report was that you had left off talking.”
“O, was that all?” cried she, disappointed, “I thought it had been
something about Mr Sawyer, for I declare I have been plagued so about
him, I am quite sick of his name.”
“And for my part, I never heard it! so fear nothing from me upon his
account.”
“Lord, Mr Gosport, how can you say so? I am sure you must know about the
Festino that night, for it was all over the town in a moment.”
“What festino?”
“Well, only conceive, how provoking!--why, I know nothing else was
talked of for a month!”
“You are most formidably stout this morning! it is not two minutes since
I saw you fling the gauntlet at Miss Beverley, and yet you are already
prepared for another antagonist.”
“O as to Miss Beverley, I must really beg you not to mention her; she
has behaved so impertinently, that I don't intend ever to speak to her
again.”
“Why, what has she done?”
“O she's been so rude you've no notion. I'll tell you how it was. You
must know I met her at Mrs Harrel's the day she came to town, and the
very next morning I waited on her myself, for I would not send a ticket,
because I really wished to be civil to her; well, the day after, she
never came near me, though I called upon her again; however, I did not
take any notice of that; but when the third day came, and I found she
had not even sent me a ticket, I thought it monstrous ill bred indeed;
and now there has passed more than a week, and yet she has never called:
so I suppose she don't like me; so I shall drop her acquaintance.”
Mr Gosport, satisfied now with the subject of her complaint, returned to
Cecilia, and informed her of the heavy charge which was brought against
her.
“I am glad, at least, to know my crime,” said she, “for otherwise I
should certainly have sinned on in ignorance, as I must confess I never
thought of returning her visits: but even if I had, I should not have
supposed I had yet lost much time.”
“I beg your pardon there,” said Mrs Harrel; “a first visit ought to be
returned always by the third day.”
“Then have I an unanswerable excuse,” said Cecilia, “for I remember that
on the third day I saw her at your house.”
“O that's nothing at all to the purpose; you should have waited upon
her, or sent her a ticket, just the same as if you had not seen her.”
The overture was now begun, and Cecilia declined any further
conversation. This was the first Opera she had ever heard, yet she
was not wholly a stranger to Italian compositions, having assiduously
studied music from a natural love of the art, attended all the best
concerts her neighbourhood afforded, and regularly received from London
the works of the best masters. But the little skill she had thus gained,
served rather to increase than to lessen the surprize with which she
heard the present performance,--a surprize of which the discovery of her
own ignorance made not the least part. Unconscious from the little she
had acquired how much was to be learnt, she was astonished to find the
inadequate power of written music to convey any idea of vocal abilities:
with just knowledge enough, therefore, to understand something of the
difficulties, and feel much of the merit, she gave to the whole Opera an
avidity of attention almost painful from its own eagerness.
But both the surprize and the pleasure which she received from the
performance in general, were faint, cold, and languid, compared to
the strength of those emotions when excited by Signore Pacchierotti in
particular; and though not half the excellencies of that superior singer
were necessary either to amaze or charm her unaccustomed ears, though
the refinement of his taste and masterly originality of his genius, to
be praised as they deserved, called for the judgment and knowledge of
professors, yet a natural love of music in some measure supplied the
place of cultivation, and what she could neither explain nor understand,
she could feel and enjoy.
The opera was Artaserse; and the pleasure she received from the music
was much augmented by her previous acquaintance with that interesting
drama; yet, as to all noviciates in science, whatever is least
complicated is most pleasing, she found herself by nothing so deeply
impressed, as by the plaintive and beautiful simplicity with which
Pacchierotti uttered the affecting repetition of _sono innocente_! his
voice, always either sweet or impassioned, delivered those words in
a tone of softness, pathos, and sensibility, that struck her with a
sensation not more new than delightful.
But though she was, perhaps, the only person thus astonished, she was
by no means the only one enraptured; for notwithstanding she was too
earnestly engaged to remark the company in general, she could not avoid
taking notice of an old gentleman who stood by one of the side scenes,
against which he leant his head in a manner that concealed his face,
with an evident design to be wholly absorbed in listening: and during
the songs of Pacchierotti he sighed so deeply that Cecilia, struck by
his uncommon sensibility to the power of music, involuntarily watched
him, whenever her mind was sufficiently at liberty to attend to any
emotions but its own.
