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CECILIA, Volume 1 (of 3)
or
MEMOIRS OF AN HEIRESS
By Frances Burney
PREFACE
“Fanny's Cecilia came out last summer, and is as much liked and read,
I believe, as any book ever was,” wrote Charlotte Burney in Jan. 1783.
“She had 250 pounds for it from Payne and Cadell. Most people say she
ought to have had a thousand. It is now going into the third edition,
though Payne owns that they printed two thousand at the first edition,
and Lowndes told me five hundred was the common number for a novel.”
[Footnote: _The Early Diary of Frances Burney, with a selection from her
correspondence, and from the journals of her sisters Susan and Charlotte
Burney._ Edited by Annie Raine Ellis. 1889. Vol. II. p. 307.]
The manuscript of _Cecilia_ was submitted to Dr Burney and Mr Crisp
during its composition, and their suggestions were in some cases
adopted, as we learn from the _Diary_. Dr Johnson was not consulted, but
a desire at once to imitate and to please him evidently controlled the
work.
Under these circumstances it is naturally less fresh and spontaneous
than _Evelina_, but it is more mature. The touch is surer and the plot
more elaborate. We cannot to-day fully appreciate the “conflict scene
between mother and son,” for which, Miss Burney tells us, the book was
written; but the pictures of eighteenth century affectations are all
alive, and the story is thoroughly absorbing, except, perhaps, in the
last book.
Miss Burney often took the name of her characters from her
acquaintances, and it seems probable that some of the “types” in
_Cecilia_ are also drawn from real life. The title of Miss Austen's
_Pride and Prejudice_ was borrowed from _Cecilia_, and some points of
resemblance may be traced between the two novels.
The present edition is reprinted from:--
CECILIA, or, Memoirs of an Heiress. By the author of Evelina. In five
volumes. London: Printed for T. Payne and Son, at the Newsgate, and T.
Cadell in the Strand. MDCCLXXXII. R. B. J.
THE RIGHT HON. EDMUND BURKE TO MISS F. BURNEY. (AFTER READING CECILIA.)
Madam,--I should feel exceedingly to blame if I could refuse to myself
the natural satisfaction, and to you the just but poor return, of my
best thanks for the very great instruction and entertainment I have
received from the new present you have bestowed on the public. There
are few--I believe I may say fairly there are none at all--that will not
find themselves better informed concerning human nature, and their stock
of observation enriched, by reading your “Cecilia.” They certainly will,
let their experience in life and manners be what it may. The arrogance
of age must submit to be taught by youth. You have crowded into a few
small volumes an incredible variety of characters; most of them well
planned, well supported, and well contrasted with each other. If there
be any fault in this respect, it is one in which you are in no great
danger of being imitated. Justly as your characters are drawn, perhaps
they are too numerous. But I beg pardon; I fear it is quite in vain
to preach economy to those who are come young to excessive and sudden
opulence.
I might trespass on your delicacy if I should fill my letter to you with
what I fill my conversation to others. I should be troublesome to you
alone if I should tell you all I feel and think on the natural vein of
humour, the tender pathetic, the comprehensive and noble moral, and the
sagacious observation, that appear quite throughout that extraordinary
performance.
In an age distinguished by producing extraordinary women, I hardly dare
to tell you where my opinion would place you amongst them. I respect
your modesty, that will not endure the commendations which your merit
forces from everybody.
I have the honour to be, with great gratitude, respect, and esteem,
madam, your most obedient and most humble servant,
EDM. BURKE
WHITEHALL, _July 19, 1782_.
My best compliments and congratulations to Dr Burney on the great honour
acquired to his family.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The indulgence shewn by the Public to Evelina, which, unpatronized,
unaided, and unowned, past through Four Editions in one Year, has
encouraged its Author to risk this SECOND attempt. The animation of
success is too universally acknowledged, to make the writer of
the following sheets dread much censure of temerity; though the
precariousness of any power to give pleasure, suppresses all vanity
of confidence, and sends CECILIA into the world with scarce more
hope, though far more encouragement, than attended her highly-honoured
predecessor, Evelina.
July, 1782
CHAPTER i
A JOURNEY.
“Peace to the spirits of my honoured parents, respected be their
remains, and immortalized their virtues! may time, while it moulders
their frail relicks to dust, commit to tradition the record of their
goodness; and Oh, may their orphan-descendant be influenced through life
by the remembrance of their purity, and be solaced in death, that by her
it was unsullied!”
Such was the secret prayer with which the only survivor of the Beverley
family quitted the abode of her youth, and residence of her forefathers;
while tears of recollecting sorrow filled her eyes, and obstructed the
last view of her native town which had excited them.
Cecilia, this fair traveller, had lately entered into the
one-and-twentieth year of her age. Her ancestors had been rich farmers
in the county of Suffolk, though her father, in whom a spirit of
elegance had supplanted the rapacity of wealth, had spent his time as a
private country gentleman, satisfied, without increasing his store, to
live upon what he inherited from the labours of his predecessors. She
had lost him in her early youth, and her mother had not long survived
him. They had bequeathed to her 10,000 pounds, and consigned her to the
care of the Dean of ------, her uncle. With this gentleman, in whom,
by various contingencies, the accumulated possessions of a rising and
prosperous family were centred, she had passed the last four years of
her life; and a few weeks only had yet elapsed since his death, which,
by depriving her of her last relation, made her heiress to an estate of
3000 pounds per annum; with no other restriction than that of annexing
her name, if she married, to the disposal of her hand and her riches.
