it up as hopeless; but afterwards when she reflected how frivolous
were the questions she had asked, she felt more inclined to pardon the
answers she had received, and in a short time to fancy she had mistaken
contempt for stupidity, and to grow less angry with Miss Leeson than
ashamed of herself.
This supposition excited her to make yet another trial of her talents
for conversation, and therefore, summoning all the courage in her power,
she modestly apologised for the liberty she was taking, and then begged
her permission to enquire whether there was anything new in the literary
way that she thought worth recommending?
Miss Leeson now turned her eyes towards her, with a look that implied
a doubt whether she had heard right; and when the attentive attitude of
Cecilia confirmed her question, surprise for a few instants took place
of insensibility, and with rather more spirit than she had yet shown,
she answered, “Indeed, I know nothing of the matter.”
Cecilia was now utterly disconcerted; and half angry with herself, and
wholly provoked with her sullen neighbour, she resolved to let nothing
in future provoke her to a similar trial with so unpromising a subject.
She had not, however, much longer to endure the examination of Sir
Robert, who being pretty well satisfied with staring, turned upon his
heel, and was striding out of the room, when he was stopt by Mr Gosport,
who for some time had been watching him.
Mr Gosport was a man of good parts, and keen satire: minute in his
observations, and ironical in his expressions.
“So you don't play, Sir Robert?” he cried.
“What, here? No, I am going to Brookes's.”
“But how do you like Harrel's ward? You have taken a pretty good survey
of her.”
“Why, faith, I don't know; but not much, I think; she's a devilish fine
woman, too; but she has no spirit, no life.”
“Did you try her? Have you talked to her?”
“Not I, truly!”
“Nay, then how do you mean to judge of her?”
“O, faith, that's all over, now; one never thinks of talking to the
women by way of trying them.”
“What other method, then, have you adopted?”
“None.”
“None? Why, then, how do you go on?”
“Why, they talk to us. The women take all that trouble upon themselves
now.”
“And pray how long may you have commenced _fade macaroni?_ For this is a
part of your character with which I was not acquainted.”
“Oh, hang it, 'tis not from _ton_; no, it's merely from laziness. Who
the d---l will fatigue himself with dancing attendance upon the women,
when keeping them at a distance makes them dance attendance upon us?”
Then stalking from him to Mr Harrel, he took him by the arm, and they
left the room together.
Mr Gosport now advanced to Cecilia, and addressing her so as not to be
heard by Miss Leeson, said, “I have been wishing to approach you, some
time, but the fear that you are already overpowered by the loquacity of
your fair neighbour makes me cautious of attempting to engage you.”
“You mean,” said Cecilia, “to laugh at _my_ loquacity, and indeed its
ill success has rendered it sufficiently ridiculous.”
“Are you, then, yet to learn,” cried he, “that there are certain young
ladies who make it a rule never to speak but to their own cronies? Of
this class is Miss Leeson, and till you get into her particular coterie,
you must never expect to hear from her a word of two syllables. The
TON misses, as they are called, who now infest the town, are in two
divisions, the SUPERCILIOUS, and the VOLUBLE. The SUPERCILIOUS, like
Miss Leeson, are silent, scornful, languid, and affected, and disdain
all converse but with those of their own set: the VOLUBLE, like Miss
Larolles, are flirting, communicative, restless, and familiar, and
attack without the smallest ceremony, every one they think worthy their
notice. But this they have in common, that at home they think of nothing
but dress, abroad, of nothing but admiration, and that every where they
hold in supreme contempt all but themselves.”
“Probably, then,” said Cecilia, “I have passed tonight, for one of the
VOLUBLES; however, all the advantage has been with the SUPERCILIOUS, for
I have suffered a total repulse.”
“Are you sure, however, you have not talked too well for her?”
“O, a child of five years old ought to have been whipt for not talking
better!”
“But it is not capacity alone you are to consult when you talk with
misses of the TON; were their understandings only to be considered,
they would indeed be wonderfully easy of access! in order, therefore, to
render their commerce somewhat difficult, they will only be pleased by
an observance of their humours: which are ever most various and most
exuberant where the intellects are weakest and least cultivated. I
have, however, a receipt which I have found infallible for engaging the
attention of young ladies of whatsoever character or denomination.”
“O, then,” cried Cecilia, “pray favour me with it, for I have here an
admirable opportunity to try its efficacy.”
