opinion of this scheme for sending my
son abroad into foreign parts? I don't know what you may think of it,
but as to me, it half drives me out of my senses to have him taken away
from me at last in that unnatural manner. And I'm sure, ma'am, if you
would only put in a word against it, I dare say he would give it up
without a demur.”

“Me?” cried Cecilia, disengaging herself from her hold, “No, madam, you
must apply to those friends who better understand his affairs, and who
would have a deeper interest in detaining him.”

“Lack a day!” cried Mrs Belfield, with scarcely smothered vexation, “how
hard it is to make these grand young ladies come to reason! As to my
son's other friends, what good will it do for him to mind what they say?
who can expect him to give up his journey, without knowing what amends
he shall get for it?”

“You must settle this matter with him at your leisure,” said Cecilia, “I
cannot now stay another moment.”

Mrs Belfield, again finding she had been too precipitate, tried to draw
back, saying “Pray, ma'am, don't let what I have mentioned go against my
son in your good opinion, for he knows no more of it than the furthest
person in the world, as my daughter can testify for as to shyness,
he's just as shy as a lady himself; so what good he ever got at the
University, as to the matter of making his fortune, it's what I never
could discover. However, I dare say he knows best; though when all comes
to all, if I was to speak my mind, I think he's made but a poor hand of
it.”

Cecilia, who only through compassion to the blushing Henrietta forbore
repressing this forwardness more seriously, merely answered Mrs Belfield
by wishing her good morning; but, while she was taking a kinder leave of
her timid daughter, the mother added “As to the present, ma'am, you was
so kind to make us, Henny can witness for me every penny of it shall go
to my son.”

“I rather meant it,” said Cecilia, “for your daughter; but if it is of
use to any body, my purpose is sufficiently answered.”

Mrs Belfield again pressed her to sit down, but she would not again
listen to her, coldly saying “I am sorry you troubled Mr Belfield with
any mention of what passed between his sister and me, but should you
speak of it again, I beg you will explain to him that he had no concern
in that little transaction, which belonged wholly to ourselves.”

She then hastened down stairs, followed, however, by Mrs Belfield,
making awkward excuses for what she had said, intermixed with frequent
hints that she knew all the time she was in the right.

This little incident, which convinced Cecilia Mrs Belfield was firmly
persuaded she was in love with her son, gave her much uneasiness; she
feared the son himself might entertain the same notion, and thought
it most probable the daughter also had imbibed it, though but for the
forward vulgarity of the sanguine mother, their opinions might long have
remained concealed. Her benevolence towards them, notwithstanding its
purity, must now therefore cease to be exerted; nor could she even
visit Miss Belfield, since prudence, and a regard for her own character,
seemed immediately to prohibit all commerce with the family.

“And thus difficult,” cried she, “is the blameless use of riches,
though; all who want them, think nothing so easy as their disposal! This
family I have so much wished to serve, I may at last only have injured,
since the disappointment of their higher expectations, may render all
smaller benefits contemptible. And thus this unfortunate misconstruction
of my good offices, robs them of a useful assistant, and deprives me at
the same time of an amiable companion.”

As soon as she returned home, she had a letter put into her hand which
came from Mr Marriot, whose servant had twice called for an answer in
the short time she had been absent.

This letter contained a most passionate avowal of the impression she had
made on his heart the preceding evening, and an angry complaint that Mr
Harrel had refused to hear his proposals. He entreated her permission to
wait upon her for only five minutes, and concluded with the most fervent
professions of respect and admiration.

The precipitancy of this declaration served merely to confirm the
opinion she had already conceived of the weakness of his understanding;
but the obstinacy of Mr Harrel irritated and distressed her, though
weary of expostulating with so hopeless a subject, whom neither reason
nor gratitude could turn from his own purposes, she was obliged to
submit to his management, and was well content, in the present instance,
to affirm his decree. She therefore wrote a concise answer to her new
admirer, in the usual form of civil rejection.









CHAPTER iii. -- AN ACCOMMODATION.

Cecilia was informed the next morning that a young woman begged to speak
with her, and upon sending for her up stairs, she saw, to her great
surprise, Miss Belfield.

She came in fear and trembling, sent, she said, by her mother, to
entreat her pardon for what had passed the preceding day; “But I know,
madam,” she added, “you cannot pardon it, and therefore all that I mean
to do is to clear my brother from any share in what was said, for indeed
he has too much sense to harbour any such presumption; and to thank you
with a most grateful heart for all the goodness you have shewn us.”

And then, modestly courtsying, she would have returned home; but
Cecilia, much touched by her gentleness, took her hand, and kindly
reviving her by assurances of esteem, entreated that she would lengthen
her stay.

“How good is this, madam,” said she, “after having so much reason to
think so ill of me and of all of us I tried all in my power to undeceive
my mother, or at least to keep her quiet; but she was so much persuaded
she was right, that she never would listen to me, and always said, did I
suppose it was for me you condescended to come so often?”

“Yes,” answered Cecilia, “most undoubtedly; had I not known you, however
well I might have wished your brother, I should certainly not have
visited at his house. But I am very happy to hear the mistake had spread
no further.”

“No indeed, madam, I never once thought of it; and as to my brother,
when my mother only hinted it to him, he was quite angry. But though
I don't mean to vindicate what has happened, you will not, I hope, be
displeased if I say my mother is much more pardonable than she seems to
be, for the same mistake she made with you, she would have been as apt
to have made with a princess; it was not, therefore, from any want of
respect, but merely from thinking my brother might marry as high as he
pleased, and believing no lady would refuse him, if he would but have
the courage to speak.”

Cecilia assured her she would think no more of the error, but told her
that to avoid its renewal, she must decline calling upon her again till
her brother was gone. She begged therefore to see her in Portman-square
whenever she had leisure, repeatedly assuring her of her good opinion
and regard, and of the pleasure with which she should seize every
opportunity of shewing them.

Delighted by a reception so kind, Miss Belfield remained with her all
the morning; and when at last she was obliged to leave her, she was but
too happy in being solicited to repeat her visit.

She suffered one day only to elapse before she shewed her readiness to
accept the friendship that was offered her; and Cecilia, much pleased by
this eagerness, redoubled her efforts to oblige and to serve her.

From this time, hardly a day passed in which she did not call in
Portman-square, where nothing in her reception was omitted that could
contribute to her contentment. Cecilia was glad to employ her mind in
any way that related not to Delvile, whom she now earnestly endeavoured
to think of no more, denying herself even the pleasure of talking of him
with Miss Belfield, by the name of her brother's noble friend.

During this time she devised various methods, all too delicate to
give even the shadow of offence, for making both useful and ornamental
presents to her new favourite, with whom she grew daily more satisfied,
and to whom she purposed hereafter offering a residence in her own
house.

The trial of intimacy, so difficult to the ablest to stand, and from
which even the most faultless are so rarely acquitted, Miss Belfield
sustained with honour. Cecilia found her artless, ingenuous, and
affectionate; her understanding was good, though no pains had been taken
to improve it; her disposition though ardent was soft, and her mind
seemed informed by intuitive integrity.

She communicated to Cecilia all the affairs of her family, disguising
from her neither distress nor meanness, and seeking to palliate nothing
but the grosser parts of the character of her mother. She seemed equally
ready to make known to her even the most chosen secrets of her own
bosom, for that such she had was evident, from a frequent appearance
of absence and uneasiness which she took but little trouble to conceal.
Cecilia, however, trusted not herself, in the present critical situation
of her own mind, with any enquiries that might lead to a subject she was
conscious she ought not to dwell upon; a short time, she hoped, would
totally remove her suspence; but as she had much less reason to expect
good than evil, she made it her immediate study to prepare for the
worst, and therefore carefully avoided all discourse that by nourishing
her tenderness, might weaken her resolution.

While thus, in friendly conversation and virtuous forbearance, passed
gravely, but not unhappily, the time of Cecilia, the rest of the house
was very differently employed; feasting, revelling, amusements of all
sorts were pursued with more eagerness than ever, and the alarm which so
lately threatened their destruction, seemed now merely to heighten
the avidity with which they were sought. Yet never was the disunion of
happiness and diversion more striking and obvious; Mr Harrel, in spite
of his natural levity, was seized from time to time with fits of horror
that embittered his gayest moments, and cast a cloud upon all his
enjoyments. Always an enemy to solitude, he now found it wholly
insupportable, and ran into company of any sort, less from a hope of
finding entertainment, than from a dread of spending half an hour by
himself.

Cecilia, who saw that his rapacity for pleasure encreased with his
uneasiness, once more ventured to speak with his lady upon the subject
of reformation; counselling her to take advantage of his present
apparent discontent, which showed at least some sensibility of his
situation, in order to point out to him the necessity of an immediate
inspection into his affairs, which, with a total change in his way of
life, was her only chance for snatching him from the dismal despondency
into which he was sinking.

Mrs Harrel declared herself unequal to following this advice, and said
that her whole study was to find Mr Harrel amusement, for he was grown
so ill-humoured and petulant she quite feared being alone with him.

The house therefore now was more crowded than ever, and nothing but
dissipation was thought of. Among those who upon this plan were courted
to it, the foremost was Mr Morrice, who, from a peculiar talent of
uniting servility of conduct with gaiety of speech, made himself at once
so agreeable and useful in the family, that in a short time they fancied
it impossible to live without him. And Morrice, though his first view in
obtaining admittance had been the cultivation of his acquaintance with
Cecilia, was perfectly satisfied with the turn that matters had taken,
since his utmost vanity had never led him to entertain any matrimonial
hopes with her, and he thought his fortune as likely to profit from the
civility of her friends as of herself. For Morrice, however flighty, and
wild, had always at heart the study of his own interest; and though from
a giddy forwardness of disposition he often gave offence, his meaning
and his serious attention was not the less directed to the advancement
of his own affairs; he formed no connection from which he hoped not
some benefit, and he considered the acquaintance and friendship of his
superiors in no other light than that of procuring him sooner or later
recommendations to new clients.

Sir Robert Floyer also was more frequent than ever in his visits, and
Mr Harrel, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Cecilia, contrived every
possible opportunity of giving him access to her. Mrs Harrel herself,
though hitherto neutral, now pleaded his cause with earnestness; and Mr
Arnott, who had been her former refuge from this persecution, grew so
serious and so tender in his devoirs, that unable any longer to doubt
the sentiments she had inspired, she was compelled even with him to be
guarded and distant.

She now with daily concern looked back to the sacrifice she had made
to the worthless and ungrateful Mr Harrel, and was sometimes tempted to
immediately chuse another guardian, and leave his house for ever;
yet the delicacy of her disposition was averse to any step that might
publicly expose him, and her early regard for his wife would not suffer
her to put it in execution.

These circumstances contributed strongly to encrease her intimacy with
Miss Belfield; she now never saw Mrs Delvile, whom alone she preferred
to her, and from the troublesome assiduity of Sir Robert, scarce ever
met Mr Monckton but in his presence; she found, therefore, no resource
against teazing and vexation, but what was afforded her by the
conversation of the amiable Henrietta.









CHAPTER iv. -- A DETECTION.

A fortnight had now elapsed in which Cecilia had had no sort of
communication with the Delviles, whom equally from pride and from
prudence she forbore to seek for herself, when one morning, while she
was sitting with Miss Belfield, her maid told her that young Mr Delvile
was in the drawing-room, and begged the honour of seeing her for a few
moments.

Cecilia, though she started and changed colour with surprize at this
message, was unconscious she did either, from the yet greater surprise
she received by the behaviour of Miss Belfield, who hastily arising,
exclaimed “Good God, Mr Delvile!--do you know Mr Delvile, madam?--does
Mr Delvile visit at this house?”

“Sometimes; not often,” answered Cecilia; “but why?”

“I don't know,--nothing, madam,--I only asked by accident, I
believe,--but it's very--it's extremely--I did not know”--and colouring
violently, she again sat down.

An apprehension the most painful now took possession of Cecilia,
and absorbed in thought, she continued for some minutes silent and
immoveable.

From this state she was awakened by her maid, who asked if she chose to
have her gloves.

Cecilia, taking them from her without speaking, left the room, and not
daring to stop for enquiry or consideration, hastened down stairs; but
when she entered the apartment where young Delvile was waiting for her,
all utterance seemed denied her, and she courtsied without saying a
word.

Struck with the look and uncommon manner of her entrance, he became in
a moment as much disturbed as herself, pouring forth a thousand
unnecessary and embarrassed apologies for his visit, and so totally
forgetting even the reason why he made it, that he had taken his leave
and was departing before he recollected it. He then turned back, forcing
a laugh at his own absence of mind, and told her he had only called to
acquaint her, that the commands with which she had honoured him were now
obeyed, and, he hoped, to her satisfaction.

Cecilia, who knew not she had ever given him any, waited his further
explanation; and he then informed her he had that very morning
introduced Mr Belfield to the Earl of Vannelt, who had already heard
him very advantageously spoken of by some gentlemen to whom he had been
known at the University, and who was so much pleased with him upon this
first interview, that he meant, after a few enquiries, which could not
but turn out to his credit, to commit his eldest son to his trust in
making the tour of Europe.

Cecilia thanked him for her share in the trouble he had taken in this
transaction; and then asked if Mrs Delvile continued well.

“Yes,” answered he, with a smile half reproachful, “as well as one who
having ever hoped your favour, can easily be after finding that hope
disappointed. But much as she has taught her son, there is one lesson
she might perhaps learn from him;--to fly, not seek, those dangerous
indulgences of which the deprivation is the loss of peace!”

He then bowed, and made his exit.

This unexpected reproof, and the yet more unexpected compliment that
accompanied it, in both which more seemed meant than met the ear,
encreased the perturbation into which Cecilia had already been thrown.
It occurred to her that under the sanction of his mother's name, he had
taken an opportunity of making an apology for his own conduct; yet
why avoiding her society, if to that he alluded, should be flying a
dangerous indulgence, she could not understand, since he had so little
reason to fear any repulse in continuing to seek it.

Sorry, however, for the abrupt manner in which she had left Miss
Belfield, she lost not a moment in hastening back to her; but when she
came into the room, she found her employed in looking out of the window,
her eye following some object with such earnestness of attention, that
she perceived not her return.

Cecilia, who could not doubt the motive of her curiosity, had no great
difficulty in forbearing to offer her any interruption. She drew her
head back in a few minutes, and casting it upwards, with her hands
clasped, softly whispered, “Heaven ever shield and bless him! and O may
he never feel such pain as I do!”

She then again looked out, but soon drawing herself in, said, in the
same soft accents, “Oh why art thou gone! sweetest and noblest of men!
why might I not see thee longer, when, under heaven, there is no other
blessing I wish for!”

A sigh which at these words escaped Cecilia made her start and turn
towards the door; the deepest blushes overspread the cheeks of both as
their eyes met each other, and while Miss Belfield trembled in every
limb at the discovery she had made, Cecilia herself was hardly able to
stand.

A painful and most embarrassed silence succeeded, which was only broken
by Miss Belfield's bursting into tears.

Cecilia, extremely moved, forgot for a moment her own interest in what
was passing, and tenderly approaching, embraced her with the utmost
kindness; but still she spoke not, fearing to make an enquiry, from
dreading to hear any explanation.