But though thus largely indebted to fortune, to nature she had yet
greater obligations: her form was elegant, her heart was liberal; her
countenance announced the intelligence of her mind, her complexion
varied with every emotion of her soul, and her eyes, the heralds of
her speech, now beamed with understanding and now glistened with
sensibility.
For the short period of her minority, the management of her fortune
and the care of her person, had by the Dean been entrusted to three
guardians, among whom her own choice was to settle her residence: but
her mind, saddened by the loss of all her natural friends, coveted to
regain its serenity in the quietness of the country, and in the bosom
of an aged and maternal counsellor, whom she loved as her mother, and to
whom she had been known from her childhood.
The Deanery, indeed, she was obliged to relinquish, a long repining
expectant being eager, by entering it, to bequeath to another the
anxiety and suspense he had suffered himself; though probably without
much impatience to shorten their duration in favour of the next
successor; but the house of Mrs Charlton, her benevolent friend,
was open for her reception, and the alleviating tenderness of her
conversation took from her all wish of changing it.
Here she had dwelt since the interment of her uncle; and here, from the
affectionate gratitude of her disposition, she had perhaps been content
to dwell till her own, had not her guardians interfered to remove her.
Reluctantly she complied; she quitted her early companions, the friend
she most revered, and the spot which contained the relicks of all she
had yet lived to lament; and, accompanied by one of her guardians, and
attended by two servants, she began her journey from Bury to London.
Mr Harrel, this gentleman, though in the prime of his life, though gay,
fashionable and splendid, had been appointed by her uncle to be one of
her trustees; a choice which had for object the peculiar gratification
of his niece, whose most favourite young friend Mr Harrel had married,
and in whose house he therefore knew she would most wish to live.
Whatever good-nature could dictate or politeness suggest to dispel
her melancholy, Mr Harrel failed not to urge; and Cecilia, in whose
disposition sweetness was tempered with dignity, and gentleness with
fortitude, suffered not his kind offices to seem ineffectual; she kissed
her hand at the last glimpse a friendly hill afforded of her native
town, and made an effort to forget the regret with which she lost sight
of it. She revived her spirits by plans of future happiness, dwelt
upon the delight with which she should meet her young friend, and, by
accepting his consolation, amply rewarded his trouble.
Her serenity, however, had yet another, though milder trial to undergo,
since another friend was yet to be met, and another farewell was yet to
be taken.
At the distance of seven miles from Bury resided Mr Monckton, the
richest and most powerful man in that neighbourhood, at whose house
Cecilia and her guardian were invited to breakfast in their journey.
Mr Monckton, who was the younger son of a noble family, was a man of
parts, information and sagacity; to great native strength of mind he
added a penetrating knowledge of the world, and to faculties the most
skilful of investigating the character of every other, a dissimulation
the most profound in concealing his own. In the bloom of his youth,
impatient for wealth and ambitious of power, he had tied himself to a
rich dowager of quality, whose age, though sixty-seven, was but among
the smaller species of her evil properties, her disposition being
far more repulsive than her wrinkles. An inequality of years so
considerable, had led him to expect that the fortune he had thus
acquired, would speedily be released from the burthen with which it was
at present incumbered; but his expectations proved as vain as they were
mercenary, and his lady was not more the dupe of his protestations than
he was himself of his own purposes. Ten years he had been married to
her, yet her health was good, and her faculties were unimpaired; eagerly
he had watched for her dissolution, yet his eagerness had injured no
health but his own! So short-sighted is selfish cunning, that in aiming
no further than at the gratification of the present moment, it obscures
the evils of the future, while it impedes the perception of integrity
and honour.
His ardour, however, to attain the blessed period of returning liberty,
deprived him neither of spirit nor inclination for intermediate
enjoyment; he knew the world too well to incur its censure by
ill-treating the woman to whom he was indebted for the rank he held in
it; he saw her, indeed, but seldom, yet he had the decency, alike in
avoiding as in meeting her, to shew no abatement of civility and good
breeding: but, having thus sacrificed to ambition all possibility
of happiness in domestic life, he turned his thoughts to those other
methods of procuring it, which he had so dearly purchased the power of
essaying.
The resources of pleasure to the possessors of wealth are only to be
cut off by the satiety of which they are productive: a satiety which the
vigorous mind of Mr Monckton had not yet suffered him to experience; his
time, therefore, was either devoted to the expensive amusements of the
metropolis, or spent in the country among the gayest of its diversions.
The little knowledge of fashionable manners and of the characters of the
times of which Cecilia was yet mistress, she had gathered at the house
of this gentleman, with whom the Dean her uncle had been intimately
connected: for as he preserved to the world the same appearance of
decency he supported to his wife, he was everywhere well received, and
being but partially known, was extremely respected: the world, with
its wonted facility, repaying his circumspect attention to its laws, by
silencing the voice of censure, guarding his character from impeachment,
and his name from reproach.
