her eyes uneasily upon Mrs Harrel, but perceived not the least change
in her countenance. Mr Arnott, however, seemed as little pleased as
herself, and from a similar sensation looked anxiously at his sister.
Morrice now returning, called out, “He's had a fall, I assure you!”
“Curse him!” cried Sir Robert, “what shall I do now? he cost me the
d---l and all of money, and I have not had him a twelvemonth. Can you
lend me a horse for this morning, Harrel?”
“No, I have not one that will do for you. You must send to Astley.”
“Who can I send? John must take care of this.”
“I'll go, sir,” cried Morrice, “if you'll give me the commission.”
“By no means, sir,” said Sir Robert, “I can't think of giving you such
an office.”
“It is the thing in the world I like best,” answered he; “I understand
horses, and had rather go to Astley's than any where.”
The matter was now settled in a few minutes, and having received his
directions, and an invitation to dinner, Morrice danced off, with a
heart yet lighter than his heels.
“Why, Miss Beverley,” said Mr Harrel, “this friend of yours is the most
obliging gentleman I ever met with; there was no avoiding asking him to
dinner.”
“Remember, however,” said Cecilia, who was involuntarily diverted at the
successful officiousness of her new acquaintance, “that if you receive
him henceforth as your guest, he obtains admission through his own
merits, and not through my interest.”
At dinner, Morrice, who failed not to accept the invitation of Mr
Harrel, was the gayest, and indeed the happiest man in the company: the
effort he had made to fasten himself upon Cecilia as an acquaintance,
had not, it is true, from herself met with much encouragement; but he
knew the chances were against him when he made the trial, and therefore
the prospect of gaining admission into such a house as Mr Harrel's,
was not only sufficient to make amends for what scarcely amounted to a
disappointment, but a subject of serious comfort from the credit of
the connection, and of internal exultation at his own management and
address.
In the evening, the ladies, as usual, went to a private assembly, and,
as usual, were attended to it by Mr Arnott. The other gentlemen had
engagements elsewhere.
CHAPTER vii
A PROJECT.
Several days passed on nearly in the same manner; the mornings were
all spent in gossipping, shopping and dressing, and the evenings were
regularly appropriated to public places, or large parties of company.
Meanwhile Mr Arnott lived almost entirely in Portman Square; he slept,
indeed, at his own lodgings, but he boarded wholly with Mr Harrel, whose
house he never for a moment quitted till night, except to attend Cecilia
and his sister in their visitings and rambles.
Mr Arnott was a young man of unexceptionable character, and of a
disposition mild, serious and benignant: his principles and blameless
conduct obtained the universal esteem of the world, but his manners,
which were rather too precise, joined to an uncommon gravity of
countenance and demeanour, made his society rather permitted as a duty,
than sought as a pleasure.
The charms of Cecilia had forcibly, suddenly and deeply penetrated his
heart; he only lived in her presence, away from her he hardly existed:
the emotions she excited were rather those of adoration than of love,
for he gazed upon her beauty till he thought her more than human, and
hung upon her accents till all speech seemed impertinent to him but her
own. Yet so small were his expectations of success, that not even to
his sister did he hint at the situation of his heart: happy in an easy
access to her, he contented himself with seeing, hearing and watching
her, beyond which bounds he formed not any plan, and scarce indulged any
hope.
Sir Robert Floyer, too, was a frequent visitor in Portman Square, where
he dined almost daily. Cecilia was chagrined at seeing so much of
him, and provoked to find herself almost constantly the object of his
unrestrained examination; she was, however, far more seriously concerned
for Mrs Harrel, when she discovered that this favourite friend of her
husband was an unprincipled spendthrift, and an extravagant gamester,
for as he was the inseparable companion of Mr Harrel, she dreaded the
consequence both of his influence and his example.
She saw, too, with an amazement that daily increased, the fatigue, yet
fascination of a life of pleasure: Mr Harrel seemed to consider his
own house merely as an hotel, where at any hour of the night he might
disturb the family to claim admittance, where letters and messages might
be left for him, where he dined when no other dinner was offered him,
and where, when he made an appointment, he was to be met with. His
lady, too, though more at home, was not therefore more solitary; her
acquaintance were numerous, expensive and idle, and every moment
not actually spent in company, was scrupulously devoted to making
arrangements for that purpose.