Miss Belfield, soothed by her softness, clung about her, and hiding
her face in her arms, sobbed out, “Ah madam! who ought to be unhappy
if befriended by you! if I could help it, I would love nobody else in
almost the whole world. But you must let me leave you now, and to-morrow
I will tell you every thing.”

Cecilia, who had no wish for making any opposition, embraced her again,
and suffered her quietly to depart.

Her own mind was now in a state of the utmost confusion. The rectitude
of her heart and the soundness of her judgment had hitherto guarded her
both from error and blame, and, except during her recent suspence, had
preserved her tranquility inviolate; but her commerce with the world had
been small and confined, and her actions had had little reference but to
herself. The case was now altered; and she was suddenly in a conjuncture
of all others the most delicate, that of accidentally discovering a
rival in a favourite friend.

The fondness she had conceived for Miss Belfield, and the sincerity of
her intentions as well as promises to serve her, made the detection of
this secret peculiarly cruel; she had lately felt no pleasure but in her
society, and looked forward to much future comfort from the continuance
of her regard, and from their constantly living together; but now this
was no longer even to be desired, since the utter annihilation of the
wishes of both, by young Delvile's being disposed of to a third person,
could alone render eligible their dwelling under the same roof.

Her pity, however, for Miss Belfield was almost wholly unallayed by
jealousy; she harboured not any suspicion that she was loved by young
Delvile, whose aspiring spirit led her infinitely more to fear some
higher rival, than to believe he bestowed even a thought upon the poor
Henrietta; but still she wished with the utmost ardour to know the
length of their acquaintance, how often they had met, when they had
conversed, what notice he had taken of her, and how so dangerous a
preference had invaded her heart.

But though this curiosity was both natural and powerful, her principal
concern was the arrangement of her own conduct; the next day Miss
Belfield was to tell her every thing by a voluntary promise; but she
doubted if she had any right to accept such a confidence. Miss Belfield,
she was sure, knew not she was interested in the tale, since she had not
even imagined that Delvile was known to her. She might hope, therefore,
not only for advice but assistance, and fancy that while she reposed her
secret in the bosom of a friend, she secured herself her best offices
and best wishes for ever.

Would she obtain them? no; the most romantic generosity would revolt
from such a demand, for however precarious was her own chance with young
Delvile, Miss Belfield she was sure could not have any; neither her
birth nor education fitted her for his rank in life, and even were
both unexceptionable, the smallness of her fortune, as Mr Monckton had
instructed her, would be an obstacle insurmountable.

Would it not be a kind of treachery to gather from her every thing, yet
aid her in nothing? to take advantage of her unsuspicious openness in
order to learn all that related to one whom she yet hoped would belong
ultimately to herself, and gratify an interested curiosity at the
expence of a candour not more simple than amiable? “No,” cried Cecilia,
“arts that I could never forgive, I never will practice; this sweet, but
unhappy girl shall tell me nothing; betrayed already by the tenderness
of her own heart, she shall at least suffer no further from any
duplicity in mine. If, indeed, Mr Delvile, as I suspect, is engaged
elsewhere, I will make this gentle Henrietta the object of my future
solicitude; the sympathy of our situations will not then divide but
unite us, and I will take her to my bosom, hear all her sorrows, and
calm her troubled spirit by participating in her sensibility. But if, on
the contrary, this mystery ends more happily for myself, if Mr Delvile
has now no other engagement, and hereafter clears his conduct to my
satisfaction, I will not be accessory to loading her future recollection
with the shame of a confidence she then cannot but repent, nor with an
injury to her delicacy that may wound it for ever.”

She determined, therefore, carefully to avoid the subject for the
present, since she could offer no advice for which she might not,
hereafter, be suspected of selfish motives; but yet, from a real regard
to the tender-hearted girl, to give all the tacit discouragement that
was in her power, to a passion which she firmly believed would be
productive of nothing but misery.

Once, from the frankness natural to her disposition, she thought not
merely of receiving but returning her confidence; her better judgment,
however, soon led her from so hazardous a plan, which could only have
exposed them both to a romantic humiliation, by which, in the end, their
mutual expectations might prove sources of mutual distrust.

When Miss Belfield, therefore, the next morning, her air unusually
timid, and her whole face covered with blushes, made her visit, Cecilia,
not seeming to notice her confusion, told her she was very sorry she was
obliged to go out herself, and contrived, under various pretences,
to keep her maid in the room. Miss Belfield, supposing this to be
accidental, rejoiced in her imaginary reprieve, and soon recovered
her usual chearfulness; and Cecilia, who really meant to call upon Mrs
Delvile, borrowed Mrs Harrel's carriage, and set down her artless young
friend at her new lodgings in Portland-street, before she proceeded
to St James's-square, talking the whole time upon matters of utter
indifference.









CHAPTER v. -- A SARCASM.

The reproach which Cecilia had received from young Delvile in the name
of his mother, determined her upon making this visit; for though, in her
present uncertainty, she wished only to see that family when sought by
themselves, she was yet desirous to avoid all appearance of singularity,
lest any suspicions should be raised of her sentiments.

Mrs Delvile received her with a cold civility that chilled and afflicted
her; she found her seriously offended by her long absence, and now for
the first time perceived that haughtiness of character which hitherto
she had thought only given to her by the calumny of envy; for though
her displeasure was undisguised, she deigned not to make any reproaches,
evidently shewing that her disappointment in the loss of her society,
was embittered by a proud regret for the kindness she believed she had
thrown away. But though she scrupulously forbore the smallest complaint,
she failed not from time to time to cast out reflections upon fickleness
and caprice the most satirical and pointed.

Cecilia, who could not possibly avow the motives of her behaviour,
ventured not to offer any apology for her apparent negligence; but,
hitherto accustomed to the most distinguished kindness, a change to so
much bitterness shocked and overpowered her, and she sat almost wholly
silent, and hardly able to look up.

Lady Honoria Pemberton, a daughter of the Duke of Derwent, now came
into the room, and afforded her some relief by the sprightliness of her
conversation. This young lady, who was a relation of the Delviles, and
of a character the most airy and unthinking, ran on during her whole
visit in a vein of fashionable scandal, with a levity that the censures
of Mrs Delvile, though by no means spared, had no power to [controul];
and, after having completely ransacked the topics of the day, she turned
suddenly to Cecilia, with whom during her residence in St James's-square
she had made some acquaintance, and said, “So I hear, Miss Beverley,
that after half the town has given you to Sir Robert Floyer, and the
other half to my Lord Derford, you intend, without regarding one side or
the other, to disappoint them both, and give yourself to Mr Marriot.”

“Me? no, indeed,” answered Cecilia, “your ladyship has been much
misinformed.”

“I hope so,” said Mrs Delvile, “for Mr Marriot, by all I ever heard
of him, seems to have but one recommendation, and that the last Miss
Beverley ought to value, a good estate.”

Cecilia, secretly delighted by a speech which she could not resist
flattering herself had reference to her son, now a little revived, and
endeavoured to bear some part in the conversation.

“Everybody one meets,” cried Lady Honoria, “disposes of Miss Beverley to
some new person; yet the common opinion is that Sir Robert Floyer will
be the man. But upon my word, for my own part, I cannot conjecture how
she will manage among them, for Mr Marriot declares he's determined he
won't be refused, and Sir Robert vows that he'll never give her up. So
we none of us know how it will end; but I am vastly glad she keeps them
so long in suspence.”

“If there is any suspence,” said Cecilia, “I am at least sure it must be
wilful. But why should your ladyship rejoice in it?”

“O, because it helps to torment them, and keeps something going forward.
Besides, we are all looking in the news-papers every day, to see when
they'll fight another duel for you.”

“Another?” cried Cecilia; “indeed they have never yet fought any for
me.”

“O, I beg your pardon,” answered her ladyship, “Sir Robert, you know,
fought one for you in the beginning of the winter, with that Irish
fortune-hunter who affronted you at the Opera.”

“Irish fortune-hunter?” repeated Cecilia, “how strangely has that
quarrel been misrepresented! In the first place, I never was affronted
at the Opera at all, and in the second, if your Ladyship means Mr
Belfield, I question if he ever was in Ireland in his life.”

“Well,” cried Lady Honoria, “he might come from Scotland, for aught
I know, but somewhere he certainly came from; and they tell me he is
wounded terribly, and Sir Robert has had all his things packed up this
month, that in case he should die, he may go abroad in a moment.”

“And pray where, Lady Honoria,” cried Mrs Delvile, “do you contrive to
pick up all this rattle?”

“O, I don't know; everybody tells me something, so I put it all together
as well as I can. But I could acquaint you with a stranger piece of news
than any you have heard yet.”

“And what is that?”

“O, if I let you know it, you'll tell your son.”

“No indeed,” said Mrs Delvile laughing, “I shall probably forget it
myself.”

She then made some further difficulty, and Cecilia, uncertain if she was
meant to be a party in the communication, strolled to a window; where,
however, as Lady Honoria did not lower her voice, she heard her say “Why
you must know I am told he keeps a mistress somewhere in Oxford-Road.
They say she's mighty pretty; I should like vastly to see her.”

The consternation of Cecilia at this intelligence would certainly
have betrayed all she so much wished to conceal, had not her fortunate
removal to the window guarded her from observation. She kept her post,
fearing to look round, but was much pleased when Mrs Delvile, with
great indignation answered “I am sorry, Lady Honoria, you can find any
amusement in listening to such idle scandal, which those who tell will
never respect you for hearing. In times less daring in slander, the
character of Mortimer would have proved to him a shield from all
injurious aspersions; yet who shall wonder he could not escape, and
who shall contemn the inventors of calumny, if Lady Honoria Pemberton
condescends to be entertained with it?”

“Dear Mrs Delvile,” cried Lady Honoria, giddily, “you take me too
seriously.”

“And dear Lady Honoria,” said Mrs Delvile, “I would it were possible to
make you take yourself seriously; for could you once see with clearness
and precision how much you lower your own dignity, while you stoop
to depreciate that of others, the very subjects that now make your
diversion, would then, far more properly, move your resentment.”

“Ay but, dear madam,” cried Lady Honoria, “if that were the case, I
should be quite perfect, and then you and I should never quarrel, and I
don't know what we should do for conversation.”

And with these words, hastily shaking hands with her, she took leave.

“Such conversation,” said Mrs Delvile when she was gone, “as results
from the mixture of fruitless admonition with incorrigible levity, would
be indeed more honoured in the breach than the observance. But levity
is so much the fashionable characteristic of the present age, that a gay
young girl who, like Lady Honoria Pemberton, rules the friends by whom
she ought to be ruled, had little chance of escaping it.”

“She seems so open, however, to reproof,” said Cecilia, “that I should
hope in a short time she may also be open to conviction.”

“No,” answered Mrs Delvile, “I have no hope of her at all. I once took
much pains with her; but I soon found that the easiness with which she
hears of her faults, is only another effect of the levity with which
she commits them. But if the young are never tired of erring in conduct,
neither are the older in erring in judgment; the fallibility of mine I
have indeed very lately experienced.”

Cecilia, who strongly felt the poignancy of this sarcasm, and whose
constant and unaffected value of Mrs Delvile by no means deserved it,
was again silenced, and again most cruelly depressed; nor could she
secretly forbear repining that at the very moment she found herself
threatened with a necessity of foregoing the society of her new
favourite, Miss Belfield, the woman in the whole world whom she most
wished to have for her friend, from an unhappy mistake was ready to
relinquish her. Grieved to be thus fallen in her esteem, and shocked
that she could offer no justification, after a short and thoughtful
pause, she gravely arose to take leave.

Mrs Delvile then told her that if she had any business to transact with
Mr Delvile, she advised her to acquaint him with it soon, as the whole
family left town in a few days.

This was a new and severe blow to Cecilia, who sorrowfully repeated “In
a few days, madam?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs Delvile, “I hope you intend to be much concerned?”

“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, who could no longer preserve her quietness,
“if you knew but half the respect I bear you, but half the sincerity
with which I value and revere you, all protestations would be useless,
for all accusations would be over!”

Mrs Delvile, at once surprised and softened by the warmth of this
declaration, instantly took her hand, and said “They shall now, and for
ever be over, if it pains you to hear them. I concluded that what I said
would be a matter of indifference to you, or all my displeasure would
immediately have been satisfied, when once I had intimated that your
absence had excited it.”

“That I have excited it at all,” answered Cecilia, “gives me indeed
the severest uneasiness; but believe me, madam, however unfortunately
appearances maybe against me, I have always had the highest sense of the
kindness with which you have honoured me, and never has there been the
smallest abatement in the veneration, gratitude, and affection I have
inviolably borne you.”

“You see, then,” said Mrs Delvile with a smile, “that where reproof
takes any effect, it is not received; with that easiness you were just
now admiring; on the contrary, where a concession is made without
pain, it is also made without meaning, for it is not in human nature to
project any amendment without a secret repugnance. That here, however,
you should differ from Lady Honoria Pemberton, who can wonder, when you
are superior to all comparison with her in every thing?”

“Will you then,” said Cecilia, “accept my apology, and forgive me?”

“I will do more,” said Mrs Delvile laughing, “I will forgive you without
an apology; for the truth is I have heard none! But come,” continued
she, perceiving Cecilia much abashed by this comment, “I will enquire no
more about the matter; I am glad to receive my young friend again, and
even half ashamed, deserving as she is, to say how glad!”

She then embraced her affectionately, and owned she had been more
mortified by her fancied desertion than she had been willing to own even
to herself, repeatedly assuring her that for many years she had not
made any acquaintance she so much wished to cultivate, nor enjoyed any
society from which she had derived so much pleasure.

Cecilia, whose eyes glistened with modest joy, while her heart beat
quick with revived expectation, in listening to an effusion of praise
so infinitely grateful to her, found little difficulty in returning her
friendly professions, and, in a few minutes, was not merely reconciled,
but more firmly united with her than ever.

Mrs Delvile insisted upon keeping her to dinner, and Cecilia, but too
happy in her earnestness, readily agreed to send Mrs Harrel an excuse.

Neither of the Mr Delviles spent the day at home, and nothing,
therefore, disturbed or interrupted those glowing and delightful
sensations which spring from a cordial renewal of friendship and
kindness. The report, indeed, of Lady Honoria Pemberton gave her some
uneasiness, yet the flighty character of that lady, and Mrs Delvile's
reply to it, soon made her drive it from her mind.

She returned home early in the evening, as other company was expected,
and she had not changed her dress since the morning; but she first made
a promise to see Mrs Delvile some part of every day during the short
time that she meant to remain in town.









CHAPTER vi. -- A SURMISE.

The next morning opened with another scene; Mrs Harrel ran into
Cecilia's room before breakfast, and acquainted her that Mr Harrel had
not been at home all night.

The consternation with which she heard this account she instantly
endeavoured to dissipate, in order to soften the apprehension with which
it was communicated; Mrs Harrel, however, was extremely uneasy, and
sent all the town over to make enquiries, but without receiving any
intelligence.