Cecilia had been known to him half her life; she had been caressed in
his house as a beautiful child, and her presence was now solicited there
as an amiable acquaintance. Her visits, indeed, had by no means been
frequent, as the ill-humour of Lady Margaret Monckton had rendered them
painful to her; yet the opportunities they had afforded her of mixing
with people of fashion, had served to prepare her for the new scenes in
which she was soon to be a performer.
Mr Monckton, in return, had always been a welcome guest at the Deanery;
his conversation was to Cecilia a never-failing source of information,
as his knowledge of life and manners enabled him to start those subjects
of which she was most ignorant; and her mind, copious for the admission
and intelligent for the arrangement of knowledge, received all new ideas
with avidity.
Pleasure given in society, like money lent in usury, returns with
interest to those who dispense it: and the discourse of Mr Monckton
conferred not a greater favour upon Cecilia than her attention to it
repaid. And thus, the speaker and the hearer being mutually gratified,
they had always met with complacency, and commonly parted with regret.
This reciprocation of pleasure had, however, produced different
effects upon their minds; the ideas of Cecilia were enlarged, while the
reflections of Mr Monckton were embittered. He here saw an object who to
all the advantages of that wealth he had so highly prized, added youth,
beauty, and intelligence; though much her senior, he was by no means
of an age to render his addressing her an impropriety, and the
entertainment she received from his conversation, persuaded him that her
good opinion might with ease be improved into a regard the most partial.
He regretted the venal rapacity with which he had sacrificed himself
to a woman he abhorred, and his wishes for her final decay became daily
more fervent. He knew that the acquaintance of Cecilia was confined to
a circle of which he was himself the principal ornament, that she had
rejected all the proposals of marriage which had hitherto been made to
her, and, as he had sedulously watched her from her earliest years,
he had reason to believe that her heart had escaped any dangerous
impression. This being her situation, he had long looked upon her as his
future property; as such he had indulged his admiration, and as such he
had already appropriated her estate, though he had not more vigilantly
inspected into her sentiments, than he had guarded his own from a
similar scrutiny.
The death of the Dean her uncle had, indeed, much alarmed him; he
grieved at her leaving Suffolk, where he considered himself the first
man, alike in parts and in consequence, and he dreaded her residing
in London, where he foresaw that numerous rivals, equal to himself
in talents and in riches, would speedily surround her; rivals, too,
youthful and sanguine, not shackled by present ties, but at liberty to
solicit her immediate acceptance. Beauty and independence, rarely
found together, would attract a crowd of suitors at once brilliant and
assiduous; and the house of Mr Harrel was eminent for its elegance and
gaiety; but yet, undaunted by danger, and confiding in his own powers,
he determined to pursue the project he had formed, not fearing by
address and perseverance to ensure its success.
CHAPTER ii
AN ARGUMENT.
Mr Monckton had, at this time, a party of company assembled at his
house for the purpose of spending the Christmas holidays. He waited with
anxiety the arrival of Cecilia, and flew to hand her from the chaise
before Mr Harrel could alight. He observed the melancholy of her
countenance, and was much pleased to find that her London journey had
so little power to charm her. He conducted her to the breakfast parlour,
where Lady Margaret and his friends expected her.
Lady Margaret received her with a coldness that bordered upon
incivility; irascible by nature and jealous by situation, the appearance
of beauty alarmed, and of chearfulness disgusted her. She regarded with
watchful suspicion whoever was addressed by her husband, and having
marked his frequent attendance at the Deanery, she had singled out
Cecilia for the object of her peculiar antipathy; while Cecilia,
perceiving her aversion though ignorant of its cause, took care to avoid
all intercourse with her but what ceremony exacted, and pitied in secret
the unfortunate lot of her friend.
The company now present consisted of one lady and several gentlemen.
Miss Bennet, the lady, was in every sense of the phrase, the humble
companion of Lady Margaret; she was low-born, meanly educated,
and narrow-minded; a stranger alike to innate merit or acquired
accomplishments, yet skilful in the art of flattery, and an adept
in every species of low cunning. With no other view in life than the
attainment of affluence without labour, she was not more the slave
of the mistress of the house, than the tool of its master; receiving
indignity without murmur, and submitting to contempt as a thing of
course.
Among the gentlemen, the most conspicuous, by means of his dress, was
Mr Aresby, a captain in the militia; a young man who having frequently
heard the words red-coat and gallantry put together, imagined the
conjunction not merely customary, but honourable, and therefore, without
even pretending to think of the service of his country, he considered a
cockade as a badge of politeness, and wore it but to mark his devotion
to the ladies, whom he held himself equipped to conquer, and bound to
adore.