In a short time Cecilia, who every day had hoped that the next would
afford her greater satisfaction, but who every day found the present
no better than the former, began to grow weary of eternally running the
same round, and to sicken at the irksome repetition of unremitting yet
uninteresting dissipation. She saw nobody she wished to see, as she had
met with nobody for whom she could care; for though sometimes those with
whom she mixed appeared to be amiable, she knew that their manners, like
their persons, were in their best array, and therefore she had too much
understanding to judge decisively of their characters. But what
chiefly damped her hopes of forming a friendship with any of the new
acquaintance to whom she was introduced, was the observation she herself
made how ill the coldness of their hearts accorded with the warmth of
their professions; upon every first meeting, the civilities which were
shewn her, flattered her into believing she had excited a partiality
that a very little time would ripen into affection; the next meeting
commonly confirmed the expectation; but the third, and every future
one, regularly destroyed it. She found that time added nothing to their
fondness, nor intimacy to their sincerity; that the interest in her
welfare which appeared to be taken at first sight, seldom, with whatever
reason, increased, and often without any, abated; that the distinction
she at first met with, was no effusion of kindness, but of curiosity,
which is scarcely sooner gratified than satiated; and that those who
lived always the life into which she had only lately been initiated,
were as much harassed with it as herself, though less spirited to
relinquish, and more helpless to better it, and that they coveted
nothing but what was new, because they had experienced the insufficiency
of whatever was familiar.
She began now to regret the loss she sustained in quitting the
neighbourhood, and being deprived of the conversation of Mr Monckton,
and yet more earnestly to miss the affection and sigh for the society
of Mrs Charlton, the lady with whom she had long and happily resided
at Bury; for she was very soon compelled to give up all expectation of
renewing the felicity of her earlier years, by being restored to the
friendship of Mrs Harrel, in whom she had mistaken the kindness of
childish intimacy for the sincerity of chosen affection; and though
she saw her credulous error with mortification and displeasure, she
regretted it with tenderness and sorrow. “What, at last,” cried she, “is
human felicity, who has tasted, and where is it to be found? If I,
who, to others, seem marked out for even a partial possession of
it,--distinguished by fortune, caressed by the world, brought into the
circle of high life, and surrounded with splendour, seek without finding
it, yet losing, scarce know how I miss it!”
Ashamed upon reflection to believe she was considered as an object of
envy by others, while repining and discontented herself, she determined
no longer to be the only one insensible to the blessings within her
reach, but by projecting and adopting some plan of conduct better suited
to her taste and feelings than the frivolous insipidity of her present
life, to make at once a more spirited and more worthy use of the
affluence, freedom, and power which she possessed.
A scheme of happiness at once rational and refined soon presented itself
to her imagination. She purposed, for the basis of her plan, to become
mistress of her own time, and with this view, to drop all idle and
uninteresting acquaintance, who, while they contribute neither to use
nor pleasure, make so large a part of the community, that they may
properly be called the underminers of existence; she could then shew
some taste and discernment in her choice of friends, and she resolved
to select such only as by their piety could elevate her mind, by their
knowledge improve her understanding, or by their accomplishments and
manners delight her affections. This regulation, if strictly adhered to,
would soon relieve her from the fatigue of receiving many visitors,
and therefore she might have all the leisure she could desire for the
pursuit of her favourite studies, music and reading.
Having thus, from her own estimation of human perfection, culled
whatever was noblest for her society, and from her own ideas of
sedentary enjoyments arranged the occupations of her hours of solitude,
she felt fully satisfied with the portion of happiness which her scheme
promised to herself, and began next to consider what was due from her to
the world.
And not without trembling did she then look forward to the claims which
the splendid income she was soon to possess would call upon her to
discharge. A strong sense of DUTY, a fervent desire to ACT RIGHT, were
the ruling characteristics of her mind: her affluence she therefore
considered as a debt contracted with the poor, and her independence as a
tie upon her liberality to pay it with interest.