Cecilia, unwilling to leave her in a state of such alarm, wrote an
excuse to Mrs Delvile, that she might continue with her till some
information was procured. A subject also of such immediate concern, was
sufficient apology for avoiding any particular conversation with Miss
Belfield, who called, as usual, about noon, and whose susceptible heart
was much affected by the evident disturbance in which she found Cecilia.

The whole day passed, and no news arrived; but, greatly to her
astonishment, Mrs Harrel in the evening prepared for going to an
assembly! yet declaring at the same time it was extremely disagreeable
to her, only she was afraid, if she stayed away, every body would
suppose something was the matter.

Who then at last, thought Cecilia, are half so much the slaves of the
world as the gay and the dissipated? Those who work for hire, have
at least their hours of rest, those who labour for subsistence are at
liberty when subsistence is procured; but those who toil to please the
vain and the idle, undertake a task which can never be finished,
however scrupulously all private peace, and all internal comfort, may be
sacrificed in reality to the folly of saving appearances!

Losing, however, the motive for which she had given up her own
engagement, she now sent for her chair, in order to spend an hour or two
with Mrs Delvile. The servants, as they conducted her up stairs, said
they would call their lady; and in entering the drawing-room she saw,
reading and alone, young Delvile.

He seemed much surprised, but received her with the utmost respect,
apologizing for the absence of his mother, whom he said had understood
she was not to see her till the next day, and had left him to write
letters now, that she might then be at liberty.

Cecilia in return made excuses for her seeming inconsistency; after
which, for some time, all conversation dropt.

The silence was at length broken by young Delvile's saying “Mr
Belfield's merit has not been thrown away upon Lord Vannelt; he has
heard an excellent character of him from all his former acquaintance,
and is now fitting up an apartment for him in his own house till his son
begins his tour.”

Cecilia said she was very happy in hearing such intelligence; and then
again they were both silent.

“You have seen,” said young Delvile, after this second pause, “Mr
Belfield's sister?”

Cecilia, not without changing colour, answered “Yes, Sir.”

“She is very amiable,” he continued, “too amiable, indeed, for her
situation, since her relations, her brother alone excepted, are all
utterly unworthy of her.”

He stopt; but Cecilia made no answer, and he presently added “Perhaps
you do not think her amiable?--you may have seen more of her, and know
something to her disadvantage?”

“O no!” cried Cecilia, with a forced alacrity, “but only I was thinking
that--did you say you knew all her relations?”

“No,” he answered, “but when I have been with Mr Belfield, some of them
have called upon him.”

Again they were both silent; and then Cecilia, ashamed of her apparent
backwardness to give praise, compelled herself to say, “Miss Belfield
is indeed a very sweet girl, and I wish--” she stopt, not well knowing
herself what she meant to add.

“I have been greatly pleased,” said he, after waiting some time to hear
if she would finish her speech, “by being informed of your goodness to
her, and I think she seems equally to require and to deserve it. I doubt
not you will extend it to her when she is deprived of her brother, for
then will be the time that by doing her most service, it will reflect on
yourself most honour.”

Cecilia, confounded by this recommendation, faintly answered
“Certainly,--whatever is in my power,--I shall be very glad--”

And just then Mrs Delvile made her appearance, and during the mutual
apologies that followed, her son left the room. Cecilia, glad of any
pretence to leave it also, insisted upon giving no interruption to Mrs
Delvile's letter writing, and having promised to spend all the next day
with her, hurried back to her chair.

The reflections that followed her thither were by no means the most
soothing; she began now to apprehend that the pity she had bestowed upon
Miss Belfield, Miss Belfield in a short time might bestow upon her; at
any other time, his recommendation would merely have served to confirm
her opinion of his benevolence, but in her present state of anxiety
and uncertainty, every thing gave birth to conjecture, and had power to
alarm her. He had behaved to her of late with the strangest coldness
and distance,--his praise of Henrietta had been ready and
animated,--Henrietta she knew adored him, and she knew not with what
reason,--but an involuntary suspicion arose in her mind, that the
partiality she had herself once excited, was now transferred to that
little dreaded, but not less dangerous rival.

Yet, if such was the case, what was to become either of the pride or
the interest of his family? Would his relations ever pardon an alliance
stimulated neither by rank nor riches? would Mr Delvile, who hardly
ever spoke but to the high-born, without seeming to think his dignity
somewhat injured, deign to receive for a daughter-in-law the child of a
citizen and tradesman? would Mrs Delvile herself, little less elevated
in her notions, though infinitely softer in her manners, ever condescend
to acknowledge her? Cecilia's own birth and connections, superior as
they were to those of Miss Belfield, were even openly disdained by Mr
Delvile, and all her expectations of being received into his family
were founded upon the largeness of her fortune, in favour of which the
brevity of her genealogy might perhaps pass unnoticed. But what was the
chance of Miss Belfield, who neither had ancestors to boast, nor wealth
to allure?

This thought, however, awakened all the generosity of her soul; “If,”
 cried she, “the advantages I possess are merely those of riches, how
little should I be flattered by any appearance of preference! and how
ill can I judge with what sincerity it may be offered! happier in that
case is the lowly Henrietta, who to poverty may attribute neglect, but
who can only be sought and caressed from motives of purest regard. She
loves Mr Delvile, loves him with the most artless affection;--perhaps,
too, he loves her in return,--why else his solicitude to know my opinion
of her, and why so sudden his alarm when he thought it unfavourable?
Perhaps he means to marry her, and to sacrifice to her innocence and
her attractions all plans of ambition, and all views of
aggrandizement;--thrice happy Henrietta, if such is thy prospect of
felicity! to have inspired a passion so disinterested, may humble the
most insolent of thy superiors, and teach even the wealthiest to envy
thee!”









CHAPTER vii. -- A BOLD STROKE.

When Cecilia returned home, she heard with much concern that no tidings
of Mr Harrel had yet been obtained. His lady, who did not stay out late,
was now very seriously frightened, and entreated Cecilia to sit up with
her till some news could be procured; she sent also for her brother, and
they all three, in trembling expectation of what was to ensue, passed
the whole night in watching.

At six o'clock in the morning, Mr Arnott besought his sister and Cecilia
to take some rest, promising to go out himself to every place where
Mr Harrel was known to resort, and not to return without bringing some
account of him.

Mrs Harrel, whose feelings were not very acute, finding the persuasions
of her brother were seconded by her own fatigue, consented to follow his
advice, and desired him to begin his search immediately.

A few moments after he was gone, while Mrs Harrel and Cecilia were
upon the stairs, they were startled by a violent knocking at the door;
Cecilia, prepared for some calamity, hurried her friend back to the
drawing-room, and then flying out of it again to enquire who entered,
saw to her equal surprize and relief, Mr Harrel himself.

She ran back with the welcome information, and he instantly followed
her; Mrs Harrel eagerly told him of her fright, and Cecilia expressed
her pleasure at his return; but the satisfaction of neither was of long
duration.

He came into the room with a look of fierceness the most terrifying, his
hat on, and his arms folded. He made no answer to what they said, but
pushed back the door with his foot, and flung himself upon a sofa.

Cecilia would now have withdrawn, but Mrs Harrel caught her hand to
prevent her. They continued some minutes in this situation, and then Mr
Harrel, suddenly rising, called-out “Have you any thing to pack up?”

“Pack up?” repeated Mrs Harrel, “Lord bless me, for what?”

“I am going abroad,” he answered; “I shall set off to-morrow.”

“Abroad?” cried she, bursting into tears, “I am sure I hope not!”

“Hope nothing!” returned he, in a voice of rage; and then, with a
dreadful oath, he ordered her to leave him and pack up.

Mrs Harrel, wholly unused to such treatment, was frightened into violent
hysterics; of which, however, he took no notice, but swearing at her for
a fool who had been the cause of his ruin, he left the room.

Cecilia, though she instantly rang the bell, and hastened to her
assistance, was so much shocked by this unexpected brutality, that she
scarcely knew how to act, or what to order. Mrs Harrel, however, soon
recovered, and Cecilia accompanied her to her own apartment, where she
stayed, and endeavoured to sooth her till Mr Arnott returned.

The terrible state in which Mr Harrel had at last come home was
immediately communicated to him, and his sister entreated him to use
all his influence that the scheme for going abroad might be deferred, at
least, if not wholly given up.

Fearfully he went on the embassy, but speedily, and with a look
wholly dismayed, he returned. Mr Harrel, he said, told him that he had
contracted a larger debt of honour than he had any means to raise, and
as he could not appear till it was paid, he was obliged to quit the
kingdom without delay.

“Oh brother!” cried Mrs Harrel, “and can you suffer us to go?”

“Alas, my dear sister,” answered he, “what can I do to prevent it? and
who, if I too am ruined, will in future help you?”

Mrs Harrel then wept bitterly, nor could the gentle Mr Arnott, forbear,
while he tried to comfort her, mixing his own tears with those of
his beloved sister; but Cecilia, whose reason was stronger, and whose
justice was offended, felt other sensations; and leaving Mrs Harrel to
the care of her brother, whose tenderness she infinitely compassionated,
she retreated into her own room. Not, however, to rest; the dreadful
situation of the family made her forget she wanted it, but to deliberate
upon what course she ought herself to pursue.

She determined without any hesitation against accompanying them in their
flight, as the irreparable injury she was convinced she had already done
her fortune, was more than sufficient to satisfy the most romantic
ideas of friendship and humanity; but her own place of abode must now
immediately be changed, and her choice rested only between Mr Delvile
and Mr Briggs.

Important as were the obstacles which opposed her residence at Mr
Delvile's, all that belonged to inclination and to happiness encouraged
it; while with respect to Mr Briggs, though the objections were lighter,
there was not a single allurement. Yet whenever the suspicion recurred
to her that Miss Belfield was beloved by young Delvile, she resolved
at all events to avoid him; but when better hopes intervened, and
represented that his enquiries were probably accidental, the wish of
being finally acquainted with his sentiments, made nothing so desirable
as an intercourse more frequent.

Such still was her irresolution, when she received a message from Mr
Arnott to entreat the honour of seeing her. She immediately went down
stairs, and found him in the utmost distress, “O Miss Beverley,” he
cried, “what can I do for my sister! what can I possibly devise to
relieve her affliction!”

“Indeed I know not!” said Cecilia, “but the utter impracticability of
preparing her for this blow, obviously as it has long been impending,
makes it now fall so heavily I wish much to assist her,--but a debt so
unjustifiably contracted--”

“O madam,” interrupted he, “imagine not I sent to you with so
treacherous a view as to involve you in our misery; far too unworthily
has your generosity already been abused. I only wish to consult with you
what I can do for my sister.”

Cecilia, after some little consideration, proposed that Mrs Harrel
should still be left in England, and under their joint care.

“Alas!” cried he, “I have already made that proposal, but Mr Harrel will
not go without her, though his whole behaviour is so totally altered,
that I fear to trust her with him.”

“Who is there, then, that has more weight with him?” said Cecilia,
“shall we send for Sir Robert Floyer to second our request?”

To this Mr Arnott assented, forgetting in his apprehension of losing his
sister, the pain he should suffer from the interference of his rival.

The Baronet presently arrived, and Cecilia, not chusing to apply to him
herself, left him with Mr Arnott, and waited for intelligence in the
library.

In about an hour after, Mrs Harrel ran into the room, her tears dried
up, and out of breath with joy, and called out “My dearest friend, my
fate is now all in your hands, and I am sure you will not refuse to make
me happy.”

“What is it I can do for you?” cried Cecilia, dreading some
impracticable proposal; “ask me not, I beseech you, what I cannot
perform!”

“No, no,” answered she, “What I ask requires nothing but good nature;
Sir Robert Floyer has been begging Mr Harrel to leave me behind, and he
has promised to comply, upon condition you will hasten your marriage,
and take me into your own house.”

“My marriage!” cried the astonished Cecilia.

Here they were joined by Mr Harrel himself, who repeated the same offer.

“You both amaze and shock me!” cried Cecilia, “what is it you mean, and
why do you talk to me so wildly?”

“Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, “it is high time now to give up this
reserve, and trifle no longer with a gentleman so unexceptionable as Sir
Robert Floyer. The whole town has long acknowledged him as your husband,
and you are every where regarded as his bride, a little frankness,
therefore, in accepting him, will not only bind him to you for ever, but
do credit to the generosity of your character.”

At that moment Sir Robert himself burst into the room, and seizing one
of her hands, while both of them were uplifted in mute amazement, he
pressed it to his lips, poured forth a volley of such compliments as
he had never before prevailed with himself to utter, and confidently
entreated her to complete his long-attended happiness without the
cruelty of further delay.

Cecilia, almost petrified by the excess of her surprise, at an attack so
violent, so bold, and apparently so sanguine, was for some time scarce
able to speak or to defend herself; but when Sir Robert, presuming on
her silence, said she had made him the happiest of men, she indignantly
drew back her hand, and with a look of displeasure that required little
explanation, would have walked out of the room; when Mr Harrel, in a
tone of bitterness and disappointment, called out “Is this lady-like
tyranny then never to end?” And Sir Robert, impatiently following her,
said “And is my suspense to endure for ever? After so many months'
attendance--”

“This, indeed, is something too much,” said Cecilia, turning back, “You
have been kept, Sir, in no suspense; the whole tenor of my conduct has
uniformly declared the same disapprobation I at present avow, and which
my letter, at least, must have put beyond all doubt.”

“Harrel,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “did not you tell me--”

“Pho, Pho,” cried Harrel, “what signifies calling upon me? I never saw
in Miss Beverley any disapprobation beyond what it is customary for
young ladies of a sentimental turn to shew; and every body knows that
where a gentleman is allowed to pay his devoirs for any length of time,
no lady intends to use him very severely.”

“And can you, Mr Harrel,” said Cecilia, “after such conversations as
have passed between us, persevere in this wilful misapprehension? But
it is vain to debate where all reasoning is disregarded, or to make any
protestations where even rejection is received as a favour.”

And then, with an air of disdain, she insisted upon passing them, and
went to her own room.

Mrs Harrel, however, still followed, and clinging round her, still
supplicated her pity and compliance.

“What infatuation is this!” cried Cecilia, “is it possible that you,
too, can suppose I ever mean to accept Sir Robert?”

“To be sure I do,” answered she, “for Mr Harrel has told me a thousand
times, that however you played the prude, you would be his at last.”

Cecilia, though doubly irritated against Mr Harrel, was now appeased
with his lady, whose mistake, however ill-founded, offered an excuse
for her behaviour; but she assured her in the strongest terms that her
repugnance to the Baronet was unalterable, yet told her she might claim
from her every good office that was not wholly unreasonable.

These were words of slender comfort to Mrs Harrel, who well knew that
her wishes and reason had but little affinity, and she soon, therefore,
left the room.

Cecilia then resolved to go instantly to Mrs Delvile, acquaint her with
the necessity of her removal, and make her decision whither, according
to the manner in which her intelligence should be received.

She sent, therefore, to order a chair, and was already in the hall, when
she was stopt by the entrance of Mr Monckton, who, addressing her with
a look of haste and earnestness, said, “I will not ask whither you are
going so early, or upon what errand, for I must beg a moment's audience,
be your business what it may.”