“I will give it you,” he answered, “with full directions. When you meet
with a young lady who seems resolutely determined not to speak, or who,
if compelled by a direct question to make some answer, drily gives a
brief affirmative, or coldly a laconic negative---”
“A case in point,” interrupted Cecilia.
“Well, thus circumstanced,” he continued, “the remedy I have to propose
consists of three topics of discourse.”
“Pray what are they?”
“Dress, public places, and love.”
Cecilia, half surprised and half diverted, waited a fuller explanation
without giving any interruption.
“These three topics,” he continued, “are to answer three purposes, since
there are no less than three causes from which the silence of young
ladies may proceed: sorrow, affectation, and stupidity.”
“Do you, then,” cried Cecilia, “give nothing at all to modesty?”
“I give much to it,” he answered, “as an excuse, nay almost as an
equivalent for wit; but for that sullen silence which resists all
encouragement, modesty is a mere pretence, not a cause.”
“You must, however, be somewhat more explicit, if you mean that I should
benefit from your instructions.”
“Well, then,” he answered, “I will briefly enumerate the three causes,
with directions for the three methods of cure. To begin with sorrow. The
taciturnity which really results from that is attended with an incurable
absence of mind, and a total unconsciousness of the observation which
it excites; upon this occasion, public places may sometimes be tried in
vain, and even dress may fail; but love--”
“Are you sure, then,” said Cecilia, with a laugh, “that sorrow has but
that one source?”
“By no means,” answered he, “for perhaps papa may have been angry, or
mama may have been cross; a milliner may have sent a wrong pompoon, or a
chaperon to an assembly may have been taken ill--”
“Bitter subjects of affliction, indeed! And are these all you allow us?”
“Nay, I speak but of young ladies of fashion, and what of greater
importance can befall them? If, therefore, the grief of the fair patient
proceeds from papa, mama, or the chaperon, then the mention of public
places, those endless incentives of displeasure between the old and the
young, will draw forth her complaints, and her complaints will bring
their own cure, for those who lament find speedy consolation: if the
milliner has occasioned the calamity, the discussion of dress will
have the same effect; should both these medicines fail, love, as I said
before, will be found infallible, for you will then have investigated
every subject of uneasiness which a youthful female in high life can
experience.”
“They are greatly obliged to you,” cried Cecilia, bowing, “for granting
them motives of sorrow so honourable, and I thank you in the name of the
whole sex.”
“You, madam,” said he, returning her bow, “are I hope an exception in
the happiest way, that of having no sorrow at all. I come, now, to the
silence of affectation, which is presently discernible by the roving of
the eye round the room to see if it is heeded, by the sedulous care to
avoid an accidental smile, and by the variety of disconsolate attitudes
exhibited to the beholders. This species of silence has almost without
exception its origin in that babyish vanity which is always gratified by
exciting attention, without ever perceiving that it provokes contempt.
In these cases, as nature is wholly out of the question, and the mind
is guarded against its own feelings, dress and public places are almost
certain of failing, but here again love is sure to vanquish; as soon
as it is named, attention becomes involuntary, and in a short time a
struggling simper discomposes the arrangement of the features, and then
the business is presently over, for the young lady is either supporting
some system, or opposing some proposition, before she is well aware that
she has been cheated out of her sad silence at all.”
“So much,” said Cecilia, “for sorrow and for affectation. Proceed next
to stupidity; for that, in all probability, I shall most frequently
encounter.”
“That always must be heavy work,” returned he, “yet the road is plain,
though it is all up hill. Love, here, may be talked of without exciting
any emotion, or provoking any reply, and dress may be dilated upon
without producing any other effect than that of attracting a vacant
stare; but public places are indubitably certain of success. Dull and
heavy characters, incapable of animating from wit or from reason,
because unable to keep pace with them, and void of all internal sources
of entertainment, require the stimulation of shew, glare, noise, and
bustle, to interest or awaken them. Talk to them of such subjects, and
they adore you; no matter whether you paint to them joy or horror, let
there but be action, and they are content; a battle has charms for them
equal to a coronation, and a funeral amuses them as much as a wedding.”
“I am much obliged to you,” said Cecilia, smiling, “for these
instructions; yet I must confess I know not how upon the present
occasion to make use of them: public places I have already tried, but
tried in vain; dress I dare not mention, as I have not yet learned its
technical terms--”
“Well, but,” interrupted he, “be not desperate; you have yet the third
topic unessayed.”