Many and various, then, soothing to her spirit and grateful to her
sensibility, were the scenes which her fancy delineated; now she
supported an orphan, now softened the sorrows of a widow, now snatched
from iniquity the feeble trembler at poverty, and now rescued from shame
the proud struggler with disgrace. The prospect at once exalted her
hopes, and enraptured her imagination; she regarded herself as an agent
of Charity, and already in idea anticipated the rewards of a good
and faithful delegate; so animating are the designs of disinterested
benevolence! so pure is the bliss of intellectual philanthropy!
Not immediately, however, could this plan be put in execution; the
society she meant to form could not be selected in the house of another,
where, though to some she might shew a preference, there were none she
could reject: nor had she yet the power to indulge, according to the
munificence of her wishes, the extensive generosity she projected: these
purposes demanded a house of her own, and the unlimited disposal of her
fortune, neither of which she could claim till she became of age. That
period, however, was only eight months distant, and she pleased
herself with the intention of meliorating her plan in the meantime, and
preparing to put it in practice.
But though, in common with all the race of still-expecting man, she
looked for that happiness in the time to come which the present failed
to afford, she had yet the spirit and good sense to determine upon
making every effort in her power to render her immediate way of life
more useful and contented.
Her first wish, therefore, now, was to quit the house of Mr Harrel,
where she neither met with entertainment nor instruction, but was
perpetually mortified by seeing the total indifference of the friend in
whose society she had hoped for nothing but affection.
The will of her uncle, though it obliged her while under age to live
with one of her guardians, left her at liberty to chuse and to change
amongst them according to her wishes or convenience: she determined,
therefore, to make a visit herself to each of them, to observe their
manners and way of life, and then, to the best of her judgment, decide
with which she could be most contented: resolving, however, not to hint
at her intention till it was ripe for execution, and then honestly to
confess the reasons of her retreat.
She had acquainted them both of her journey to town the morning after
her arrival. She was almost an entire stranger to each of them, as she
had not seen Mr Briggs since she was nine years old, nor Mr Delvile
within the time she could remember.
The very morning that she had settled her proceedings for the
arrangement of this new plan, she intended to request the use of Mrs
Harrel's carriage, and to make, without delay, the visits preparatory
to her removal; but when she entered the parlour upon a summons to
breakfast, her eagerness to quit the house gave way, for the present, to
the pleasure she felt at the sight of Mr Monckton, who was just arrived
from Suffolk.
She expressed her satisfaction in the most lively terms, and scrupled
not to tell him she had not once been so much pleased since her journey
to town, except at her first meeting with Mrs Harrel.
Mr Monckton, whose delight was infinitely superior to her own, and whose
joy in seeing her was redoubled by the affectionate frankness of her
reception, stifled the emotions to which her sight gave rise, and
denying himself the solace of expressing his feelings, seemed much less
charmed than herself at the meeting, and suffered no word nor look to
escape him beyond what could be authorised by friendly civility.
He then renewed with Mrs Harrel an acquaintance which had been formed
before her marriage, but which [he] had dropt when her distance from
Cecilia, upon whose account alone he had thought it worth cultivation,
made it no longer of use to him. She afterwards introduced her brother
to him; and a conversation very interesting to both the ladies took
place, concerning several families with which they had been formerly
connected, as well as the neighbourhood at large in which they had
lately dwelt.
Very little was the share taken by Mr Arnott in these accounts and
enquiries; the unaffected joy with which Cecilia had received Mr
Monckton, had struck him with a sensation of envy as involuntary as it
was painful; he did not, indeed, suspect that gentleman's secret views;
no reason for suspicion was obvious, and his penetration sunk not deeper
than appearances; he knew, too, that he was married, and therefore no
jealousy occurred to him; but still she had smiled upon him!--and he
felt that to purchase for himself a smile of so much sweetness, he would
have sacrificed almost all else that was valuable to him upon earth.