Cecilia then accompanied him to the deserted breakfast room, which none
but the servants had this morning entered, and there, grasping her hand,
he said, “Miss Beverley, you must fly this house directly! it is the
region of disorder and licentiousness, and unfit to contain you.”

She assured him she was that moment preparing to quit it, but begged he
would explain himself.

“I have taken care,” he answered, “for some time past, to be well
informed of all the proceedings of Mr Harrel; and the intelligence I
procured this morning is of the most alarming nature. I find he spent
the night before the last entirely at a gaming table, where, intoxicated
by a run of good luck, he passed the whole of the next day in rioting
with his profligate intimates, and last night, returning again to his
favourite amusement, he not only lost all he had gained, but much more
than he could pay. Doubt not, therefore, but you will be called upon to
assist him; he still considers you as his resource in times of danger,
and while he knows you are under his roof, he will always believe
himself secure.”

“Every thing indeed conspires,” said Cecilia, more shocked than
surprised at this account, “to make it necessary I should quit his
house; yet I do not think he has at present any further expectations
from me, as he came into the room this morning not merely without
speaking to me, but behaved with a brutality to Mrs Harrel that he must
be certain would give me disgust. It shewed me, indeed, a new part of
his character, for ill as I have long thought of him, I did not suspect
he could be guilty of such unmanly cruelty.”

“The character of a gamester,” said Mr Monckton, “depends solely upon
his luck; his disposition varies with every throw of the dice, and he
is airy, gay and good humoured, or sour, morose and savage, neither from
nature nor from principle, but wholly by the caprice of chance.”

Cecilia then related to him the scene in which she had just been engaged
with Sir Robert Floyer.

“This,” cried he, “is a manoeuvre I have been some time expecting; but
Mr Harrel, though artful and selfish, is by no means deep. The plan
he had formed would have succeeded with some women, and he therefore
concluded it would with all. So many of your sex have been subdued
by perseverance, and so many have been conquered by boldness, that he
supposed when he united two such powerful besiegers in the person of
a Baronet, he should vanquish all obstacles. By assuring you that the
world thought the marriage already settled, he hoped to surprise you
into believing there was no help for it, and by the suddenness and
vehemence of the attack, to frighten and hurry you into compliance.
His own wife, he knew, might have been managed thus with ease, and so,
probably, might his sister, and his mother, and his cousin, for in love
matters, or what are so called, women in general are, readily duped. He
discerned not the superiority of your understanding to tricks so shallow
and impertinent, nor the firmness of your mind in maintaining its own
independence. No doubt but he was amply to have been rewarded for his
assistance, and probably had you this morning been propitious, the
Baronet in return was to have cleared him from his present difficulty.”

“Even in my own mind,” said Cecilia, “I can no longer defend him, for he
could never have been so eager to promote the interest of Sir Robert,
in the present terrible situation of his own affairs, had he not been
stimulated by some secret motives. His schemes and his artifices,
however, will now be utterly lost upon me, since your warning and
advice, aided by my own suffering experience of the inutility of all I
can do for him, will effectually guard me from all his future attempts.”

“Rest no security upon yourself,” said Mr Monckton, “since you have
no knowledge of the many tricks and inventions by which you may yet
be plundered. Perhaps he may beg permission to reside in your house in
Suffolk, or desire an annuity for his wife, or chuse to receive your
first rents when you come of age; and whatever he may fix upon, his
dagger and his bowl will not fail to procure him. A heart so liberal as
yours can only be guarded by flight. You were going, you said, when I
came,--and whither?”

“To--to St James's-square,” answered she, with a deep blush.

“Indeed!--is young Delvile, then, going abroad?”

“Abroad?--no,--I believe not.”

“Nay, I only imagined it from your chusing to reside in his house.”

“I do not chuse it,” cried Cecilia, with quickness, “but is not any
thing preferable to dwelling with Mr Briggs?”

“Certainly,” said Mr Monckton coolly, “nor should I have supposed he had
any chance with you, had I not hitherto observed that your convenience
has always been sacrificed to your sense of propriety.”

Cecilia, touched by praise so full of censure, and earnest to vindicate
her delicacy, after an internal struggle, which Mr Monckton was too
subtle to interrupt, protested she would go instantly to Mr Briggs, and
see if it were possible to be settled in his house, before she made any
attempt to fix herself elsewhere.

“And when?” said Mr Monckton.

“I don't know,” answered she, with some hesitation, “perhaps this
afternoon.”

“Why not this morning?”

“I can go out no where this morning; I must stay with Mrs Harrel.”

“You thought otherwise when I came, you were then content to leave her.”

Cecilia's alacrity, however, for changing her abode, was now at an end,
and she would fain have been left quietly to re-consider her plans; but
Mr Monckton urged so strongly the danger of her lengthened stay in the
house of so designing a man as Mr Harrel, that he prevailed with her to
quit it without delay, and had himself the satisfaction of handing her
to her chair.









CHAPTER viii. -- A MISER'S MANSION.

Mr Briggs was at home, and Cecilia instantly and briefly informed him
that it was inconvenient for her to live any longer at Mr Harrel's, and
that if she could be accommodated at his house, she should be glad to
reside with him during the rest of her minority.

“Shall, shall,” cried he, extremely pleased, “take you with all my
heart. Warrant Master Harrel's made a good penny of you. Not a bit the
better for dressing so fine; many a rogue in a gold lace hat.”

Cecilia begged to know what apartments he could spare for her.

“Take you up stairs,” cried he, “shew you a place for a queen.”

He then led her up stairs, and took her to a room entirely dark, and so
close for want of air that she could hardly breathe in it. She retreated
to the landing-place till he had opened the shutters, and then saw an
apartment the most forlorn she had ever beheld, containing no other
furniture than a ragged stuff bed, two worn-out rush-bottomed chairs, an
old wooden box, and a bit of broken glass which was fastened to the wall
by two bent nails.

“See here, my little chick,” cried he, “everything ready! and a box for
your gimcracks into the bargain.”

“You don't mean this place for me, Sir!” cried Cecilia, staring.

“Do, do;” cried he, “a deal nicer by and by. Only wants a little
furbishing; soon put to rights. Never sweep a room out of use; only
wears out brooms for nothing.”

“But, Sir, can I not have an apartment on the first floor?”

“No, no, something else to do with it; belongs to the club; secrets in
all things! Make this do well enough. Come again next week; wear quite a
new face. Nothing wanting but a table; pick you up one at a broker's.”

“But I am obliged, Sir, to leave Mr Harrel's house directly.”

“Well, well, make shift without a table at first; no great matter if
you ha'n't one at all, nothing particular to do with it. Want another
blanket, though. Know where to get one; a very good broker hard by.
Understand how to deal with him! A close dog, but warm.”

“I have also two servants, Sir,” said Cecilia.

“Won't have 'em! Sha'n't come! Eat me out of house and home.”

“Whatever they eat, Sir,” answered she, “will be wholly at my expence,
as will everything else that belongs to them.”

“Better get rid of them; hate servants; all a pack of rogues; think of
nothing but stuffing and guzzling.”

Then opening another door, “See here,” he cried, “my own room just by;
snug as a church!”

Cecilia, following him into it, lost a great part of her surprise at
the praise he had lavished upon that which he destined for herself, by
perceiving that his own was yet more scantily furnished, having nothing
in it but a miserable bed without any curtains, and a large chest,
which, while it contained his clothes, sufficed both for table and
chair.

“What are doing here?” cried he angrily, to a maid who was making the
bed, “can't you take more care? beat 'out all the feathers, see! two on
the ground; nothing but waste and extravagance! never mind how soon a
man's ruined. Come to want, you slut, see that, come to want!”

“I can never want more than I do here,” said the girl, “so that's one
comfort.”

Cecilia now began to repent she had made known the purport of her visit,
for she found it would be utterly impossible to accommodate either her
mind or her person to a residence such as was here to be obtained and
she only wished Mr Monckton had been present, that he might himself be
convinced of the impracticability of his scheme. Her whole business,
therefore, now, was to retract her offer, and escape from the house.

“I see, Sir,” said she, when he turned from his servant, “that I cannot
be received here without inconvenience, and therefore I will make some
new arrangement in my plan.”

“No, no,” cried he, “like to have you, 'tis but fair, all in our turn;
won't be chorused; Master Harrel's had his share. Sorry could not get
you that sweetheart! would not bite; soon find out another; never fret.”

“But there are so many things with which I cannot possibly dispense,”
 said Cecilia, “that I am certain my removing hither would occasion you
far more trouble than you at present foresee.”

“No, no; get all in order soon; go about myself; know how to bid;
understand trap; always go shabby; no making a bargain in a good coat.
Look sharp at the goods; say they won't do; come away; send somebody
else for 'em. Never go twice myself; nothing got cheap if one seems to
have a hankering.”

“But I am sure it is not possible,” said Cecilia, hurrying down stairs,
“that my room, and one for each of my servants, should be ready in
time.”

“Yes, yes,” cried he, following her, “ready in a trice. Make a little
shift at first; double the blanket till we get another; lie with the
maid a night or two; never stand for a trifle.”

And, when she was seated in her chair, the whole time disclaiming her
intention of returning, he only pinched her cheek with a facetious
smirk, and said, “By, by, little duck; come again soon. Warrant I'll
have the room ready. Sha'n't half know it again; make it as smart as a
carrot.”

And then she left the house; fully satisfied that no one could blame her
refusing to inhabit it, and much less chagrined than she was willing to
suppose herself, in finding she had now no resource but in the Delviles.

Yet, in her serious reflections, she could not but think herself
strangely unfortunate that the guardian with whom alone it seemed proper
for her to reside, should by parsimony, vulgarity, and meanness, render
riches contemptible, prosperity unavailing, and economy odious; and
that the choice of her uncle should thus unhappily have fallen upon the
lowest and most wretched of misers, in a city abounding with opulence,
hospitality, and splendour, and of which the principal inhabitants, long
eminent for their wealth and their probity, were now almost universally
rising in elegance and liberality.









CHAPTER ix. -- A DECLARATION.

Cecilia's next progress, therefore, was to St James's-square, whither
she went in the utmost anxiety, from her uncertainty of the reception
with which her proposal would meet.

The servants informed her that Mr and Mrs Delvile were at breakfast, and
that the Duke of Derwent and his two daughters were with them.

Before such witnesses to relate the reasons of her leaving the Harmless
was impossible; and from such a party to send for Mrs Delvile, would,
by her stately guardian, be deemed an indecorum unpardonable. She was
obliged, therefore, to return to Portman-square, in order to open her
cause in a letter to Mrs Delvile.

Mr Arnott, flying instantly to meet her, called out, “O madam, what
alarm has your absence occasioned! My sister believed she should see you
no more, Mr Harrel feared a premature discovery of his purposed retreat,
and we have all been under the cruellest apprehensions lest you meant
not to come back.”

“I am sorry I spoke not with you before I went out,” said Cecilia,
accompanying him to the library, “but I thought you were all too much
occupied to miss me. I have been, indeed, preparing for a removal, but
I meant not to leave your sister without bidding her adieu, nor, indeed,
to quit any part of the family with so little ceremony. Is Mr Harrel
still firm to his last plan?”

“I fear so! I have tried what is possible to dissuade him, and my
poor sister has wept without ceasing. Indeed, if she will take no
consolation, I believe I shall do what she pleases, for I cannot bear
the sight of her in such distress.”

“You are too generous, and too good!” said Cecilia, “and I know not how,
while flying from danger myself, to forbear counselling you to avoid it
also.”

“Ah madam!” cried he, “the greatest danger for me is what I have now no
power to run from!”

Cecilia, though she could not but understand him, felt not the less his
friend for knowing him the humblest of her admirers; and as she saw
the threatening ruin to which his too great tenderness exposed him, she
kindly said “Mr Arnott, I will speak, to you without reserve. It is not
difficult to see that the destruction which awaits Mr Harrel, is ready
also to ensnare his brother-in-law; but let not that blindness to the
future which we have so often lamented for him, hereafter be lamented
for yourself. Till his present connections are broken, and his way of
living is changed, nothing can be done for him, and whatever you were to
advance, would merely be sunk at the gaming table. Reserve, therefore,
your liberality till it may indeed be of service to him, for believe me,
at present, his mind is as much injured as his fortune.”

“And is it possible, madam,” said Mr Arnott, in an accent of surprize
and delight, “that you can deign to be interested in what may become of
me! and that my sharing or escaping the ruin of this house is not wholly
indifferent to you?”

“Certainly not,” answered Cecilia; “as the brother of my earliest
friend, I can never be insensible to your welfare.”

“Ah madam!” cried he, “as her brother!--Oh that there were any other
tie!--”

“Think a little,” said Cecilia, preparing to quit the room, “of what I
have mentioned, and, for your sister's sake, be firm now, if you would
be kind hereafter.”

“I will be any and every thing,” cried he, “that Miss Beverley will
command.”

Cecilia, fearful of any misinterpretation, then came back, and gravely
said, “No, Sir, be ruled only by your own judgment; or, should my
advice have any weight with you, remember it is given from the most
disinterested motives, and with no other view than that of securing your
power to be of service to your sister.”

“For that sister's sake, then, have the goodness to hear my situation,
and honour me with further directions.”

“You will make me fear to speak,” said Cecilia, “if you give so much
consequence to my opinion. I have seen, however, nothing in your conduct
I have ever wished changed, except too little attention to your own
interest and affairs.”

“Ah!” cried he, “with what rapture should I hear those words, could I
but imagine--”

“Come, come,” said Cecilia, smiling, “no digression! You called me back
to talk of your sister; if you change your subject, perhaps you may lose
your auditor.”

“I would not, madam, for the world encroach upon your goodness; the
favour I have found has indeed always exceeded my expectations, as it
has always surpassed my desert; yet has it never blinded me to my own
unworthiness. Do not, then, fear to indulge me with your conversation;
I shall draw from it no inference but of pity, and though pity from Miss
Beverley is the sweetest balm to my heart, it shall never seduce me to
the encouragement of higher hopes.”

Cecilia had long had reason to expect such a declaration, yet she
heard it with unaffected concern, and looking at him with the utmost
gentleness, said “Mr Arnott, your regard does me honour, and, were it
somewhat more rational, would give me pleasure; take, then, from it
what is more than I wish or merit, and, while you preserve the rest, be
assured it will be faithfully returned.”

“Your rejection is so mild,” cried he, “that I, who had no hope of
acceptance, find relief in having at last told my sufferings. Could
I but continue to see you every day, and to be blest with your
conversation, I think I should be happy, and I am sure I should be
grateful.”

“You are already,” answered she, shaking her head, and moving towards
the door, “infringing the conditions upon which our friendship is to be
founded.”