As soon as the rehearsal was over, the gentlemen of Mrs Harrel's party
crowded before her box; and Cecilia then perceived that the person whose
musical enthusiasm had excited her curiosity, was the same old gentleman
whose extraordinary behaviour had so much surprized her at the house of
Mr Monckton. Her desire to obtain some information concerning him
again reviving, she was beginning to make fresh enquiries, when she was
interrupted by the approach of Captain Aresby.
That gentleman, advancing to her with a smile of the extremest
self-complacency, after hoping, in a low voice, he had the honour
of seeing her well, exclaimed, “How wretchedly empty is the town!
petrifying to a degree! I believe you do not find yourself at present
_obsede_ by too much company?”
“_At present_, I believe the contrary!” cried Mr Gosport.
“Really!” said the Captain, unsuspicious of his sneer, “I protest I have
hardly seen a soul. Have you tried the Pantheon yet, ma'am?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor I; I don't know whether people go there this year. It is not a
favourite _spectacle_ with me; that sitting to hear the music is a
horrid bore. Have you done the Festino the honour to look in there yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Permit me, then, to have the honour to beg you will try it.”
“O, ay, true,” cried Mrs Harrel; “I have really used you very ill about
that; I should have got you in for a subscriber: but Lord, I have done
nothing for you yet, and you never put me in mind. There's the ancient
music, and Abel's concert;--as to the opera, we may have a box between
us;--but there's the ladies' concert we must try for; and there's--O
Lord, fifty other places we must think of!”
“Oh times of folly and dissipation!” exclaimed a voice at some distance;
“Oh mignons of idleness and luxury! What next will ye invent for
the perdition of your time! How yet further will ye proceed in the
annihilation of virtue!”
Everybody stared; but Mrs Harrel coolly said, “Dear, it's only the
man-hater!”
“The man-hater?” repeated Cecilia, who found that the speech was made
by the object of her former curiosity; “is that the name by which he is
known?”
“He is known by fifty names,” said Mr Monckton; “his friends call him
the _moralist_; the young ladies, the _crazy-man_; the macaronies, the
_bore_; in short, he is called by any and every name but his own.”
“He is a most petrifying wretch, I assure you,” said the Captain; “I am
_obsede_ by him _partout_; if I had known he had been so near, I should
certainly have said nothing.”
“That you have done so well,” cried Mr Gosport, “that if you had known
it the whole time, you could have done it no better.”
The Captain, who had not heard this speech, which was rather made at him
than to him, continued his address to Cecilia; “Give me leave to have
the honour of hoping you intend to honour our select masquerade at the
Pantheon with your presence. We shall have but five hundred tickets, and
the subscription will only be three guineas and a half.”
“Oh objects of penury and want!” again exclaimed the incognito; “Oh
vassals of famine and distress! Come and listen to this wantonness of
wealth! Come, naked and breadless as ye are, and learn how that money is
consumed which to you might bring raiment and food!”
“That strange wretch,” said the Captain, “ought really to be confined;
I have had the honour to be _degoute_ by him so often, that I think
him quite obnoxious. I make it quite a principle to seal up my lips the
moment I perceive him.”
“Where is it, then,” said Cecilia, “that you have so often met him?”
“O,” answered the Captain, “_partout_; there is no greater bore about
town. But the time I found him most petrifying was once when I happened
to have the honour of dancing with a very young lady, who was but just
come from a boarding-school, and whose friends had done me the honour
to fix upon me upon the principle of first bringing her out: and while
I was doing _mon possible_ for killing the time, he came up, and in his
particular manner, told her I had no meaning in any thing I said! I must
own I never felt more tempted to be _enrage_ with a person in years, in
my life.”
Mr Arnott now brought the ladies word that their carriage was ready,
and they quitted their box: but as Cecilia had never before seen the
interior parts of a theatre, Mr Monckton, hoping while they loitered to
have an opportunity of talking with her, asked Morrice why he did not
_shew the lions?_ Morrice, always happy in being employed, declared
it was _just the thing he liked best_, and begged permission to do
the honours to Mrs Harrel, who, ever eager in the search of amusement,
willingly accepted his offer.
They all, therefore, marched upon the stage, their own party now being
the only one that remained.