The next who by forwardness the most officious took care to be noticed,
was Mr Morrice, a young lawyer, who, though rising in his profession,
owed his success neither to distinguished abilities, nor to
skill-supplying industry, but to the art of uniting suppleness to others
with confidence in himself. To a reverence of rank, talents, and fortune
the most profound, he joined an assurance in his own merit, which no
superiority could depress; and with a presumption which encouraged him
to aim at all things, he blended a good-humour that no mortification
could lessen. And while by the pliability of his disposition he avoided
making enemies, by his readiness to oblige, he learned the surest way of
making friends by becoming useful to them.
There were also some neighbouring squires; and there was one old
gentleman, who, without seeming to notice any of the company, sat
frowning in a corner.
But the principal figure in the circle was Mr Belfield, a tall, thin
young man, whose face was all animation, and whose eyes sparkled with
intelligence. He had been intended by his father for trade, but his
spirit, soaring above the occupation for which he was designed, from
repining led him to resist, and from resisting, to rebel. He eloped from
his friends, and contrived to enter the army. But, fond of the polite
arts, and eager for the acquirement of knowledge, he found not this way
of life much better adapted to his inclination than that from which he
had escaped; he soon grew weary of it, was reconciled to his father, and
entered at the Temple. But here, too volatile for serious study, and
too gay for laborious application, he made little progress: and the same
quickness of parts and vigour of imagination which united with prudence,
or accompanied by judgment, might have raised him to the head of his
profession, being unhappily associated with fickleness and caprice,
served only to impede his improvement, and obstruct his preferment. And
now, with little business, and that little neglected, a small fortune,
and that fortune daily becoming less, the admiration of the world, but
that admiration ending simply in civility, he lived an unsettled and
unprofitable life, generally caressed, and universally sought, yet
careless of his interest and thoughtless of the future; devoting his
time to company, his income to dissipation, and his heart to the Muses.
“I bring you,” said Mr Monckton, as he attended Cecilia into the room,
“a subject of sorrow in a young lady who never gave disturbance to her
friends but in quitting them.”
“If sorrow,” cried Mr Belfield, darting upon her his piercing eyes,
“wears in your part of the world a form such as this, who would wish to
change it for a view of joy?”
“She's divinely handsome, indeed!” cried the Captain, affecting an
involuntary exclamation.
Meantime, Cecilia, who was placed next to the lady of the house, quietly
began her breakfast; Mr Morrice, the young lawyer, with the most easy
freedom, seating himself at her side, while Mr Monckton was elsewhere
arranging the rest of his guests, in order to secure that place for
himself.
Mr Morrice, without ceremony, attacked his fair neighbour; he talked of
her journey, and the prospects of gaiety which it opened to her view;
but by these finding her unmoved, he changed his theme, and expatiated
upon the delights of the spot she was quitting. Studious to recommend
himself to her notice, and indifferent by what means, one moment he
flippantly extolled the entertainments of the town; and the next,
rapturously described the charms of the country. A word, a look sufficed
to mark her approbation or dissent, which he no sooner discovered, than
he slided into her opinion, with as much facility and satisfaction as if
it had originally been his own.
Mr Monckton, suppressing his chagrin, waited some time in expectation
that when this young man saw he was standing, he would yield to him his
chair: but the remark was not made, and the resignation was not thought
of. The Captain, too, regarding the lady as his natural property for the
morning, perceived with indignation by whom he was supplanted; while the
company in general, saw with much surprize, the place they had severally
foreborne to occupy from respect to their host, thus familiarly seized
upon by the man who, in the whole room, had the least claim, either from
age or rank, to consult nothing but his own inclination.
Mr Monckton, however, when he found that delicacy and good manners had
no weight with his guest, thought it most expedient to allow them
none with himself; and therefore, disguising his displeasure under an
appearance of facetiousness, he called out, “Come, Morrice, you that
love Christmas sports, what say you to the game of move-all?”
“I like it of all things!” answered Morrice, and starting from his
chair, he skipped to another.
“So should I too,” cried Mr Monckton, instantly taking his place, “were
I to remove from any seat but this.”
Morrice, though he felt himself outwitted, was the first to laugh, and
seemed as happy in the change as Mr Monckton himself.
Mr Monckton now, addressing himself to Cecilia, said, “We are going
to lose you, and you seem concerned at leaving us; yet, in a very few
months you will forget Bury, forget its inhabitants, and forget its
environs.”
“If you think so,” answered Cecilia, “must I not thence infer that Bury,
its inhabitants, and its environs, will in a very few months forget me?”
“Ay, ay, and so much the better!” said Lady Margaret, muttering between
her teeth, “so much the better!”
“I am sorry you think so, madam,” cried Cecilia, colouring at her
ill-breeding.
“You will find,” said Mr Monckton, affecting the same ignorance of her
meaning that Cecilia really felt, “as you mix with the world, you will
find that Lady Margaret has but expressed what by almost every body is
thought: to neglect old friends, and to court new acquaintance,
though perhaps not yet avowedly delivered as a precept from parents to
children, is nevertheless so universally recommended by example,
that those who act differently, incur general censure for affecting
singularity.”
“It is happy then, for me,” answered Cecilia, “that neither my actions
nor myself will be sufficiently known to attract public observation.”