“Do not go, madam,” he cried, “till I have done what you have just
promised to permit, acquainted you with my situation, and been honoured
with your advice. I must own to you, then, that £5000, which I had in
the stocks, as well as a considerable sum in a banker's hands, I have
parted with, as I now find for ever but I have no heart for refusal,
nor would my sister at this moment be thus distressed, but that I have
nothing more to give without I cut down my trees, or sell some farm,
since all I was worth, except my landed property, is already gone. What,
therefore, I can now do to save Mr Harrel from this desperate expedition
I know not.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “to speak with severity of one so nearly
connected with you, yet, suffer me to ask, why should he be saved from
it at all? and what is there he can at present do better? Has not he
long been threatened with every evil that is now arrived? have we not
both warned him, and have not the clamours of his creditors assailed
him? yet what has been the consequence? he has not submitted to the
smallest change in his way of life, he has not denied himself a single
indulgence, nor spared any expence, nor thought of any reformation.
Luxury has followed luxury, and he has only grown fonder of
extravagance, as extravagance has become more dangerous. Till the
present storm, therefore, blows over, leave him to his fate, and when a
calm succeeds, I will myself, for the sake of Priscilla, aid you to save
what is possible of the wreck.”

“All you say, madam, is as wise as it is good, and now I am acquainted
with your opinion, I will wholly new model myself upon it, and grow as
steady against all attacks as hitherto I have been yielding.”

Cecilia was then retiring; but again detaining her, he said “You spoke,
madam, of a removal, and indeed it is high time you should quit this
scene; yet I hope you intend not to go till to-morrow, as Mr Harrel has
declared your leaving him sooner will be his destruction.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Cecilia, “for I mean to be gone with all the speed
in my power.”

“Mr Harrel,” answered he, “did not explain himself; but I believe he
apprehends your deserting his house at this critical time, will raise
a suspicion of his own design of going abroad, and make his creditors
interfere to prevent him.”

“To what a wretched state,” cried Cecilia, “has he reduced himself! I
will not, however, be the voluntary instrument of his disgrace; and if
you think my stay is so material to his security, I will continue here
till to-morrow morning.”

Mr Arnott almost wept his thanks for this concession, and Cecilia, happy
in making it to him instead of Mr Harrel, then went to her own room, and
wrote the following letter to Mrs Delvile.

To the Hon. Mrs Delvile, St James's-square.

PORTMAN SQUARE, June 12.

DEAR MADAM,--I am willing to hope you have been rather surprised that
I have not sooner availed myself of the permission with which you
yesterday honoured me of spending this whole day with you, but,
unfortunately for myself, I am prevented waiting upon you even for any
part of it. Do not, however, think me now ungrateful if I stay away, nor
to-morrow impertinent, if I venture to enquire whether that apartment
which you had once the goodness to appropriate to my use, may then again
be spared for me! The accidents which have prompted this strange request
will, I trust, be sufficient apology for the liberty I take in making
it, when I have the honour to see you, and acquaint you what they
are.--I am, with the utmost respect, Dear Madam, your most obedient
humble servant, CECILIA BEVERLEY.

She would not have been thus concise, had not the caution of Mr Arnott
made her fear, in the present perilous situation of affairs, to trust
the secret of Mr Harrel to paper.

The following answer was returned her from Mrs Delvile;--

To Miss Beverley, Portman-square.

The accidents you mention are not, I hope, of a very serious nature,
since I shall find difficulty insurmountable in trying to lament them,
if they are productive of a lengthened visit from my dear Miss Beverley
to her Faithful humble servant, AUGUSTA DELVILE.

Cecilia, charmed with this note, could now no longer forbear looking
forward to brighter prospects, flattering herself that once under the
roof of Mrs Delvile, she must necessarily be happy, let the engagements
or behaviour of her son be what they might.









CHAPTER x. -- A GAMESTER'S CONSCIENCE.

From this soothing prospect, Cecilia was presently disturbed by Mrs
Harrel's maid, who came to entreat she would hasten to her lady, whom
she feared was going into fits.

Cecilia flew to her immediately, and found her in the most violent
affliction. She used every kind effort in her power to quiet and console
her, but it was not without the utmost difficulty she could sob out the
cause of this fresh sorrow, which indeed was not trifling. Mr Harrel,
she said, had told her he could not possibly raise money even for his
travelling expences, without risking a discovery of his project, and
being seized by his creditors; he had therefore charged her, through
her brother or her friend, to procure for him £3000, as less would not
suffice to maintain them while abroad, and he knew no method by which
he could have any remittances without danger. And, when she hesitated in
her compliance, he furiously accused her of having brought on all this
distress by her negligence and want of management, and declared that if
she did not get the money, she would only be served as she merited by
starving in a foreign gaol, which he swore would be the fate of them
both.

The horror and indignation with which Cecilia heard this account were
unspeakable. She saw evidently that she was again to be played upon by
terror and distress, and the cautions and opinions of Mr Monckton no
longer appeared overstrained; one year's income was already demanded,
the annuity and the country house might next be required; she rejoiced,
however, that thus wisely forewarned, she was not liable to surprise,
and she determined, be their entreaties or representations what they
might, to be immovably steady in her purpose of leaving them the next
morning.

Yet she could not but grieve at suffering the whole burthen of this
clamorous imposition to fall upon the soft-hearted Mr Arnott, whose
inability to resist solicitation made him so unequal to sustaining its
weight; but when Mrs Harrel was again able to go on with her account,
she heard, to her infinite surprise, that all application to her brother
had proved fruitless. “He will not hear me,” continued Mrs Harrel, “and
he never was deaf to me before! so now I have lost my only and last
resource, my brother himself gives me up, and there is no one else upon
earth who will assist me!”

“With pleasure, with readiness, with joy,” cried Cecilia, “should you
find assistance from me, were it to you alone it were given; but to
supply fuel for the very fire that is consuming you--no, no, my whole
heart is hardened against gaming and gamesters, and neither now nor ever
will I suffer any consideration to soften me in their favour.”

Mrs Harrel only answered by tears and lamentations; and Cecilia, whose
justice shut not out compassion, having now declared her purposed
firmness, again attempted to sooth her, entreating her not to give way
to such immoderate grief, since better prospects might arise from
the very gloom now before her, and a short time spent in solitude and
oeconomy, might enable her to return to her native land with recovered
happiness.

“No, I shall never return!” cried she, weeping, “I shall die, I shall
break my heart before I have been banished a month! Oh Miss Beverley,
how happy are you! able to stay where you please,--rich,--rolling in
wealth which you do not want,--of which had we but one year's income
only, all this misery would be over, and we might stay in our dear,
dear, country!”

Cecilia, struck by a hint that so nearly bordered upon reproach,
and offended by seeing the impossibility of ever doing enough, while
anything remained to be done, forbore not without difficulty enquiring
what next was expected from her, and whether any part of her fortune
might be guarded, without giving room for some censure! but the deep
affliction of Mrs Harrel soon removed her resentment, and scarcely
thinking her, while in a state of such wretchedness, answerable for what
she said, after a little recollection, she mildly replied “As affluence
is all comparative, you may at present think I have more than my share;
but the time is only this moment past, when your own situation seemed as
subject to the envy of others as mine may be now. My future destiny is
yet undetermined, and the occasion I may have for my fortune is unknown
to myself; but whether I possess it in peace or in turbulence, whether
it proves to me a blessing or an injury, so long as I can call it my
own, I shall always remember with alacrity the claim upon that and upon
me which early friendship has so justly given Mrs Harrel. Yet permit
me, at the same time, to add, that I do not hold myself so entirely
independent as you may probably suppose me. I have not, it is true, any
Relations to call me to account, but respect for their memory supplies
the place of their authority, and I cannot, in the distribution of the
fortune which has devolved to me, forbear sometimes considering how they
would have wished it should be spent, and always remembering that what
was acquired by industry and labour, should never be dissipated in
idleness and vanity. Forgive me for thus speaking to the point; you will
not find me less friendly to yourself, for this frankness with respect
to your situation.”

Tears were again the only answer of Mrs Harrel; yet Cecilia, who pitied
the weakness of her mind, stayed by her with the most patient kindness
till the servants announced dinner. She then declared she would not go
down stairs; but Cecilia so strongly represented the danger of awakening
suspicion in the servants, that she at last prevailed with her to make
her appearance.

Mr Harrel was already in the parlour, and enquiring for Mr Arnott, but
was told by the servants he had sent word he had another engagement. Sir
Robert Floyer also kept away, and, for the first time since her arrival
in town, Cecilia dined with no other company than the master and
mistress of the house.

Mrs Harrel could eat nothing; Cecilia, merely to avoid creating surprise
in the servants, forbore following her example; but Mr Harrel ate much
as usual, talked all dinner-time, was extremely civil to Cecilia, and
discovered not by his manners the least alteration in his affairs.

When the servants were gone, he desired his wife to step for a moment
with him into the library. They soon returned, and then Mr Harrel,
after walking in a disordered manner about the room, rang the bell, and
ordered his hat and cane, and as he took them, said “If this fails--”
 and, stopping short, without speaking to his wife, or even bowing to
Cecilia, he hastily went out of the house.

Mrs Harrel told Cecilia that he had merely called her to know the event
of her two petitions, and had heard her double failure in total silence.
Whither he was now gone it was not easy to conjecture, nor what was the
new resource which he still seemed to think worth trying; but the manner
of his quitting the house, and the threat implied by if this fails,
contributed not to lessen the grief of Mrs Harrel, and gave to Cecilia
herself the utmost alarm.

They continued together till tea-time, the servants having been ordered
to admit no company. Mr Harrel himself then returned, and returned, to
the amazement of Cecilia, accompanied by Mr Marriot.

He presented that young man to both the ladies as a gentleman whose
acquaintance and friendship he was very desirous to cultivate. Mrs
Harrel, too much absorbed in her own affairs to care about any other,
saw his entrance with a momentary surprise, and then thought of it no
more; but it was not so with Cecilia, whose better understanding led her
to deeper reflection.

Even the visits of Mr Marriot but a few weeks since Mr Harrel had
prohibited, yet he now introduced him into his house with particular
distinction; he came back too himself in admirable spirits, enlivened
in his countenance, and restored to his good humour. A change so
extraordinary both in conduct and disposition convinced her that some
change no less extra-ordinary of circumstance must previously have
happened; what that might be it was not possible for her to divine, but
the lessons she had received from Mr Monckton led her to suspicions of
the darkest kind.

Every part of his behaviour served still further to confirm them; he was
civil even to excess to Mr Marriot; he gave orders aloud not to be at
home to Sir Robert Floyer; he made his court to Cecilia with unusual
assiduity, and he took every method in his power to procure opportunity
to her admirer of addressing and approaching her.

The young man, who seemed enamoured even to madness, could scarce
refrain not merely from prostration to the object of his passion, but
to Mr Harrel himself for permitting him to see her. Cecilia, who not
without some concern perceived a fondness so fruitless, and who knew
not by what arts or with what views Mr Harrel might think proper to
encourage it, determined to take all the means that were in her own
power towards giving it immediate control. She behaved, therefore,
with the utmost reserve, and the moment tea was over, though earnestly
entreated to remain with them, she retired to her own room, without
making any other apology than coldly saying she could not stay.

In about an hour Mrs Harrel ran up stairs to her.

“Oh Miss Beverley,” she cried, “a little respite is now granted me! Mr
Harrel says he shall stay another day; he says, too, one single thousand
pound would now make him a new man.”

Cecilia returned no answer; she conjectured some new deceit was in
agitation to raise money, and she feared Mr Marriot was the next dupe
to be played upon. Mrs Harrel, therefore, with a look of the utmost
disappointment, left her, saying she would send for her brother, and
once more try if he had yet any remaining regard for her.

Cecilia rested quiet till eleven o'clock, when she was summoned to
supper; she found Mr Marriot still the only guest, and that Mr Arnott
made not his appearance.

She now resolved to publish her resolution of going the next morning
to St James's-square. As soon, therefore, as the servants withdrew, she
enquired of Mr Harrel if he had any commands with Mr or Mrs Delvile, as
she should see them the next morning, and purposed to spend some time
with them.

Mr Harrel, with a look of much alarm, asked if she meant the whole day.

Many days, she answered, and probably some months.

Mrs Harrel exclaimed her surprise aloud, and Mr Harrel looked aghast;
while his new young friend cast upon him a glance of reproach and
resentment, which fully convinced Cecilia he imagined he had procured
himself a title to an easiness of intercourse and frequency of meeting
which this intelligence destroyed. Cecilia, thinking after all that had
passed, no other ceremony on her part was necessary but that of simply
speaking her intention, then arose and returned to her own room.

She acquainted her maid that she was going to make a visit to Mrs
Delvile, and gave her directions about packing up her clothes, and
sending for a man in the morning to take care of her books.

This employment was soon interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Harrel, who
desiring to speak with her alone, when the maid was gone, said “O Miss
Beverley, can you indeed be so barbarous as to leave me?”

“I entreat you, Mrs Harrel,” answered Cecilia, “to save both yourself
and me any further discussions. I have delayed this removal very long,
and I can now delay it no longer.”

Mrs Harrel then flung herself upon a chair in the bitterest sorrow,
declaring she was utterly undone; that Mr Harrel had declared he could
not stay even an hour in England if she was not in his house; that he
had already had a violent quarrel with Mr Marriot upon the subject; and
that her brother, though she had sent him the most earnest entreaties,
would not come near her.

Cecilia, tired of vain attempts to offer comfort, now urged the warmest
expostulations against her opposition, strongly representing the real
necessity of her going abroad, and the unpardonable weakness of wishing
to continue such a life as she now led, adding debt to debt, and
hoarding distress upon distress.

Mrs Harrel then, though rather from compulsion than conviction, declared
she would agree to go, if she had not a dread of ill usage; but Mr
Harrel, she said, had behaved to her with the utmost brutality, calling
her the cause of his ruin, and threatening that if she procured not this
thousand pound before the ensuing evening, she should be treated as she
deserved for her extravagance and folly.

“Does he think, then,” said Cecilia with the utmost indignation, “that
I am to be frightened through your fears into what compliances he
pleases?”

“O no,” cried Mrs Harrel, “no; his expectations are all from my brother.
He surely thought that when I supplicated and pleaded to him, he would
do what I wished, for so he always did formerly, and so once again I am
sure he would do now, could I but make him come to me, and tell him
how I am used, and tell him that if Mr Harrel takes me abroad in this
humour, I verily think in his rage he will half murder me.”

Cecilia, who well knew she was herself the real cause of Mr Arnott's
resistance, now felt her resolution waver, internally reproaching
herself with the sufferings of his sister; alarmed, however, for her own
constancy, she earnestly besought Mrs Harrel to go and compose herself
for the night, and promised to deliberate what could be done for her
before morning.

Mrs Harrel complied; but scarce was her own rest more broken than
that of Cecilia, who, though extremely fatigued with a whole night's
watching, was so perturbed in her mind she could not close her eyes. Mrs
Harrel was her earliest, and had once been her dearest friend; she had
deprived her by her own advice of her customary refuge in her brother;
to refuse, therefore, assistance to her seemed cruelty, though to deny
it to Mr Harrel was justice; she endeavoured, therefore, to make a
compromise between her judgment and compassion, by resolving that
though she would grant nothing further to Mr Harrel while he remained in
London, she would contribute from time to time both to his necessities
and comfort, when once he was established elsewhere upon some plan of
prudence and economy.









CHAPTER xi. -- A PERSECUTION.