“We shall make a triumphal entry here,” cried Sir Robert Floyer; “the
very tread of the stage half tempts me to turn actor.”
“You are a rare man,” said Mr Gosport, “if, at your time of life, that
is a turn not already taken.”
“My time of life!” repeated he; “what do you mean by that? do you take
me for an old man?”
“No, sir, but I take you to be past childhood, and consequently to have
served your apprenticeship to the actors you have mixed with on the
great stage of the world, and, for some years at least, to have set up
for yourself.”
“Come,” cried Morrice, “let's have a little spouting; 'twill make us
warm.”
“Yes,” said Sir Robert, “if we spout to an animating object. If Miss
Beverley will be Juliet, I am Romeo at her service.”
At this moment the incognito, quitting the corner in which he had
planted himself, came suddenly forward, and standing before the whole
group, cast upon Cecilia a look of much compassion, and called out,
“Poor simple victim! hast thou already so many pursuers? yet seest
not that thou art marked for sacrifice! yet knowest not that thou art
destined for prey!”
Cecilia, extremely struck by this extraordinary address, stopt short
and looked much disturbed: which, when he perceived, he added, “Let the
danger, not the warning affect you! discard the sycophants that surround
you, seek the virtuous, relieve the poor, and save yourself from the
impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity!”
Having uttered these words with vehemence and authority, he sternly
passed them, and disappeared.
Cecilia, too much astonished for speech, stood for some time immoveable,
revolving in her mind various conjectures upon the meaning of an
exhortation so strange and so urgent.
Nor was the rest of the company much less discomposed: Sir Robert, Mr
Monckton, and Mr Arnott, each conscious of their own particular plans,
were each apprehensive that the warning pointed at himself: Mr Gosport
was offended at being included in the general appellation of sycophants;
Mrs Harrel was provoked at being interrupted in her ramble; and Captain
Aresby, sickening at the very sight of him, retreated the moment he came
forth.
“For heaven's sake,” cried Cecilia, when somewhat recovered from her
consternation, “who can this be, and what can he mean? You, Mr Monckton,
must surely know something of him; it was at your house I first saw
him.”
“Indeed,” answered Mr Monckton, “I knew almost nothing of him then, and
I am but little better informed now. Belfield picked him up somewhere,
and desired to bring him to my house: he called him by the name of
Albany: I found him a most extraordinary character, and Belfield, who is
a worshipper of originality, was very fond of him.”
“He's a devilish crabbed old fellow,” cried Sir Robert, “and if he goes
on much longer at this confounded rate, he stands a very fair chance of
getting his ears cropped.”
“He is a man of the most singular conduct I have ever met with,” said
Mr Gosport; “he seems to hold mankind in abhorrence, yet he is never
a moment alone, and at the same time that he intrudes himself into all
parties, he associates with none: he is commonly a stern and silent
observer of all that passes, or when he speaks, it is but to utter some
sentence of rigid morality, or some bitterness of indignant reproof.”
The carriage was now again announced, and Mr Monckton taking Cecilia's
hand, while Mr Morrice secured to himself the honour of Mrs Harrel's,
Sir Robert and Mr Gosport made their bows and departed. But though they
had now quitted the stage, and arrived at the head of a small stair case
by which they were to descend out of the theatre, Mr Monckton, finding
all his tormentors retired, except Mr Arnott, whom he hoped to elude,
could not resist making one more attempt for a few moments' conversation
with Cecilia; and therefore, again applying to Morrice, he called out,
“I don't think you have shewn the ladies any of the contrivances behind
the scenes?”
“True,” cried Morrice, “no more I have; suppose we go back?”
“I shall like it vastly,” said Mrs Harrel; and back they returned.
Mr Monckton now soon found an opportunity to say to Cecilia, “Miss
Beverley, what I foresaw has exactly come to pass; you are surrounded by
selfish designers, by interested, double-minded people, who have nothing
at heart but your fortune, and whose mercenary views, if you are not
guarded against them---”
Here a loud scream from Mrs Harrel interrupted his speech; Cecilia,
much alarmed, turned from him to enquire the cause, and Mr Monckton
was obliged to follow her example: but his mortification was almost
intolerable when he saw that lady in a violent fit of laughter, and
found her scream was only occasioned by seeing Mr Morrice, in his
diligence to do the honours, pull upon his own head one of the side
scenes!