“You intend, then, madam,” said Mr Belfield, “in defiance of
these maxims of the world, to be guided by the light of your own
understanding.”
“And such,” returned Mr Monckton, “at first setting out in life, is the
intention of every one. The closet reasoner is always refined in his
sentiments, and always confident in his virtue; but when he mixes
with the world, when he thinks less and acts more, he soon finds the
necessity of accommodating himself to such customs as are already
received, and of pursuing quietly the track that is already marked out.”
“But not,” exclaimed Mr Belfield, “if he has the least grain of spirit!
the beaten track will be the last that a man of parts will deign to
tread,
For common rules were ne'er designed
Directors of a noble mind.”
“A pernicious maxim! a most pernicious maxim!” cried the old gentleman,
who sat frowning in a corner of the room.
“Deviations from common rules,” said Mr Monckton, without taking any
notice of this interruption, “when they proceed from genius, are not
merely pardonable, but admirable; and you, Belfield, have a peculiar
right to plead their merits; but so little genius as there is in the
world, you must surely grant that pleas of this sort are very rarely to
be urged.”
“And why rarely,” cried Belfield, “but because your general rules,
your appropriated customs, your settled forms, are but so many absurd
arrangements to impede not merely the progress of genius, but the use of
understanding? If man dared act for himself, if neither worldly views,
contracted prejudices, eternal precepts, nor compulsive examples, swayed
his better reason and impelled his conduct, how noble indeed would
he be! _how infinite in faculties! in apprehension how like a God!_”
[Footnote: Hamlet.]
“All this,” answered Mr Monckton, “is but the doctrine of a lively
imagination, that looks upon impossibilities simply as difficulties, and
upon difficulties as mere invitations to victory. But experience teaches
another lesson; experience shows that the opposition of an individual to
a community is always dangerous in the operation, and seldom successful
in the event;--never, indeed, without a concurrence strange as
desirable, of fortunate circumstances with great abilities.”
“And why is this,” returned Belfield, “but because the attempt is so
seldom made? The pitiful prevalence of general conformity extirpates
genius, and murders originality; the man is brought up, not as if he
were 'the noblest work of God,' but as a mere ductile machine of
human formation: he is early taught that he must neither consult his
understanding, nor pursue his inclinations, lest, unhappily for his
commerce with the world, his understanding should be averse to fools,
and provoke him to despise them; and his inclinations to the tyranny of
perpetual restraint, and give him courage to abjure it.”
“I am ready enough to allow,” answered Mr Monckton, “that an eccentric
genius, such, for example, as yours, may murmur at the tediousness of
complying with the customs of the world, and wish, unconfined, and at
large, to range through life without any settled plan or prudential
restriction; but would you, therefore, grant the same licence to every
one? would you wish to see the world peopled with defiers of order,
and contemners of established forms? and not merely excuse the
irregularities resulting from uncommon parts, but encourage those, also,
to lead, who without blundering cannot even follow?”
“I would have _all_ men,” replied Belfield, “whether philosophers or
ideots, act for themselves. Every one would then appear what he is;
enterprize would be encouraged, and imitation abolished; genius would
feel its superiority, and folly its insignificance; and then, and then
only, should we cease to be surfeited with that eternal sameness of
manner and appearance which at present runs through all ranks of men.”
“Petrifying dull work this, _mon ami!_” said the Captain, in a whisper
to Morrice, “_de grace_, start some new game.”
“With all my heart,” answered he; and then, suddenly jumping up,
exclaimed, “A hare! a hare!”
“Where?--where?--which way?” and all the gentlemen arose, and ran to
different windows, except the master of the house, the object of whose
pursuit was already near him.
Morrice, with much pretended earnestness, flew from window to window,
to trace footsteps upon the turf which he knew had not printed it: yet,
never inattentive to his own interest, when he perceived in the midst
of the combustion he had raised, that Lady Margaret was incensed at the
noise it produced, he artfully gave over his search, and seating himself
in a chair next to her, eagerly offered to assist her with cakes,
chocolate, or whatever the table afforded.
He had, however, effectually broken up the conversation; and breakfast
being over, Mr Harrel ordered his chaise, and Cecilia arose to take
leave.
And now not without some difficulty could Mr Monckton disguise the
uneasy fears which her departure occasioned him. Taking her hand, “I
suppose,” he said, “you will not permit an old friend to visit you in
town, lest the sight of him should prove a disagreeable memorial of the
time you will soon regret having wasted in the country?”
“Why will you say this, Mr Monckton?” cried Cecilia; “I am sure you
cannot think it.”
“These profound studiers of mankind, madam,” said Belfield, “are mighty
sorry champions for constancy or friendship. They wage war with all
expectations but of depravity, and grant no quarter even to the purest
designs, where they think there will be any temptation to deviate from
them.”
“Temptation,” said Mr Monckton, “is very easy of resistance in theory;
but if you reflect upon the great change of situation Miss Beverley will
experience, upon the new scenes she will see, the new acquaintance she
must make, and the new connections she may form, you will not wonder at
the anxiety of a friend for her welfare.”