The next morning by five o'clock Mrs Harrel came into Cecilia's room
to know the result of her deliberation; and Cecilia, with that graceful
readiness which accompanied all her kind offices, instantly assured her
the thousand pound should be her own, if she would consent to seek some
quiet retreat, and receive it in small sums, of fifty or one hundred
pounds at a time, which should be carefully transmitted, and which,
by being delivered to herself, might secure better treatment from Mr
Harrel, and be a motive to revive his care and affection.

She flew, much delighted, with this proposal to her husband; but
presently, and with a dejected look, returning, said Mr Harrel protested
he could not possibly set out without first receiving the money. “I
shall go myself, therefore,” said she, “to my brother after breakfast,
for he will not, I see, unkind as he is grown, come to me; and if I do
not succeed with him, I believe I shall never come back!”

To this Cecilia, offended and disappointed, answered “I am sorry for Mr
Arnott, but for myself I have done!”

Mrs Harrel then left her, and she arose to make immediate preparations
for her removal to St James's-square, whither, with all the speed in her
power, she sent her books, her trunks, and all that belonged to her.

When she was summoned down stairs, she found, for the first time,
Mr Harrel breakfasting at the same table with his wife; they seemed
mutually out of humour and comfortless, nothing hardly was spoken, and
little was swallowed; Mr Harrel, however, was civil, but his wife was
totally silent, and Cecilia the whole time was planning how to take her
leave.

When the tea things were removed, Mr Harrel said, “You have not, I hope,
Miss Beverley, quite determined upon this strange scheme?”

“Indeed I have, Sir,” she answered, “and already I have sent my
clothes.”

At this information he seemed thunderstruck; but, after somewhat
recovering, said with much bitterness, “Well, madam, at least may I
request you will stay here till the evening?”

“No, Sir,” answered she coolly, “I am going instantly.”

“And will you not,” said he, with yet greater asperity, “amuse yourself
first with seeing bailiffs take possession of my house, and your friend
Priscilla follow me to jail?”

“Good God, Mr Harrel!” exclaimed Cecilia, with uplifted hands, “is this
a question, is this behaviour I have merited!”

“O no!” cried he with quickness, “should I once think that way--” then
rising and striking his forehead, he walked about the room.

Mrs Harrel arose too, and weeping violently went away.

“Will you at least,” said Cecilia, when she was gone, “till your affairs
are settled, leave Priscilla with me? When I go into my own house, she
shall accompany me, and mean time Mr Arnott's I am sure will gladly be
open to her.”

“No, no,” answered he, “she deserves no such indulgence; she has not any
reason to complain, she has been as negligent, as profuse, as expensive
as myself; she has practised neither oeconomy nor self-denial, she has
neither thought of me nor my affairs, nor is she now afflicted at any
thing but the loss of that affluence she has done her best towards
diminishing.

“All recrimination,” said Cecilia, “were vain, or what might not Mrs
Harrel urge in return! but let us not enlarge upon so ungrateful a
subject, the wisest and the happiest scheme now were mutually and kindly
to console each other.”

“Consolation and kindness,” cried he, with abruptness, “are out of the
question. I have ordered a post chaise to be here at night, and if
till then you will stay, I will promise to release you without further
petition if not, eternal destruction be my portion if I live to see the
scene which your removal will occasion!”

“My removal,” cried Cecilia, shuddering, “good heaven, and how can my
removal be of such dreadful consequence?”

“Ask me not,” cried he, fiercely, “questions or reasons now; the crisis
is at hand, and you will soon, happen what may, know all; mean time what
I have said is a fact, and immutable; and you must hasten my end, or
give me a chance for avoiding it, as you think fit. I scarce care at
this instant which way you decide; remember, however, all I ask of you
is to defer your departure; what else I have to hope is from Mr Arnott.”

He then left the room.

Cecilia now was again a coward! In vain she called to her support
the advice, the prophesies, the cautions of Mr Monckton, in vain she
recollected the impositions she had already seen practised, for neither
the warnings of her counsellor, nor the lessons of her own experience,
were proofs against the terrors which threats so desperate inspired; and
though more than once she determined to fly at all events from a tyranny
he had so little right to usurp, the mere remembrance of the words if
you stay not till night I will not live, robbed her of all courage; and
however long she had prepared herself for this very attack, when the
moment arrived, its power over her mind was too strong for resistance.

While this conflict between fear and resolution was still undecided, her
servant brought her the following letter from Mr Arnott.

To Miss Beverley, Portman-square.

June 13th, 1779.

MADAM,--Determined to obey those commands which you had the goodness
to honour me with, I have absented myself from town till Mr Harrel is
settled; for though I am as sensible of your wisdom as of your beauty,
I find myself too weak to bear the distress of my unhappy sister, and
therefore I run from the sight, nor shall any letter or message follow
me, unless it comes from Miss Beverley herself, lest she should in
future refuse the only favour I dare presume to solicit, that of
sometimes deigning to honour with her directions, the most humble and
devoted of her servants, J. ARNOTT.

In the midst of her apprehensions for herself and her own interest,
Cecilia could not forbear rejoicing that Mr Arnott, at least, had
escaped the present storm; yet she was certain it would fall the more
heavily upon herself; and dreaded the sight of Mrs Harrel after the
shock which this flight would occasion.

Her expectations were but too quickly fulfilled; Mrs Harrel in a short
time after rushed wildly into the room, calling out “My brother is gone!
he has left me for ever! Oh save me, Miss Beverley, save me from abuse
and insult!” And she wept with so much violence she could utter nothing
more.

Cecilia, quite tortured by this persecution, faintly asked what she
could do for her?

“Send,” cried she, “to my brother, and beseech him not to abandon me!
send to him, and conjure him to advance this thousand pound!--the chaise
is already ordered,--Mr Harrel is fixed upon going,--yet he says without
that money we must both starve in a strange land,--O send to my cruel
brother! he has left word that nothing must follow him that does not
come from you.”

“For the world, then,” cried Cecilia, “would I not baffle his
discretion! indeed you must submit to your fate, indeed Mrs Harrel you
must endeavour to bear it better.”

Mrs Harrel, shedding a flood of tears, declared she would try to follow
her advice, but again besought her in the utmost agony to send after
her brother, protesting she did not think even her life would be safe
in making so long a journey with Mr Harrel in his present state of mind;
his character, she said, was totally changed, his gaiety, good humour,
and sprightliness were turned into roughness and moroseness, and, since
his great losses at play, he was grown so fierce and furious, that to
oppose him even in a trifle, rendered him quite outrageous in passion.

Cecilia, though truly concerned, and almost melted, yet refused to
interfere with Mr Arnott, and even thought it but justice to acknowledge
she had advised his retreat.

“And can you have been so cruel?” cried Mrs Harrel, with still
encreasing violence of sorrow, “to rob me of my only friend, to deprive
me of my Brother's affection, at the very time I am forced out of the
kingdom, with a husband who is ready to murder me, and who says he hates
the sight of me, and all because I cannot get him this fatal, fatal
money!--O Miss Beverley, how could I have thought to have had such an
office from you?”

Cecilia was beginning a justification, when a message came from Mr
Harrel, desiring to see his wife immediately.

Mrs Harrel, in great terror, cast herself at Cecilia's feet, and
clinging to her knees, called out “I dare not go to him! I dare not go
to him! he wants to know my success, and when he hears my brother is run
away, I am sure he will kill me!--Oh Miss Beverley, how could you send
him away? how could you be so inhuman as to leave me to the rage of Mr
Harrel?”

Cecilia, distressed and trembling herself, conjured her to rise and
be consoled; but Mrs Harrel, weak and frightened, could only weep and
supplicate; “I don't ask you,” she cried, “to give the money yourself,
but only to send for my brother, that he may protect me, and beg Mr
Harrel not to treat me so cruelly,--consider but what a long, long
journey I am going to make! consider how often you used to say you would
love me for ever! consider you have robbed me of the tenderest brother
in the world!--Oh Miss Beverley, send for him back, or be a sister to me
yourself, and let not your poor Priscilla leave her native land without
help or pity!”

Cecilia, wholly overcome, now knelt too, and embracing her with tears,
said “Oh Priscilla, plead and reproach no more! what you wish shall be
yours,--I will send for your brother,--I will do what you please!”

“Now you are my friend indeed!” cried Mrs Harrel, “let me but see my
brother, and his heart will yield to my distress, and he will soften Mr
Harrel by giving his unhappy sister this parting bounty.”

Cecilia then took a pen in her hand to write to Mr Arnott; but struck
almost in the same moment with a notion of treachery in calling him from
a retreat which her own counsel made him seek, professedly to expose
him to a supplication which from his present situation might lead him
to ruin, she hastily flung it from her, and exclaimed “No, excellent Mr
Arnott, I will not so unworthily betray you!”

“And can you, Miss Beverley, can you at last,” cried Mrs Harrel, “be so
barbarous as to retract?”

“No, my poor Priscilla,” answered Cecilia, “I cannot so cruelly
disappoint you; my pity shall however make no sufferer but myself,--I
cannot send for Mr Arnott,--from me you must have the money, and may
it answer the purpose for which it is given, and restore to you the
tenderness of your husband, and the peace of your own heart!”

Priscilla, scarce waiting to thank her, flew with this intelligence to
Mr Harrel; who with the same impetuosity, scarce waiting to say he was
glad of it, ran himself to bring the Jew from whom the money was to
be procured. Every thing was soon settled, Cecilia had no time for
retracting, and repentance they had not the delicacy to regard; again,
therefore, she signed her name for paying the principal and interest of
another 1000l. within ten days after she was of age; and having
taken the money, she accompanied Mr and Mrs Harrel into another room.
Presenting it then with an affecting solemnity to Mrs Harrel, “accept,
Priscilla,” she cried, “this irrefragable mark of the sincerity of my
friendship; but suffer me at the same time to tell you, it is the
last to so considerable an amount I ever mean to offer; receive it,
therefore, with kindness, but use it with discretion.”

She then embraced her, and eager now to avoid acknowledgment, as before
she had been to escape importunities, she left them together.

The soothing recompense of succouring benevolence, followed not this
gift, nor made amends for this loss; perplexity and uneasiness, regret
and resentment, accompanied the donation, and rested upon her mind; she
feared she had done wrong; she was certain Mr Monckton would blame
her; he knew not the persecution she suffered, nor would he make any
allowance for the threats which alarmed, or the intreaties which melted
her.

Far other had been her feelings at the generosity she exerted for the
Hills; no doubts then tormented her, and no repentance embittered her
beneficence. Their worth was without suspicion, and their misfortunes
were not of their own seeking; the post in which they had been stationed
they had never deserted, and the poverty into which they had sunk was
accidental and unavoidable.

But here, every evil had been wantonly incurred by vanity and
licentiousness, and shamelessly followed by injustice and fraud; the
disturbance of her mind only increased by reflection, for when the
rights of the creditors with their injuries occurred to her, she
enquired of herself by what title or equity, she had so liberally
assisted Mr Harrel in eluding their claims, and flying the punishment
which the law would inflict.

Startled by this consideration, she most severely reproached herself for
a compliance of which she had so lightly weighed the consequences, and
thought with the utmost dismay, that while she had flattered herself
she was merely indulging the dictates of humanity, she might perhaps be
accused by the world as an abettor of guile and injustice.

“And yet,” she continued, “whom can I essentially have injured but
myself? would his creditors have been benefitted by my refusal? had
I braved the execution of his dreadful threat, and quitted his house
before I was wrought upon to assist him, would his suicide have lessened
their losses, or secured their demands? even if he had no intention but
to intimidate me, who will be wronged by my enabling him to go abroad,
or who would be better paid were he seized and confined? All that
remains of his shattered fortune may still be claimed, though I have
saved him from a lingering imprisonment, desperate for himself and his
wife, and useless for those he has plundered.”

And thus, now soothed by the purity of her intentions, and now uneasy
from the rectitude of her principles, she alternately rejoiced and
repined at what she had done.

At dinner Mr Harrel was all civility and good humour. He warmly thanked
Cecilia for the kindness she had shewn him, and gaily added, “You should
be absolved from all the mischief you may do for a twelvemonth to come,
in reward for the preservation from mischief which you have this day
effected.”

“The preservation,” said Cecilia, “will I hope be for many days. But
tell me, sir, exactly, at what time I may acquaint Mrs Delvile I shall
wait upon her?”

“Perhaps,” he answered, “by eight o'clock; perhaps by nine; you will not
mind half an hour?”

“Certainly not;” she answered, unwilling by disputing about a trifle
to diminish his satisfaction in her assistance. She wrote, therefore,
another note to Mrs Delvile, desiring she would not expect her till near
ten o'clock, and promising to account and apologize for these seeming
caprices when she had the honour of seeing her.

The rest of the afternoon she spent wholly in exhorting Mrs Harrel to
shew more fortitude, and conjuring her to study nothing while abroad
but oeconomy, prudence and housewifery; a lesson how hard for the
thoughtless and negligent Priscilla! she heard the advice with
repugnance, and only answered it with helpless complaints that she knew
not how to spend less money than she had always done.

After tea, Mr Harrel, still in high spirits, went out, entreating
Cecilia to stay with Priscilla till his return, which he promised should
be early.

Nine o'clock, however, came, and he did not appear; Cecilia then grew
anxious to keep her appointment with Mrs Delvile; but ten o'clock also
came, and still Mr Harrel was absent.

She then determined to wait no longer, and rang her bell for her servant
and chair; but when Mrs Harrel desired to be informed the moment that
Mr Harrel returned, the man said he had been come home more than half an
hour.

Much surprised, she enquired where he was.

“In his own room, madam, and gave orders not to be disturbed.”

Cecilia, who was not much pleased at this account, was easily persuaded
to stay a few minutes longer; and, fearing some new evil, she was going
to send him a message, by way of knowing how he was employed, when he
came himself into the room.

“Well, ladies,” he cried in a hurrying manner, “who is for Vauxhall?”

“Vauxhall!” repeated Mrs Harrel, while Cecilia, staring, perceived in
his face a look of perturbation that extremely alarmed her.

“Come, come,” he cried, “we have no time to lose. A hackney coach will
serve us; we won't wait for our own.”

“Have you then given up going abroad?” said Mrs Harrel.

“No, no; where can we go from half so well? let us live while we live! I
have ordered a chaise to be in waiting there. Come, let's be gone.”

“First,” said Cecilia, “let me wish you both good night.”

“Will you not go with me?” cried Mrs Harrel, “how can I go to Vauxhall
alone?”

“You are not alone,” answered she; “but if I go, how am I to return?”

“She shall return with you,” cried Mr Harrel, “if you desire it; you
shall return together.”

Mrs Harrel, starting up in rapture, called out “Oh Mr Harrel, will you
indeed leave me in England?”

“Yes,” answered he reproachfully, “if you will make a better friend than
you have made a wife, and if Miss Beverley is content to take charge of
you.”

“What can all this mean?” exclaimed Cecilia, “is it possible you can be
serious? Are you really going yourself, and will you suffer Mrs Harrel
to remain?”

“I am,” he answered, “and I will.”

Then ringing the bell, he ordered a hackney coach.

Mrs Harrel was scarce able to breathe for extacy, nor Cecilia for
amazement; while Mr Harrel, attending to neither of them, walked for
some time silently about the room.