With an attention infinitely more accurate, Mr Monckton had returned his
observations. The uneasiness of his mind was apparent, and the anxious
watchfulness of his eyes plainly manifested whence it arose. From a
situation, indeed, which permitted an intercourse the most constant
and unrestrained with such an object as Cecilia, nothing less could be
expected, and therefore he considered his admiration as inevitable; all
that remained to be discovered, was the reception it had met from his
fair enslaver. Nor was he here long in doubt; he soon saw that she was
not merely free from all passion herself, but had so little watched Mr
Arnott as to be unconscious she had inspired any.
Yet was his own serenity, though apparently unmoved, little less
disturbed in secret than that of his rival; he did not think him a
formidable candidate, but he dreaded the effects of intimacy, fearing
she might first grow accustomed to his attentions, and then become
pleased with them. He apprehended, also, the influence of his sister and
of Mr Harrel in his favour; and though he had no difficulty to persuade
himself that any offer he might now make would be rejected without
hesitation, he knew too well the insidious properties of perseverance,
to see him, without inquietude, situated so advantageously.
The morning was far advanced before he took leave, yet he found no
opportunity of discoursing with Cecilia, though he impatiently desired
to examine into the state of her mind, and to discover whether her
London journey had added any fresh difficulties to the success of his
long-concerted scheme. But as Mrs Harrel invited him to dinner, he hoped
the afternoon would be more propitious to his wishes.
Cecilia, too, was eager to communicate to him her favourite project, and
to receive his advice with respect to its execution. She had long been
used to his counsel, and she was now more than ever solicitous to obtain
it, because she considered him as the only person in London who was
interested in her welfare.
He saw, however, no promise of better success when he made his
appearance at dinner time, for not only Mr Arnott was already arrived,
but Sir Robert Floyer, and he found Cecilia so much the object of their
mutual attention, that he had still less chance than in the morning of
speaking to her unheard.
Yet was he not idle; the sight of Sir Robert gave abundant employment to
his penetration, which was immediately at work, to discover the motive
of his visit: but this, with all his sagacity, was not easily decided;
for though the constant direction of his eyes towards Cecilia, proved,
at least, that he was not insensible of her beauty, his carelessness
whether or not she was hurt by his examination, the little pains he took
to converse with her, and the invariable assurance and negligence of
his manners, seemed strongly to demonstrate an indifference to the
sentiments he inspired, totally incompatible with the solicitude of
affection.
In Cecilia he had nothing to observe but what his knowledge of her
character prepared him to expect, a shame no less indignant than modest
at the freedom with which she saw herself surveyed.
Very little, therefore, was the satisfaction which this visit procured
him, for soon after dinner the ladies retired; and as they had an early
engagement for the evening, the gentlemen received no summons to their
tea-table. But he contrived, before they quitted the room, to make an
appointment for attending them the next morning to a rehearsal of a new
serious Opera.
He stayed not after their departure longer than decency required,
for too much in earnest was his present pursuit, to fit him for such
conversation as the house in Cecilia's absence could afford him.
CHAPTER viii
AN OPERA REHEARSAL.
The next day, between eleven and twelve o'clock, Mr Monckton was again
in Portman Square; he found, as he expected, both the ladies, and he
found, as he feared, Mr Arnott prepared to be of their party. He had,
however, but little time to repine at this intrusion, before he was
disturbed by another, for, in a few minutes, they were joined by Sir
Robert Floyer, who also declared his intention of accompanying them to
the Haymarket.
Mr Monckton, to disguise his chagrin, pretended he was in great haste
to set off, lest they should be too late for the overture: they were,
therefore, quitting the breakfast room, when they were stopt by the
appearance of Mr Morrice.
The surprise which the sight of him gave to Mr Monckton was extreme;
he knew that he was unacquainted with Mr Harrel, for he remembered
they were strangers to each other when they lately met at his house; he
concluded, therefore, that Cecilia was the object of his visit, but he
could frame no conjecture under what pretence.
The easy terms upon which he seemed with all the family by no means
diminished his amazement; for when Mrs Harrel expressed some concern
that she was obliged to go out, he gaily begged her not to mind him,
assuring her he could not have stayed two minutes, and promising,
unasked, to call again the next day: and when she added, “We would
not hurry away so, only we are going to a rehearsal of an Opera,” he
exclaimed with quickness, “A rehearsal!--are you really? I have a great
mind to go too!”