“But I presume,” cried Belfield, with a laugh, “Miss Beverley does not
mean to convey her person to town, and leave her understanding locked
up, with other natural curiosities, in the country? Why, therefore, may
not the same discernment regulate her adoption of new acquaintance, and
choice of new connections, that guided her selection of old ones? Do you
suppose that because she is to take leave of you, she is to take leave
of herself?”
“Where fortune smiles upon youth and beauty,” answered Mr Monckton,
“do you think it nothing that their fair possessor should make a sudden
transition of situation from the quietness of a retired life in the
country, to the gaiety of a splendid town residence?”
“Where fortune _frowns_ upon youth and beauty,” returned Belfield, “they
may not irrationally excite commiseration; but where nature and chance
unite their forces to bless the same object, what room there may be for
alarm or lamentation I confess I cannot divine.”
“What!” cried Mr Monckton, with some emotion, “are there not sharpers,
fortune-hunters, sycophants, wretches of all sorts and denominations,
who watch the approach of the rich and unwary, feed upon their
inexperience, and prey upon their property?”
“Come, come,” cried Mr Harrel, “it is time I should hasten my fair ward
away, if this is your method of describing the place she is going to
live in.”
“Is it possible,” cried the Captain, advancing to Cecilia, “that this
lady has never yet tried the town?” and then, lowering his voice, and
smiling languishingly in her face, he added, “Can anything so divinely
handsome have been immured in the country? Ah! _quelle honte!_ do you
make it a principle to be so cruel?”
Cecilia, thinking such a compliment merited not any other notice than a
slight bow, turned to Lady Margaret, and said, “Should your ladyship be
in town this winter, may I expect the honour of hearing where I may wait
upon you?”
“I don't know whether I shall go or not,” answered the old lady, with
her usual ungraciousness.
Cecilia would now have hastened away, but Mr Monckton, stopping her,
again expressed his fears of the consequences of her journey; “Be upon
your guard,” he cried, “with all new acquaintance; judge nobody from
appearances; form no friendship rashly; take time to look about you, and
remember you can make no alteration in your way of life, without
greater probability of faring worse, than chance of faring better. Keep
therefore as you are, and the more you see of others, the more you will
rejoice that you neither resemble nor are connected with them.”
“This from you, Mr Monckton!” cried Belfield, “what is become of your
conformity system? I thought all the world was to be alike, or only so
much the worse for any variation?”
“I spoke,” said Mr Monckton, “of the world in general, not of this lady
in particular; and who that knows, who that sees her, would not wish
it were possible she might continue in every respect exactly and
unalterably what she is at present?”
“I find,” said Cecilia, “you are determined that flattery at least,
should I meet with it, shall owe no pernicious effects to its novelty.”
“Well, Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, “will you now venture to
accompany me to town? Or has Mr Monckton frightened you from proceeding
any farther?”
“If,” replied Cecilia, “I felt no more sorrow in quitting my friends,
than I feel terror in venturing to London, with how light a heart should
I make the journey!”
“Brava!” cried Belfield, “I am happy to find the discourse of Mr
Monckton has not intimidated you, nor prevailed upon you to deplore
your condition in having the accumulated misery of being young, fair and
affluent.”
“Alas! poor thing!” exclaimed the old gentleman who sat in the corner,
fixing his eyes upon Cecilia with an expression of mingled grief and
pity.
Cecilia started, but no one else paid him any attention.
The usual ceremonies of leave-taking now followed, and the Captain, with
most obsequious reverence, advanced to conduct Cecilia to the carriage;
but in the midst of the dumb eloquence of his bows and smiles, Mr
Morrice, affecting not to perceive his design, skipped gaily between
them, and, without any previous formality, seized the hand of Cecilia
himself; failing not, however, to temper the freedom of his action by a
look of respect the most profound.
The Captain shrugged and retired. But Mr Monckton, enraged at his
assurance, and determined it should nothing avail him, exclaimed, “Why
how now, Morrice, do you take away the privilege of my house?”
“True, true;” answered Morrice, “you members of parliament have an
undoubted right to be tenacious of your privileges.” Then, bowing with
a look of veneration to Cecilia, he resigned her hand with an air of as
much happiness as he had taken it.
Mr Monckton, in leading her to the chaise, again begged permission to
wait upon her in town: Mr Harrel took the hint, and entreated him to
consider his house as his own; and Cecilia, gratefully thanking him for
his solicitude in her welfare, added, “And I hope, sir, you will honour
me with your counsel and admonitions with respect to my future conduct,
whenever you have the goodness to let me see you.”
This was precisely his wish. He begged, in return, that she would treat
him with confidence, and then suffered the chaise to drive off.
CHAPTER iii
AN ARRIVAL.
As soon as they lost sight of the house, Cecilia expressed her surprise
at the behaviour of the old gentleman who sat in the corner, whose
general silence, seclusion from the company, and absence of mind, had
strongly excited her curiosity.
Mr Harrel could give her very little satisfaction: he told her that he
had twice or thrice met him in public places, where everybody remarked
the singularity of his manners and appearance, but that he had never
discoursed with anyone to whom he seemed known; and that he was as much
surprised as herself in seeing so strange a character at the house of Mr
Monckton.