“O, that,” returned she, laughing, “I leave to you.”
“Pardon me,” cried he; “love is a source of loquacity only with
yourselves: when it is started by men, young ladies dwindle into mere
listeners. _Simpering_ listeners, I confess; but it is only with one
another that you will discuss its merits.”
At this time they were interrupted by the approach of Miss Larolles,
who, tripping towards Cecilia, exclaimed, “Lord, how glad I am to see
you! So you would not go to the auction! Well, you had a prodigious
loss, I assure you. All the wardrobe was sold, and all Lady Belgrade's
trinkets. I never saw such a collection of sweet things in my life.
I was ready to cry that I could not bid for half a hundred of them. I
declare I was kept in an agony the whole morning. I would not but have
been there for the world. Poor Lady Belgrade! you really can't conceive
how I was shocked for her. All her beautiful things sold for almost
nothing. I assure you, if you had seen how they went, you would have
lost all patience. It's a thousand pities you were not there.”
“On the contrary,” said Cecilia, “I think I had a very fortunate escape,
for the loss of patience without the acquisition of the trinkets, would
have been rather mortifying.”
“Yes,” said Mr Gosport; “but when you have lived some time longer
in this commercial city, you will find the exchange of patience
for mortification the most common and constant traffic amongst its
inhabitants.”
“Pray, have you been here long?” cried Miss Larolles, “for I have
been to twenty places, wondering I did not meet with you before.
But whereabouts is Mrs Mears? O, I see her now; I'm sure there's no
mistaking her; I could know her by that old red gown half a mile off.
Did you ever see such a frightful thing in your life? And it's never
off her back. I believe she sleeps in it. I am sure I have seen her in
nothing else all winter. It quite tires one's eye. She's a monstrous
shocking dresser. But do you know I have met with the most provoking
thing in the world this evening? I declare it has made me quite sick.
I was never in such a passion in my life. You can conceive nothing like
it.”
“Like what?” cried Cecilia, laughing; “your passion, or your
provocation?”
“Why, I'll tell you what it was, and then you shall judge if it was not
quite past endurance. You must know I commissioned a particular friend
of mine, Miss Moffat, to buy me a trimming when she went to Paris;
well, she sent it me over about a month ago by Mr Meadows, and it's the
sweetest thing you ever saw in your life; but I would not make it up,
because there was not a creature in town, so I thought to bring it out
quite new in about a week's time, for you know any thing does till after
Christmas. Well, to-night at Lady Jane Dranet's, who should I meet but
Miss Moffat! She had been in town some days, but so monstrously engaged
I could never find her at home. Well, I was quite delighted to see her,
for you must know she's a prodigious favourite with me, so I ran up to
her in a great hurry to shake hands, and what do you think was the first
thing that struck my eyes? Why, just such a trimming as my own, upon
a nasty, odious gown, and half dirty! Can you conceive anything so
distressing? I could have cried with pleasure.”
“Why so?” said Cecilia. “If her trimming is dirty, yours will look the
more delicate.”
“O Lord! but it's making it seem quite an old thing! Half the town will
get something like it. And I quite ruined myself to buy it. I declare, I
don't think anything was ever half so mortifying. It distressed me so,
I could hardly speak to her. If she had stayed a month or two longer, I
should not have minded it, but it was the cruellest thing in the world
to come over just now. I wish the Custom-house officers had kept all her
cloaths till summer.”
“The wish is tender, indeed,” said Cecilia, “for a _particular friend_.”
Mrs Mears now rising from the card-table, Miss Larolles tript away to
pay her compliments to her.
“Here, at least,” cried Cecilia, “no receipt seems requisite for the
cure of silence! I would have Miss Larolles be the constant companion of
Miss Leeson: they could not but agree admirably, since that SUPERCILIOUS
young lady seems determined never to speak, and the VOLUBLE Miss
Larolles never to be silent. Were each to borrow something of the other,
how greatly would both be the better!”
“The composition would still be a sorry one,” answered Mr Gosport,
“for I believe they are equally weak, and equally ignorant; the only
difference is, that one, though silly, is quick, the other, though
deliberate, is stupid. Upon a short acquaintance, that heaviness which
leaves to others the whole weight of discourse, and whole search of
entertainment, is the most fatiguing, but, upon a longer intimacy, even
that is less irksome and less offensive, than the flippancy which hears
nothing but itself.”