“But how,” cried Cecilia at last, “can I possibly go? Mrs Delvile must
already be astonished at my delay, and if I disappoint her again she
will hardly receive me.”

“O make not any difficulties,” cried Mrs Harrel in an agony; “if Mr
Harrel will let me stay, sure you will not be so cruel as to oppose
him?”

“But why,” said Cecilia, “should either of us go to Vauxhall? surely
that is no place for a parting so melancholy.”

A servant then came in, and said the hackney coach was at the door.

Mr Harrel, starting at the sound, called out, “come, what do we wait
for? if we go not immediately, we may be prevented.”

Cecilia then again wished them good night, protesting she could fail Mrs
Delvile no longer.

Mrs Harrel, half wild at this refusal, conjured her in the most frantic
manner, to give way, exclaiming, “Oh cruel! cruel! to deny me this last
request! I will kneel to you day and night,” sinking upon the ground
before her, “and I will serve you as the humblest of your slaves, if you
will but be kind in this last instance, and save me from banishment and
misery!”

“Oh rise, Mrs Harrel,” cried Cecilia, ashamed of her prostration, and
shocked by her vehemence, “rise and let me rest!--it is painful to me
to refuse, but to comply for ever in defiance of my judgment--Oh Mrs
Harrel, I know no longer what is kind or what is cruel, nor have I known
for some time past right from wrong, nor good from evil!”

“Come,” cried Mr Harrel impetuously, “I wait not another minute!”

“Leave her then with me!” said Cecilia, “I will perform my promise, Mr
Arnott will I am sure hold his to be sacred, she shall now go with him,
she shall hereafter come to me,--leave her but behind, and depend upon
our care.”

“No, no,” cried he, with quickness, “I must take care of her myself. I
shall not carry her abroad with me, but the only legacy I can leave her,
is a warning which I hope she will remember for ever. You, however, need
not go.”

“What,” cried Mrs Harrel, “leave me at Vauxhall, and yet leave me
alone?”

“What of that?” cried he with fierceness, “do you not desire to be left?
have you any regard for me? or for any thing upon earth but yourself!
cease these vain clamours, and come, I insist upon it, this moment.”

And then, with a violent oath, he declared he would be detained no
longer, and approached in great rage to seize her; Mrs Harrel shrieked
aloud, and the terrified Cecilia exclaimed, “If indeed you are to part
to-night, part not thus dreadfully!--rise, Mrs Harrel, and comply!--be
reconciled, be kind to her, Mr Harrel!--and I will go with her
myself,--we will all go together!”

“And why,” cried Mr Harrel, more gently yet with the utmost emotion,
“why should you go!--you want no warning! you need no terror!--better
far had you fly us, and my wife when I am set out may find you.”

Mrs Harrel, however, suffered her not to recede; and Cecilia, though
half distracted by the scenes of horror and perplexity in which she was
perpetually engaged, ordered her servant to acquaint Mrs Delvile she was
again compelled to defer waiting upon her.

Mr Harrel then hurried them both into the coach, which he directed to
Vauxhall.

“Pray write to me when you are landed,” said Mrs Harrel, who now
released from her personal apprehensions, began to feel some for her
husband.

He made not any answer. She then asked to what part of France he meant
to go; but still he did not reply; and when she urged him by a third
question, he told her in a rage to torment him no more.

During the rest of the ride not another word was said; Mrs Harrel wept,
her husband guarded a gloomy silence, and Cecilia most unpleasantly
passed her time between anxious suspicions of some new scheme, and a
terrified wonder in what all these transactions would terminate.









CHAPTER xii. -- A MAN OF BUSINESS.

When they entered Vauxhall, Mr Harrel endeavoured to dismiss his
moroseness, and affecting his usual gaiety, struggled to recover his
spirits; but the effort was vain, he could neither talk nor look like
himself, and though from time to time he resumed his air of wonted
levity, he could not support it, but drooped and hung his head in
evident despondency.

He made them take several turns in the midst of the company, and walked
so fast that they could hardly keep pace with him, as if he hoped by
exercise to restore his vivacity; but every attempt failed, he sunk and
grew sadder, and muttering between his teeth “this is not to be borne!”
 he hastily called to a waiter to bring him a bottle of champagne.

Of this he drank glass after glass, notwithstanding Cecilia, as Mrs
Harrel had not courage to speak, entreated him to forbear. He seemed,
however, not to hear her; but when he had drunk what he thought
necessary to revive him, he conveyed them into an unfrequented part
of the garden, and as soon as they were out of sight of all but a few
stragglers, he suddenly stopt, and, in great agitation, said, “my chaise
will soon be ready, and I shall take of you a long farewell!--all my
affairs are unpropitious to my speedy return;--the wine is now mounting
into my head, and perhaps I may not be able to say much by and by. I
fear I have been cruel to you, Priscilla, and I begin to wish I
had spared you this parting scene; yet let it not be banished your
remembrance, but think of it when you are tempted to such mad folly as
has ruined us.”

Mrs Harrel wept too much to make any answer; and turning from her to
Cecilia, “Oh Madam,” he cried, “to you, indeed, I dare not speak! I have
used you most unworthily, but I pay for it all! I ask you not to pity or
forgive me, I know it is impossible you should do either.”

“No,” cried the softened Cecilia, “it is not impossible, I do both at
this moment, and I hope--”

“Do not hope,” interrupted he, “be not so angelic, for I cannot bear it!
benevolence like yours should have fallen into worthier hands. But come,
let us return to the company. My head grows giddy, but my heart is still
heavy; I must make them more fit companions for each other.”

He would then have hurried them back; but Cecilia, endeavouring to stop
him, said “You do not mean, I hope, to call for more wine?”

“Why not?” cried he, with affected spirit, “what, shall we not be merry
before we part? Yes, we will all be merry, for if we are not, how shall
we part at all?--Oh not without a struggle!--” Then, stopping, he paused
a moment, and casting off the mask of levity, said in accents the most
solemn “I commit this packet to you,” giving a sealed parcel to Cecilia;
“had I written it later, its contents had been kinder to my wife, for
now the hour of separation approaches, ill will and resentment subside.
Poor Priscilla!--I am sorry--but you will succour her, I am sure you
will,--Oh had I known you myself before this infatuation--bright pattern
of all goodness!--but I was devoted,--a ruined wretch before ever you
entered my house; unworthy to be saved, unworthy that virtues such as
yours should dwell under the same roof with me! But come,--come now, or
my resolution will waver, and I shall not go at last.”

“But what is this packet?” cried Cecilia, “and why do you give it to
me?”

“No matter, no matter, you will know by and by;--the chaise waits, and I
must gather courage to be gone.”

He then pressed forward, answering neither to remonstrance nor intreaty
from his frightened companions.

The moment they returned to the covered walk, they were met by Mr
Marriot; Mr Harrel, starting, endeavoured to pass him; but when he
approached, and said “you have sent, Sir, no answer to my letter!” he
stopt, and in a tone of forced politeness, said, “No, Sir, but I shall
answer it to-morrow, and to-night I hope you will do me the honour of
supping with me.”

Mr Marriot, looking openly at Cecilia as his inducement, though
evidently regarding himself as an injured man, hesitated a moment, yet
accepted the invitation.

“To supper?” cried Mrs Harrel, “what here?”

“To supper?” repeated Cecilia, “and how are we to get home?”

“Think not of that these two hours,” answered he; “come, let us look for
a box.”

Cecilia then grew quite urgent with him to give up a scheme which must
keep them so late, and Mrs Harrel repeatedly exclaimed “Indeed people
will think it very odd to see us here without any party;” but he heeded
them not, and perceiving at some distance Mr Morrice, he called out
to him to find them a box; for the evening was very pleasant, and the
gardens were so much crowded that no accommodation was unseized.

“Sir,” cried Morrice, with his usual readiness, “I'll get you one if I
turn out ten old Aldermen sucking custards.”

Just after he was gone, a fat, sleek, vulgar-looking man, dressed in
a bright purple coat, with a deep red waistcoat, and a wig bulging far
from his head with small round curls, while his plump face and person
announced plenty and good living, and an air of defiance spoke the
fullness of his purse, strutted boldly up to Mr Harrel, and accosting
him in a manner that shewed some diffidence of his reception, but none
of his right, said “Sir your humble servant.” And made a bow first to
him, and then to the ladies.

“Sir yours,” replied Mr Harrel scornfully, and without touching his hat
he walked quickly on.

His fat acquaintance, who seemed but little disposed to be offended with
impunity, instantly replaced his hat on his head, and with a look that
implied I'll fit you for this! put his hands to his sides, and following
him, said “Sir, I must make bold to beg the favour of exchanging a few
words with you.”

“Ay, Sir,” answered Mr Harrel, “come to me to-morrow, and you shall
exchange as many as you please.”

“Nothing like the time present, Sir,” answered the man; “as for
to-morrow, I believe it intends to come no more; for I have heard of it
any time these three years. I mean no reflections, Sir, but let every
man have his right. That's what I say, and that's my notion of things.”

Mr Harrel, with a violent execration, asked what he meant by dunning him
at such a place as Vauxhall?

“One place, Sir,” he replied, “is as good as another place; for so as
what one does is good, 'tis no matter for where it may be. A man of
business never wants a counter if he can meet with a joint-stool. For my
part, I'm all for a clear conscience, and no bills without receipts to
them.”

“And if you were all for broken bones,” cried Mr Harrel, angrily, “I
would oblige you with them without delay.”

“Sir,” cried the man, equally provoked, “this is talking quite out
of character, for as to broken bones, there's ne'er a person in all
England, gentle nor simple, can say he's a right to break mine, for I'm
not a person of that sort, but a man of as good property as another man;
and there's ne'er a customer I have in the world that's more his own man
than myself.”

“Lord bless me, Mr Hobson,” cried Mrs Harrel, “don't follow us in this
manner! If we meet any of our acquaintance they'll think us half crazy.”

“Ma'am,” answered Mr Hobson, again taking off his hat, “if I'm treated
with proper respect, no man will behave more generous than myself; but
if I'm affronted, all I can say is, it may go harder with some folks
than they think for.”

Here a little mean-looking man, very thin, and almost bent double with
perpetual cringing, came up to Mr Hobson, and pulling him by the sleeve,
whispered, yet loud enough to be heard, “It's surprizeable to me, Mr
Hobson, you can behave so out of the way! For my part, perhaps I've as
much my due as another person, but I dares to say I shall have it when
it's convenient, and I'd scorn for to mislest a gentleman when he's
taking his pleasure.”

“Lord bless me,” cried Mrs Harrel, “what shall we do now? here's all Mr
Harrel's creditors coming upon us!”

“Do?” cried Mr Harrel, re-assuming an air of gaiety, “why give them
all a supper, to be sure. Come, gentlemen, will you favour me with your
company to supper?”

“Sir,” answered Mr Hobson, somewhat softened by this unexpected
invitation, “I've supped this hour and more, and had my glass too, for
I'm as willing to spend my money as another man; only what I say is
this, I don't chuse to be cheated, for that's losing one's substance,
and getting no credit; however, as to drinking another glass, or such a
matter as that, I'll do it with all the pleasure in life.”

“And as to me,” said the other man, whose name was Simkins, and whose
head almost touched the ground by the profoundness of his reverence,
“I can't upon no account think of taking the liberty; but if I may
just stand without, I'll make bold to go so far as just for to drink my
humble duty to the ladies in a cup of cyder.”

“Are you mad, Mr Harrel, are you mad!” cried his wife, “to think of
asking such people as these to supper? what will every body say? suppose
any of our acquaintance should see us? I am sure I shall die with
shame.”

“Mad!” repeated he, “no, not mad but merry. O ho, Mr Morrice, why have
you been so long? what have you done for us?”

“Why Sir,” answered Morrice, returning with a look somewhat less elated
than he had set out, “the gardens are so full, there is not a box to be
had; but I hope we shall get one for all that; for I observed one of the
best boxes in the garden, just to the right there, with nobody in it but
that gentleman who made me spill the tea-pot at the Pantheon. So I made
an apology, and told him the case; but he only said humph? and hay? so
then I told it all over again, but he served me just the same, for he
never seems to hear what one says till one's just done, and then he
begins to recollect one's speaking to him; however, though I repeated
it all over and over again, I could get nothing from him but just that
humph? and hay? but he is so remarkably absent, that I dare say if we
all go and sit down round him, he won't know a word of the matter.”

“Won't he?” cried Mr Harrel, “have at him, then!”

And he followed Mr Morrice, though Cecilia, who now half suspected that
all was to end in a mere idle frolic, warmly joined her remonstrances to
those of Mrs Harrel, which were made with the utmost, but with fruitless
earnestness.

Mr Meadows, who was seated in the middle of the box, was lolloping upon
the table with his customary ease, and picking his teeth with his usual
inattention to all about him. The intrusion, however, of so large
a party, seemed to threaten his insensibility with unavoidable
disturbance; though imagining they meant but to look in at the box,
and pass on, he made not at their first approach any alteration in his
attitude or employment.

“See, ladies,” cried the officious Morrice, “I told you there was room;
and I am sure this gentleman will be very happy to make way for you, if
it's only out of good-nature to the waiters, as he is neither eating nor
drinking, nor doing any thing at all. So if you two ladies will go in at
that side, Mr Harrel and that other gentleman,” pointing to Mr Marriot,
“may go to the other, and then I'll sit by the ladies here, and those
other two gentlemen--”

Here Mr Meadows, raising himself from his reclining posture, and staring
Morrice in the face, gravely said, “What's all this, Sir!”

Morrice, who expected to have arranged the whole party without a
question, and who understood so little of modish airs as to suspect
neither affectation nor trick in the absence of mind and indolence of
manners which he observed in Mr Meadows, was utterly amazed by this
interrogatory, and staring himself in return, said, “Sir, you seemed so
thoughtful--I did not think--I did not suppose you would have taken any
notice of just a person or two coming into the box.”

“Did not you, Sir?” said Mr Meadows very coldly, “why then now you do,
perhaps you'll be so obliging as to let me have my own box to myself.”

And then again he returned to his favourite position.

“Certainly, Sir,” said Morrice, bowing; “I am sure I did not mean to
disturb you; for you seemed so lost in thought, that I'm sure I did not
much believe you would have seen us.”

“Why Sir,” said Mr Hobson, strutting forward, “if I may speak my
opinion, I should think, as you happen to be quite alone, a little
agreeable company would be no such bad thing. At least that's my
notion.”

“And if I might take the liberty,” said the smooth tongued Mr Simkins,
“for to put in a word, I should think the best way would be, if the
gentleman has no peticklar objection, for me just to stand somewhere
hereabouts, and so, when he's had what he's a mind to, be ready for to
pop in at one side, as he comes out at the t'other; for if one does not
look pretty 'cute such a full night as this, a box is whipt away before
one knows where one is.”

“No, no, no,” cried Mrs Harrel impatiently, “let us neither sup in this
box nor in any other; let us go away entirely.”

“Indeed we must! indeed we ought!” cried Cecilia; “it is utterly
improper we should stay; pray let us be gone immediately.”

Mr Harrel paid not the least regard to these requests; but Mr Meadows,
who could no longer seem unconscious of what passed, did himself so much
violence as to arise, and ask if the ladies would be seated.