Then, perceiving Mr Monckton, he bowed to him with great respect, and
enquired, with no little solemnity, how he had left Lady Margaret,
hoped she was perfectly recovered from her late indisposition, and asked
sundry questions with regard to her plan for the winter.
This discourse was ill constructed for rendering his presence desirable
to Mr Monckton; he answered him very drily, and again pressed their
departure.
“O,” cried Morrice, “there's no occasion for such haste; the rehearsal
does not begin till one.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” said Mr Monckton; “it is to begin at twelve
o'clock.”
“O ay, very true,” returned Morrice; “I had forgot the dances, and I
suppose they are to be rehearsed first. Pray, Miss Beverley, did you
ever see any dances rehearsed?”
“No, sir.”
“You will be excessively entertained, then, I assure you. It's the most
comical thing in the world to see those signores and signoras cutting
capers in a morning. And the _figuranti_ will divert you beyond measure;
you never saw such a shabby set in your life: but the most amusing
thing is to look in their faces, for all the time they are jumping and
skipping about the stage as if they could not stand still for joy, they
look as sedate and as dismal as if they were so many undertaker's men.”
“Not a word against dancing!” cried Sir Robert, “it's the only thing
carries one to the Opera; and I am sure it's the only thing one minds at
it.”
The two ladies were then handed to Mrs Harrel's _vis-a-vis_; and the
gentlemen, joined without further ceremony by Mr Morrice, followed them
to the Haymarket.
The rehearsal was not begun, and Mrs Harrel and Cecilia secured
themselves a box upon the stage, from which the gentlemen of their party
took care not to be very distant.
They were soon perceived by Mr Gosport, who instantly entered into
conversation with Cecilia. Miss Larolles, who with some other ladies
came soon after into the next box, looked out to courtsie and nod, with
her usual readiness, at Mrs Harrel, but took not any notice of Cecilia,
though she made the first advances.
“What's the matter now?” cried Mr Gosport; “have you affronted your
little prattling friend?”
“Not with my own knowledge,” answered Cecilia; “perhaps she does not
recollect me.”
Just then Miss Larolles, tapping at the door, came in from the next box
to speak to Mrs Harrel; with whom she stood chatting and laughing some
minutes, without seeming to perceive that Cecilia was of her party.
“Why, what have you done to the poor girl?” whispered Mr Gosport; “did
you talk more than herself when you saw her last?”
“Would that have been possible?” cried Cecilia; “however, I still fancy
she does not know me.”
She then stood up, which making Miss Larolles involuntarily turn towards
her, she again courtsied; a civility which that young lady scarce
deigned to return, before, bridling with an air of resentment, she
hastily looked another way, and then, nodding good-humouredly at Mrs
Harrel, hurried back to her party.
Cecilia, much amazed, said to Mr Gosport, “See now how great was our
presumption in supposing this young lady's loquacity always at our
devotion!”
“Ah, madam!” cried he, laughing, “there is no permanency, no consistency
in the world! no, not even in the tongue of a VOLUBLE! and if that
fails, upon what may we depend?”
“But seriously,” said Cecilia, “I am sorry I have offended her, and the
more because I so little know how, that I can offer her no apology.”
“Will you appoint me your envoy? Shall I demand the cause of these
hostilities?”
She thanked him, and he followed Miss Larolles; who was now addressing
herself with great earnestness to Mr Meadows, the gentleman with whom
she was conversing when Cecilia first saw her in Portman Square. He
stopt a moment to let her finish her speech, which, with no little
spirit, she did in these words, “I never knew anything like it in my
life; but I shan't put up with such airs, I assure her!”
Mr Meadows made not any other return to her harangue, but stretching
himself with a languid smile, and yawning: Mr Gosport, therefore,
seizing the moment of cessation, said, “Miss Larolles, I hear a strange
report about you.”
“Do you?” returned she, with quickness, “pray what is it? something
monstrous impertinent, I dare say,---however, I assure you it i'n't
true.”