Mrs Harrel arose now to depart, and Cecilia, not more tired of the
beginning of the evening than entertained with its conclusion, was
handed to the carriage by Mr Arnott.
CHAPTER vi
A BREAKFAST.
The next morning, during breakfast, a servant acquainted Cecilia that
a young gentleman was in the hall, who begged to speak with her. She
desired he might be admitted; and Mrs Harrel, laughing, asked if she
ought not to quit the room; while Mr Arnott, with even more than his
usual gravity, directed his eye towards the door to watch who should
enter.
Neither of them, however, received any satisfaction when it was opened,
for the gentleman who made his appearance was unknown to both: but great
was the amazement of Cecilia, though little her emotion, when she saw Mr
Morrice!
He came forward with an air of the most profound respect for the company
in general, and obsequiously advancing to Cecilia, made an earnest
enquiry into her health after her journey, and hoped she had heard good
news from her friends in the country.
Mrs Harrel, naturally concluding both from his visit and behaviour, that
he was an acquaintance of some intimacy, very civilly offered him a seat
and some breakfast, which, very frankly, he accepted. But Mr Arnott,
who already felt the anxiety of a rising passion which was too full of
veneration to be sanguine, looked at him with uneasiness, and waited his
departure with impatience.
Cecilia began to imagine he had been commissioned to call upon her with
some message from Mr Monckton: for she knew not how to suppose that
merely and accidentally having spent an hour or two in the same room
with her, would authorize a visiting acquaintance. Mr Morrice, however,
had a faculty the most happy of reconciling his pretensions to his
inclination; and therefore she soon found that the pretence she had
suggested appeared to him unnecessary. To lead, however, to the subject
from which she expected his excuse, she enquired how long he had left
Suffolk?
“But yesterday noon, ma'am,” he answered, “or I should certainly have
taken the liberty to wait upon you before.”
Cecilia, who had only been perplexing herself to devise some reason why
he came at all, now looked at him with a grave surprize, which would
totally have abashed a man whose courage had been less, or whose
expectations had been greater; but Mr Morrice, though he had hazarded
every danger upon the slightest chance of hope, knew too well the
weakness of his claims to be confident of success, and had been too
familiar with rebuffs to be much hurt by receiving them. He might
possibly have something to gain, but he knew he had nothing to lose.
“I had the pleasure,” he continued, “to leave all our friends well,
except poor Lady Margaret, and she has had an attack of the asthma;
yet she would not have a physician, though Mr Monckton would fain have
persuaded her: however, I believe the old lady knows better things.” And
he looked archly at Cecilia: but perceiving that the insinuation gave
her nothing but disgust, he changed his tone, and added, “It is amazing
how well they live together; nobody would imagine the disparity in their
years. Poor old lady! Mr Monckton will really have a great loss of her
when she dies.”
“A loss of her!” repeated Mrs Harrel, “I am sure she is an exceeding
ill-natured old woman. When I lived at Bury, I was always frightened out
of my wits at the sight of her.”
“Why indeed, ma'am,” said Morrice, “I must own her appearance is rather
against her: I had myself a great aversion to her at first sight. But
the house is chearful,--very chearful; I like to spend a few days there
now and then of all things. Miss Bennet, too, is agreeable enough,
and----”
“Miss Bennet agreeable!” cried Mrs Harrel, “I think she's the most
odious creature I ever knew in my life; a nasty, spiteful old maid!”
“Why indeed, ma'am, as you say,” answered Morrice, “she is not very
young; and as to her temper, I confess I know very little about it; and
Mr Monckton is likely enough to try it, for he is pretty severe.”
“Mr Monckton,” cried Cecilia, extremely provoked at hearing him censured
by a man she thought highly honoured in being permitted to approach
him, “whenever _I_ have been his guest, has merited from me nothing but
praise and gratitude.”
“O,” cried Morrice, eagerly, “there is not a more worthy man in the
world! he has so much wit, so much politeness! I don't know a more
charming man anywhere than my friend Mr Monckton.” Cecilia now
perceiving that the opinions of her new acquaintance were as pliant
as his bows, determined to pay him no further attention, and hoped by
sitting silent to force from him the business of his visit, if any
he had, or if, as she now suspected, he had none, to weary him into a
retreat.