There was now no possibility of proposing any further delay; but Mr
Monckton, in attending the ladies to their carriage, was obliged to have
recourse to his utmost discretion and forbearance, in order to check his
desire of reprimanding Morrice for his blundering officiousness.
Dressing, dining with company at home, and then going out with company
abroad, filled up, as usual, the rest of the day.
CHAPTER ix
A SUPPLICATION.
The next morning Cecilia, at the repeated remonstrances of Mrs Harrel,
consented to call upon Miss Larolles. She felt the impracticability
of beginning at present the alteration in her way of life she had
projected, and therefore thought it most expedient to assume no
singularity till her independency should enable her to support it with
consistency; yet greater than ever was her internal eagerness to better
satisfy her inclination and her conscience in the disposition of her
time, and the distribution of her wealth, since she had heard the
emphatic charge of her unknown Mentor.
Mrs Harrel declined accompanying her in this visit, because she had
appointed a surveyor to bring a plan for the inspection of Mr Harrel and
herself, of a small temporary building, to be erected at Violet-Bank,
for the purpose of performing plays in private the ensuing Easter.
When the street door was opened for her to get into the carriage, she
was struck with the appearance of an elderly woman who was standing at
some distance, and seemed shivering with cold, and who, as she descended
the steps, joined her hands in an act of supplication, and advanced
nearer to the carriage.
Cecilia stopt to look at her: her dress, though parsimonious, was too
neat for a beggar, and she considered a moment what she could offer her.
The poor woman continued to move forward, but with a slowness of pace
that indicated extreme weakness; and, as she approached and raised
her head, she exhibited a countenance so wretched, and a complexion so
sickly, that Cecilia was impressed with horror at the sight.
With her hands still joined, and a voice that seemed fearful of its own
sound, “Oh madam,” she cried, “that you would but hear me!”
“Hear you!” repeated Cecilia, hastily feeling for her purse; “most
certainly, and tell me how I shall assist you.”
“Heaven bless you for speaking so kindly, madam!” cried the woman, with
a voice more assured; “I was sadly afraid you would be angry, but I saw
the carriage at the door, and I thought I would try; for I could be no
worse; and distress, madam, makes very bold.”
“Angry!” said Cecilia, taking a crown from her purse; “no, indeed!--who
could see such wretchedness, and feel any thing but pity?”
“Oh madam,” returned the poor woman, “I could almost cry to hear you
talk so, though I never thought to cry again, since I left it off for my
poor Billy!”
“Have you, then, lost a son?”
“Yes, madam; but he was a great deal too good to live, so I have quite
left off grieving for him now.”
“Come in, good woman,” said Cecilia, “it is too cold to stand here, and
you seem half-starved already: come in, and let me have some talk with
you.”
She then gave orders that the carriage should be driven round the square
till she was ready, and making the woman follow her into a parlour,
desired to know what she should do for her; changing, while she spoke,
from a movement of encreasing compassion, the crown which she held in
her hand for double that sum.
“You can do everything, madam,” she answered, “if you will but plead for
us to his honour: he little thinks of our distress, because he has been
afflicted with none himself, and I would not be so troublesome to him,
but indeed, indeed, madam, we are quite pinched for want!”
Cecilia, struck with the words, _he little thinks of our distress,
because he has been afflicted with none himself_, felt again ashamed
of the smallness of her intended donation, and taking from her purse
another half guinea, said, “Will this assist you? Will a guinea be
sufficient to you for the present?”
“I humbly thank you, madam,” said the woman, curtsying low, “shall I
give you a receipt?”
“A receipt?” cried Cecilia, with emotion, “for what? Alas, our accounts
are by no means balanced! but I shall do more for you if I find you as
deserving an object as you seem to be.”
“You are very good, madam; but I only meant a receipt in part of
payment.”
“Payment for what? I don't understand you.”
“Did his honour never tell you, madam, of our account?”
“What account?”
“Our bill, madam, for work done to the new Temple at Violet-Bank: it was
the last great work my poor husband was able to do, for it was there he
met with his misfortune.”
“What bill? What misfortune?” cried Cecilia; “what had your husband to
do at Violet-Bank?”