The conversation then turned upon the family they had just quitted, and
Cecilia warmly declared the good opinion she had of Mr Monckton, the
obligations she owed to him for the interest which, from her childhood,
he had always taken in her affairs; and her hopes of reaping much
instruction from the friendship of a man who had so extensive a
knowledge of the world.
Mr Harrel professed himself well satisfied that she should have such a
counsellor; for though but little acquainted with him, he knew he was
a man of fortune and fashion, and well esteemed in the world. They
mutually compassionated his unhappy situation in domestic life, and
Cecilia innocently expressed her concern at the dislike Lady Margaret
seemed to have taken to her; a dislike which Mr Harrel naturally enough
imputed to her youth and beauty, yet without suspecting any cause more
cogent than a general jealousy of attractions of which she had herself
so long outlived the possession.
As their journey drew near to its conclusion, all the uneasy and
disagreeable sensations which in the bosom of Cecilia had accompanied
its commencement, gave way to the expectation of quick approaching
happiness in again meeting her favourite young friend.
Mrs Harrel had in childhood been her playmate, and in youth her
school-fellow; a similarity of disposition with respect to sweetness
of temper, had early rendered them dear to each other, though the
resemblance extended no farther, Mrs Harrel having no pretensions to the
wit or understanding of her friend; but she was amiable and obliging,
and therefore sufficiently deserving affection, though neither blazing
with attractions which laid claim to admiration, nor endowed with those
superior qualities which mingle respect in the love they inspire.
From the time of her marriage, which was near three years, she had
entirely quitted Suffolk, and had had no intercourse with Cecilia but by
letter. She was now just returned from Violet Bank, the name given by
Mr Harrel to a villa about twelve miles from London, where with a large
party of company she had spent the Christmas holidays.
Their meeting was tender and affectionate; the sensibility of Cecilia's
heart flowed from her eyes, and the gladness of Mrs Harrel's dimpled her
cheeks.
As soon as their mutual salutations, expressions of kindness, and
general inquiries had been made, Mrs Harrel begged to lead her to the
drawing-room, “where,” she added, “you will see some of my friends, who
are impatient to be presented to you.”
“I could have wished,” said Cecilia, “after so long an absence, to have
passed this first evening alone with you.”
“They are all people who particularly desired to see you,” she answered,
“and I had them by way of entertaining you, as I was afraid you would be
out of spirits at leaving Bury.”
Cecilia, finding the kindness of her intentions, forbore any further
expostulation, and quietly followed her to the drawing-room. But as the
door was opened, she was struck with amazement upon finding that the
apartment, which was spacious, lighted with brilliancy, and decorated
with magnificence, was more than half filled with company, every one of
which was dressed with gaiety and profusion.
Cecilia, who from the word friends, expected to have seen a small and
private party, selected for the purpose of social converse, started
involuntarily at the sight before her, and had hardly courage to
proceed.
Mrs Harrel, however, took her hand and introduced her to the whole
company, who were all severally named to her; a ceremonial which though
not merely agreeable but even necessary to those who live in the
gay world, in order to obviate distressing mistakes, or unfortunate
implications in discourse, would by Cecilia have been willingly
dispensed with, since to her their names were as new as their persons,
and since knowing nothing of their histories, parties or connections,
she could to nothing allude: it therefore served but to heighten her
colour and increase her embarrassment.
A native dignity of mind, however, which had early taught her to
distinguish modesty from bashfulness, enabled her in a short time to
conquer her surprise, and recover her composure. She entreated Mrs
Harrel to apologise for her appearance, and being seated between two
young ladies, endeavoured to seem reconciled to it herself.
Nor was this very difficult; for while her dress, which she had not
changed since her journey, joined to the novelty of her face, attracted
general observation, the report of her fortune, which had preceded her
entrance, secured to her general respect. She soon found, too, that
a company was not necessarily formidable because full dressed, that
familiarity could be united with magnificence, and that though to
her, every one seemed attired to walk in a procession, or to grace a
drawing-room, no formality was assumed, and no solemnity was affected:
every one was without restraint, even rank obtained but little
distinction; ease was the general plan, and entertainment the general
pursuit.
Cecilia, though new to London, which city the ill-health of her uncle
had hitherto prevented her seeing, was yet no stranger to company; she
had passed her time in retirement, but not in obscurity, since for some
years past she had presided at the table of the Dean, who was visited
by the first people of the county in which he lived: and notwithstanding
his parties, which were frequent though small, and elegant though
private, had not prepared her for the splendour or the diversity of a
London assembly, they yet, by initiating her in the practical rules
of good breeding, had taught her to subdue the timid fears of total
inexperience, and to repress the bashful feelings of shamefaced
awkwardness; fears and feelings which rather call for compassion than
admiration, and which, except in extreme youth, serve but to degrade the
modesty they indicate.
She regarded, therefore, the two young ladies between whom she was
seated, rather with a wish of addressing, than a shyness of being
attacked by them; but the elder, Miss Larolles, was earnestly engaged
in discourse with a gentleman, and the younger, Miss Leeson, totally
discouraged her, by the invariable silence and gravity with which from
time to time she met her eyes.