But this plan, though it would have succeeded with herself, failed with
Mr Morrice, who to a stock of good humour that made him always ready to
oblige others, added an equal portion of insensibility that hardened
him against all indignity. Finding, therefore, that Cecilia, to whom
his visit was intended, seemed already satisfied with its length, he
prudently forbore to torment her; but perceiving that the lady of the
house was more accessible, he quickly made a transfer of his attention,
and addressed his discourse to her with as much pleasure as if his only
view had been to see her, and as much ease as if he had known her all
his life.
With Mrs Harrel this conduct was not injudicious; she was pleased with
his assiduity, amused with his vivacity, and sufficiently satisfied with
his understanding. They conversed, therefore, upon pretty equal terms,
and neither of them were yet tired, when they were interrupted by Mr
Harrel, who came into the room, to ask if they had seen or heard any
thing of Sir Robert Floyer?
“No,” answered Mrs Harrel, “nothing at all.”
“I wish he was hanged,” returned he, “for he has kept me waiting this
hour. He made me promise not to ride out till he called and now he'll
stay till the morning is over.”
“Pray where does he live, sir?” cried Morrice, starting from his seat.
“In Cavendish Square, sir,” answered Mr Harrel, looking at him with much
surprise.
Not a word more said Morrice, but scampered out of the room.
“Pray who is this Genius?” cried Mr Harrel, “and what has he run away
for?”
“Upon my word I know nothing at all of him,” said Mrs Harrel; “he is a
visitor of Miss Beverley's.”
“And I, too,” said Cecilia, “might almost equally disclaim all knowledge
of him; for though I once saw, I never was introduced to him.”
She then began a relation of her meeting him at Mr Monckton's house, and
had hardly concluded it, before again, and quite out of breath, he made
his appearance.
“Sir Robert Floyer, sir,” said he to Mr Harrel, “will be here in two
minutes.”
“I hope, sir,” said Mr Harrel, “you have not given yourself the trouble
of going to him?”
“No, sir, it has given me nothing but pleasure; a run these cold
mornings is the thing I like best.”
“Sir, you are extremely good,” said Mr Harrel, “but I had not the least
intention of your taking such a walk upon my account.”
He then begged him to be seated, to rest himself, and to take some
refreshment; which civilities he received without scruple.
“But, Miss Beverley,” said Mr Harrel, turning suddenly to Cecilia, “you
don't tell me what you think of my friend?”
“What friend, sir?”
“Why, Sir Robert Floyer; I observed he never quitted you a moment while
he stayed at Mrs Mears.”
“His stay, however, was too short,” said Cecilia, “to allow me to form a
fair opinion of him.”
“But perhaps,” cried Morrice, “it was long enough to allow you to form a
_foul_ one.”
Cecilia could not forbear laughing to hear the truth thus accidentally
blundered out; but Mr Harrel, looking very little pleased, said, “Surely
you can find no fault with him? he is one of the most fashionable men I
know.”
“My finding fault with him then,” said Cecilia, “will only farther prove
what I believe is already pretty evident, that I am yet a novice in the
art of admiration.”
Mr Arnott, animating at this speech, glided behind her chair, and said,
“I knew you could not like him! I knew it from the turn of your mind;--I
knew it even from your countenance!”
Soon after, Sir Robert Floyer arrived.
“You are a pretty fellow, a'n't you,” cried Mr Harrel, “to keep me
waiting so long.”
“I could not come a moment sooner; I hardly expected to get here at all,
for my horse has been so confounded resty I could not tell how to get
him along.”
“Do you come on horseback through the streets, Sir Robert?” asked Mrs
Harrel.
“Sometimes; when I am lazy. But what the d---l is the matter with him I
don't know; he has started at everything. I suspect there has been some
foul play with him.”
“Is he at the door, sir?” cried Morrice.
“Yes,” answered Sir Robert.
“Then I'll tell you what's the matter with him in a minute;” and away
again ran Morrice.
“What time did you get off last night, Harrel?” said Sir Robert.
“Not very early; but you were too much engaged to miss me. By the way,”
lowering his voice, “what do you think I lost?”
“I can't tell indeed, but I know what I gained: I have not had such a
run of luck this winter.”
They then went up to a window to carry on their enquiries more
privately.