“He was the carpenter, madam. I thought you might have seen poor Hill
the carpenter there.”
“No, I never was there myself. Perhaps you mistake me for Mrs Harrel.”
“Why, sure, madam, a'n't you his honour's lady?”
“No. But tell me, what is this bill?”
“'Tis a bill, madam, for very hard work, for work, madam, which I am
sure will cost my husband his life; and though I have been after his
honour night and day to get it, and sent him letters and petitions
with an account of our misfortunes, I have never received so much as
a shilling! and now the servants won't even let me wait in the hall to
speak to him. Oh, madam! you who seem so good, plead to his honour in
our behalf! tell him my poor husband cannot live! tell him my children
are starving! and tell him my poor Billy, that used to help to keep
us, is dead, and that all the work I can do by myself is not enough to
maintain us!”
“Good heaven!” cried Cecilia, extremely moved, “is it then your own
money for which you sue thus humbly?”
“Yes, madam, for my own just and honest money, as his honour knows, and
will tell you himself.”
“Impossible!” cried Cecilia, “he cannot know it; but I will take care he
shall soon be informed of it. How much is the bill?”
“Two-and-twenty pounds, madam.”
“What, no more?”
“Ah, madam, you gentlefolks little think how much that is to poor
people! A hard working family, like mine, madam, with the help of 20
pounds will go on for a long while quite in paradise.”
“Poor worthy woman!” cried Cecilia, whose eyes were filled with tears of
compassion, “if 20 pounds will place you in paradise, and that 20
pounds only your just right, it is hard, indeed, that you should be kept
without it; especially when your debtors are too affluent to miss it.
Stay here a few moments, and I will bring you the money immediately.”
Away she flew, and returned to the breakfast room, but found there only
Mr Arnott, who told her that Mr Harrel was in the library, with his
sister and some gentlemen. Cecilia briefly related her business, and
begged he would inform Mr Harrel she wished to speak to him directly. Mr
Arnott shook his head, but obeyed.
They returned together, and immediately.
“Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, gaily, “I am glad you are not gone,
for we want much to consult with you. Will you come up stairs?”
“Presently,” answered she; “but first I must speak to you about a poor
woman with whom I have accidentally been talking, who has begged me
to intercede with you to pay a little debt that she thinks you have
forgotten, but that probably you have never heard mentioned.”
“A debt?” cried he, with an immediate change of countenance, “to whom?”
“Her name, I think, is Hill; she is wife to the carpenter you employed
about a new temple at Violet-Bank.”
“O, what--what, that woman?--Well, well, I'll see she shall be paid.
Come, let us go to the library.”
“What, with my commission so ill executed? I promised to petition for
her to have the money directly.”
“Pho, pho, there's no such hurry; I don't know what I have done with her
bill.”
“I'll run and get another.”
“O upon no account! She may send another in two or three days. She
deserves to wait a twelvemonth for her impertinence in troubling you at
all about it.”
“That was entirely accidental: but indeed you must give me leave to
perform my promise and plead for her. It must be almost the same to you
whether you pay such a trifle as 20 pounds now or a month hence, and to
this poor woman the difference seems little short of life or death, for
she tells me her husband is dying, and her children are half-famished;
and though she looks an object of the cruellest want and distress
herself, she appears to be their only support.”
“O,” cried Mr Harrel, laughing, “what a dismal tale has she been telling
you! no doubt she saw you were fresh from the country! But if you give
credit to all the farragos of these trumpery impostors, you will never
have a moment to yourself, nor a guinea in your purse.”
“This woman,”' answered Cecilia, “cannot be an impostor, she carries
marks but too evident and too dreadful in her countenance of the
sufferings which she relates.”
“O,” returned he, “when you know the town better you will soon see
through tricks of this sort; a sick husband and five small children are
complaints so stale now, that they serve no other purpose in the world
but to make a joke.”
“Those, however, who can laugh at them must have notions of merriment
very different to mine. And this poor woman, whose cause I have ventured
to undertake, had she no family at all, must still and indisputably be
an object of pity herself, for she is so weak she can hardly crawl, and
so pallid that she seems already half dead.”
“All imposition, depend upon it! The moment she is out of your sight her
complaints will vanish.”