Uninterrupted, therefore, except by occasional speeches from Mr and Mrs
Harrel, she spent the first part of the evening merely in surveying the
company.
Nor was the company dilatory in returning her notice, since from the
time of her entrance into the room, she had been the object of general
regard.
The ladies took an exact inventory of her dress, and internally settled
how differently they would have been attired if blessed with equal
affluence.
The men disputed among themselves whether or not she was painted; and
one of them asserting boldly that she rouged well, a debate ensued,
which ended in a bet, and the decision was mutually agreed to depend
upon the colour of her cheeks by the beginning of April, when, if
unfaded by bad hours and continual dissipation, they wore the same
bright bloom with which they were now glowing, her champion acknowledged
that his wager would be lost.
In about half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss Larolles had been
talking, left the room, and then that young lady, turning suddenly to
Cecilia, exclaimed, “How odd Mr Meadows is! Do you know, he says he
shan't be well enough to go to Lady Nyland's assembly! How ridiculous!
as if that could hurt him.”
Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, lent her a civil,
but silent attention.
“You shall be there, shan't you?” she added.
“No, ma'am, I have not the honour of being at all known to her
ladyship.”
“Oh, there's nothing in that,” returned she, “for Mrs Harrel can
acquaint her you are here, and then, you know, she'll send you a ticket,
and then you can go.”
“A ticket?” repeated Cecilia, “does Lady Nyland only admit her company
with tickets?”
“Oh, lord!” cried Miss Larolles, laughing immoderately, “don't you know
what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card, with a name upon it;
but we all call them tickets now.”
Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then Miss Larolles enquired
how many miles she had travelled since morning?
“Seventy-three,” answered Cecilia, “which I hope will plead my apology
for being so little dressed.”
“Oh, you're vastly well,” returned the other, “and for my part, I never
think about dress. But only conceive what happened to me last year!
Do you know I came to town the twentieth of March! was not that horrid
provoking?”
“Perhaps so,” said Cecilia, “but I am sure I cannot tell why.”
“Not tell why?” repeated Miss Larolles, “why, don't you know it was the
very night of the grand private masquerade at Lord Darien's? I would
not have missed it for the whole universe. I never travelled in such an
agony in my life: we did not get to town till monstrous late, and then
do you know I had neither a ticket nor a habit! Only conceive what a
distress! well, I sent to every creature I knew for a ticket, but
they all said there was not one to be had; so I was just like a mad
creature--but about ten or eleven o'clock, a young lady of my particular
acquaintance, by the greatest good luck in the world happened to
be taken suddenly ill; so she sent me her ticket,--was not that
delightful?”
“For _her_, extremely!” said Cecilia, laughing.
“Well,” she continued, “then I was almost out of my wits with joy; and I
went about, and got one of the sweetest dresses you ever saw. If you'll
call upon me some morning, I'll shew it you.”
Cecilia, not prepared for an invitation so abrupt, bowed without
speaking, and Miss Larolles, too happy in talking herself to be offended
at the silence of another, continued her narration.
“Well, but now comes the vilest part of the business; do you know, when
everything else was ready, I could not get my hair-dresser! I sent all
over the town,--he was nowhere to be found; I thought I should have died
with vexation; I assure you I cried so that if I had not gone in a mask,
I should have been ashamed to be seen. And so, after all this monstrous
fatigue, I was forced to have my hair dressed by my own maid, quite in a
common way; was not it cruelly mortifying?”
“Why yes,” answered Cecilia, “I should think it was almost sufficient to
make you regret the illness of the young lady who sent you her ticket.”
They were now interrupted by Mrs Harrel, who advanced to them followed
by a young man of a serious aspect and modest demeanour, and said, “I
am happy to see you both so well engaged; but my brother has been
reproaching me with presenting everybody to Miss Beverley but himself.”
“I cannot hope,” said Mr Arnott, “that I have any place in the
recollection of Miss Beverley, but long as I have been absent from
Suffolk, and unfortunate as I was in not seeing her during my last visit
there, I am yet sure, even at this distance of time, grown and formed as
she is, I should instantly have known her.”
“Amazing!” cried an elderly gentleman, in a tone of irony, who was
standing near them, “for the face is a very common one!”
“I remember well,” said Cecilia, “that when you left Suffolk I thought I
had lost my best friend.”
“Is that possible?” cried Mr Arnott, with a look of much delight.
“Yes, indeed, and not without reason, for in all disputes you were
my advocate; in all plays, my companion; and in all difficulties, my
assistant.”
“Madam,” cried the same gentleman, “if you liked him because he was your
advocate, companion, and assistant, pray like me too, for I am ready to
become all three at once.”
“You are very good,” said Cecilia, laughing, “but at present I find no
want of any defender.”
“That's pity,” he returned, “for Mr Arnott seems to me very willing to
act the same parts over again with you.”
“But for that purpose he must return to the days of his childhood.”
“Ah, would to heaven it were possible!” cried Mr Arnott, “for they were
the happiest of my life.”