“I said so!” cried Morrice triumphantly, “I was sure there was no
gentleman but would be happy to accommodate two such ladies!”

The ladies, however, far from happy in being so accommodated, again
tried their utmost influence in persuading Mr Harrel to give up this
scheme; but he would not hear them, he insisted upon their going into
the box, and, extending the privilege which Mr Meadows had given, he
invited without ceremony the whole party to follow.

Mr Meadows, though he seemed to think this a very extraordinary
encroachment, had already made such an effort from his general languor
in the repulse he had given to Morrice, that he could exert himself no
further; but after looking around him with mingled vacancy and contempt,
he again seated himself, and suffered Morrice to do the honours without
more opposition. Morrice, but too happy in the office, placed Cecilia
next to Mr Meadows, and would have made Mr Marriot her other neighbour,
but she insisted upon not being parted from Mrs Harrel, and therefore,
as he chose to sit also by that lady himself, Mr Marriot was obliged
to follow Mr Harrel to the other side of the box; Mr Hobson, without
further invitation, placed himself comfortably in one of the corners,
and Mr Simkins, who stood modestly for some time in another, finding
the further encouragement for which he waited was not likely to arrive,
dropt quietly into his seat without it.

Supper was now ordered, and while it was preparing Mr Harrel sat totally
silent; but Mr Meadows thought proper to force himself to talk with
Cecilia, though she could well have dispensed with such an exertion of
his politeness.

“Do you like this place, ma'am?”

“Indeed I hardly know,--I never was here before.”

“No wonder! the only surprise is that any body can come to it at all. To
see a set of people walking after nothing! strolling about without view
or object! 'tis strange! don't you think so, ma'am?”

“Yes,--I believe so,” said Cecilia, scarce hearing him.

“O it gives me the vapours, the horrors,” cried he, “to see what poor
creatures we all are! taking pleasure even from the privation of it!
forcing ourselves into exercise and toil, when we might at least have
the indulgence of sitting still and reposing!”

“Lord, Sir,” cried Morrice, “don't you like walking?”

“Walking?” cried he, “I know nothing so humiliating; to see a rational
being in such mechanical motion! with no knowledge upon what principles
he proceeds, but plodding on, one foot before another, without even any
consciousness which is first, or how either--”

“Sir,” interrupted Mr Hobson, “I hope you won't take it amiss if I make
bold to tell my opinion, for my way is this, let every man speak his
maxim! But what I say as to this matter, is this, if a man must always
be stopping to consider what foot he is standing upon, he had need have
little to do, being the right does as well as the left, and the left as
well as the right. And that, Sir, I think is a fair argument.”

Mr Meadows deigned no other answer to this speech than a look of
contempt.

“I fancy, Sir,” said Morrice, “you are fond of riding, for all your good
horsemen like nothing else.”

“Riding!” exclaimed Mr Meadows, “Oh barbarous! Wrestling and boxing
are polite arts to it! trusting to the discretion of an animal less
intellectual than ourselves! a sudden spring may break all our limbs,
a stumble may fracture our sculls! And what is the inducement? to get
melted with heat, killed with fatigue, and covered with dust! miserable
infatuation!--Do you love riding, ma'am?”

“Yes, very well, Sir.”

“I am glad to hear it,” cried he, with a vacant smile; “you are quite
right; I am entirely of your opinion.”

Mr Simkins now, with a look of much perplexity, yet rising and bowing,
said “I don't mean, Sir, to be so rude as to put in my oar, but if I did
not take you wrong, I'm sure just now I thought you seemed for to make
no great 'count of riding, and yet now, all of the sudden, one would
think you was a speaking up for it!”

“Why, Sir,” cried Morrice, “if you neither like riding nor walking, you
can have no pleasure at all but only in sitting.”

“Sitting!” repeated Mr Meadows, with a yawn, “O worse and worse! it
dispirits me to death! it robs me of all fire and life! it weakens
circulation, and destroys elasticity.”

“Pray then, Sir,” said Morrice, “do you like any better to stand?”

“To stand? O intolerable! the most unmeaning thing in the world! one had
better be made a mummy!”

“Why then, pray Sir,” said Mr Hobson, “let me ask the favour of you to
tell us what it is you do like?”

Mr Meadows, though he stared him full in the face, began picking his
teeth without making any answer.

“You see, Mr Hobson,” said Mr Simkins, “the gentleman has no mind for
to tell you; but if I may take the liberty just to put in, I think if he
neither likes walking, nor riding, nor sitting, nor standing, I take it
he likes nothing.”

“Well, Sir,” said Morrice, “but here comes supper, and I hope you will
like that. Pray Sir, may I help you to a bit of this ham?”

Mr Meadows, not seeming to hear him, suddenly, and with an air of
extreme weariness, arose, and without speaking to anybody, abruptly
made his way out of the box. -- Mr Harrel now, starting from the gloomy
reverie into which he had sunk, undertook to do the honours of the
table, insisting with much violence upon helping every body, calling
for more provisions, and struggling to appear in high spirits and good
humour.

In a few minutes Captain Aresby, who was passing by the box, stopt to
make his compliments to Mrs Harrel and Cecilia.

“What a concourse!” he cried, casting up his eyes with an expression of
half-dying fatigue, “are you not accablé? for my part, I hardly respire.
I have really hardly ever had the honour of being so obsedé before.”

“We can make very good room, Sir,” said Morrice, “if you chuse to come
in.”

“Yes,” said Mr Simkins, obsequiously standing up, “I am sure the
gentleman will be very welcome to take my place, for I did not mean for
to sit down, only just to look agreeable.”

“By no means, Sir,” answered the Captain; “I shall be quite au desespoir
if I derange any body.”

“Sir,” said Mr Hobson, “I don't offer you my place, because I take
it for granted if you had a mind to come in, you would not stand upon
ceremony; for what I say is, let every man speak his mind, and then we
shall all know how to conduct ourselves. That's my way, and let any man
tell me a better!”

The Captain, after looking at him with a surprise not wholly unmixt with
horror, turned from him without making any answer, and said to Cecilia,
“And how long, ma'am, have you tried this petrifying place?”

“An hour,--two hours, I believe,” she answered.

“Really? and nobody here! assez de monde, but nobody here! a blank
partout!”

“Sir,” said Mr Simkins, getting out of the box that he might bow
with more facility, “I humbly crave pardon for the liberty, but if I
understood right, you said something of a blank? pray, Sir, if I may
be so free, has there been any thing of the nature of a lottery, or a
raffle, in the garden? or the like of that?”

“Sir!” said the Captain, regarding him from head to foot, “I am quite
assommé that I cannot comprehend your allusion.”

“Sir, I ask pardon,” said the man, bowing still lower, “I only thought
if in case it should not be above half a crown, or such a matter as
that, I might perhaps stretch a point once in a way.”

The Captain, more and more amazed, stared at him again, but not thinking
it necessary to take any further notice of him, he enquired of Cecilia
if she meant to stay late.

“I hope not,” she replied, “I have already stayed later than I wished to
do.”

“Really!” said he, with an unmeaning smile, “Well, that is as horrid a
thing as I have the malheur to know. For my part, I make it a principle
not to stay long in these semi-barbarous places, for after a certain
time, they bore me to that degree I am quite abimé. I shall, however, do
mon possible to have the honour of seeing you again.”

And then, with a smile of yet greater insipidity, he protested he was
reduced to despair in leaving her, and walked on.

“Pray, ma'am, if I may be so bold,” said Mr Hobson, “what countryman may
that gentleman be?”

“An Englishman, I suppose, Sir,” said Cecilia.

“An Englishman, ma'am!” said Mr Hobson, “why I could not understand one
word in ten that came out of his mouth.”

“Why indeed,” said Mr Simkins, “he has a mighty peticklar way of
speaking, for I'm sure I thought I could have sworn he said something of
a blank, or to that amount, but I could make nothing of it when I come
to ask him about it.”

“Let every man speak to be understood,” cried Mr Hobson, “that's my
notion of things; for as to all those fine words that nobody can make
out, I hold them to be of no use. Suppose a man was to talk in that
manner when he's doing business, what would be the upshot? who'd
understand what he meant? Well, that's the proof; what i'n't fit for
business, i'n't of no value; that's my way of judging, and that's what I
go upon.”

“He said some other things,” rejoined Mr Simkins, “that I could not make
out very clear, only I had no mind to ask any more questions, for fear
of his answering me something I should not understand; but as well as I
could make it out, I thought I heard him say there was nobody here! what
he could mean by that, I can't pretend for to guess, for I'm sure the
garden is so stock full, that if there was to come many more, I don't
know where they could cram 'em.”

“I took notice of it at the time,” said Mr Hobson, “for it i'n't many
things are lost upon me; and, to tell you the truth, I thought he had
been making pretty free with his bottle, by his seeing no better.”

“Bottle!” cried Mr Harrel, “a most excellent hint, Mr Hobson! come! let
us all make free with the bottle!”

He then called for more wine, and insisted that every body should pledge
him. Mr Marriot and Mr Morrice made not any objection, and Mr Hobson and
Mr Simkins consented with much delight.

Mr Harrel now grew extremely unruly, the wine he had already drunk being
thus powerfully aided; and his next project was to make his wife and
Cecilia follow his example. Cecilia, more incensed than ever to see
no preparation made for his departure, and all possible pains taken
to unfit him for setting out, refused him with equal firmness and
displeasure, and lamented, with the bitterest self-reproaches, the
consent which had been forced from her to be present at a scene of such
disorder; but Mrs Harrel would have opposed him in vain, had not his
attention been called off to another object. This was Sir Robert Floyer,
who perceiving the party at some distance, no sooner observed Mr Marriot
in such company, than advancing to the box with an air of rage and
defiance, he told Mr Harrel he had something to say to him.

“Ay,” cried Harrel, “say to me? and so have I to say to you! Come
amongst us and be merry! Here, make room, make way! Sit close, my
friends!”

Sir Robert, who now saw he was in no situation to be reasoned with,
stood for a moment silent; and then, looking round the box, and
observing Messrs Hobson and Simkins, he exclaimed aloud “Why what queer
party have you got into? who the d---l have you picked up here?”

Mr Hobson, who, to the importance of lately acquired wealth, now added
the courage of newly drunk Champagne, stoutly kept his ground, without
seeming at all conscious he was included in this interrogation; but Mr
Simkins, who had still his way to make in the world, and whose habitual
servility would have resisted a larger draught, was easily intimidated;
he again, therefore stood up, and with the most cringing respect offered
the Baronet his place; who, taking neither of the offer nor offerer the
smallest notice, still stood opposite to Mr Harrel, waiting for some
explanation.

Mr Harrel, however, who now grew really incapable of giving any, only
repeated his invitation that he would make one among them.

“One among you?” cried he, angrily, and pointing to Mr Hobson, “why you
don't fancy I'll sit down with a bricklayer?”

“A bricklayer?” said Mr Harrel, “ay, sure, and a hosier too; sit down,
Mr Simkins, keep your place, man!”

Mr Simkins most thankfully bowed; but Mr Hobson, who could no longer
avoid feeling the personality of this reflection, boldly answered,
“Sir, you may sit down with a worse man any day in the week! I have done
nothing I'm ashamed of, and no man can say to me why did you so? I don't
tell you, Sir, what I'm worth; no one has a right to ask; I only say
three times five is fifteen! that's all.”

“Why what the d----l, you impudent fellow,” cried the haughty Baronet,
“you don't presume to mutter, do you?”

“Sir,” answered Mr Hobson, very hotly, “I sha'n't put up with abuse from
no man! I've got a fair character in the world, and wherewithal to live
by my own liking. And what I have is my own, and all I say is, let
every one say the same, for that's the way to fear no man, and face the
d----l.”

“What do you mean by that, fellow?” cried Sir Robert.

“Fellow, Sir! this is talking no how. Do you think a man of substance,
that's got above the world, is to be treated like a little scrubby
apprentice? Let every man have his own, that's always my way of
thinking; and this I can say for myself, I have as good a right to shew
my head where I please as ever a member of parliament in all England;
and I wish every body here could say as much.”

Sir Robert, fury starting into his eyes, was beginning an answer; but
Mrs Harrel with terror, and Cecilia with dignity, calling upon them both
to forbear, the Baronet desired Morrice to relinquish his place to him,
and seating himself next to Mrs Harrel, gave over the contest.

Meanwhile Mr Simkins, hoping to ingratiate himself with the company,
advanced to Mr Hobson, already cooled by finding himself unanswered, and
reproachfully said “Mr Hobson, if I may make so free, I must needs be
bold to say I am quite ashamed of you! a person of your standing and
credit for to talk so disrespectful! as if a gentleman had not a right
to take a little pleasure, because he just happens to owe you a little
matters of money; fie, fie, Mr Hobson! I did not expect you to behave so
despiseable!”

“Despiseable!” answered Mr Hobson, “I'd scorn as much to do anything
despiseable as yourself, or any thing misbecoming of a gentleman; and as
to coming to such a place as this may be, why I have no objection to it.
All I stand to is this, let every man have his due; for as to taking a
little pleasure, here I am, as one may say, doing the same myself; but
where's the harm of that? who's a right to call a man to account that's
clear of the world? Not that I mean to boast, nor nothing like it, but,
as I said before; five times five is fifteen; [Footnote; I hardly
know whether the authoress has here forgotten her arithmetic, or
intentionally suffered Mr Hobson to forget his, from the effects of
champagne.--Ed.]--that's my calculation.”

Mr Harrel, who, during this debate, had still continued drinking,
regardless of all opposition from his wife and Cecilia, now grew more
and more turbulent; he insisted that Mr Simkins should return to his
seat, ordered him another bumper of champagne, and saying he had not
half company enough to raise his spirits, desired Morrice to go and
invite more.

Morrice, always ready to promote a frolic, most chearfully consented;
but when Cecilia, in a low voice, supplicated him to bring no one back,
with still more readiness he made signs that he understood and would
obey her.

Mr Harrel then began to sing, and in so noisy and riotous a manner, that
nobody approached the box without stopping to stare at him; and those
who were new to such scenes, not contented with merely looking in,
stationed themselves at some distance before it, to observe what was
passing, and to contemplate with envy and admiration an appearance of
mirth and enjoyment which they attributed to happiness and pleasure!
Mrs Harrel, shocked to be seen in such mixed company, grew every instant
more restless and miserable; and Cecilia, half distracted to think how
they were to get home, had passed all her time in making secret vows
that if once again she was delivered from Mr Harrel she would never see
him more.

Sir Robert Floyer perceiving their mutual uneasiness, proposed to escort
them home himself; and Cecilia, notwithstanding her aversion to him,
was listening to the scheme, when Mr Marriot, who had been evidently
provoked and disconcerted since the junction of the Baronet, suspecting
what was passing, offered his services also, and in a tone of voice that
did not promise a very quiet acquiescence in a refusal.

Cecilia, who, too easily, in their looks, saw all the eagerness of
rivalry, now dreaded the consequence of her decision, and therefore
declined the assistance of either; but her distress was unspeakable,
as there was not one person in the party to whose care she could commit
herself, though the behaviour of Mr Harrel, which

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