suspect such deceit, since she does not come hither as a beggar, however
well the state of beggary may accord with her poverty: she only solicits
the payment of a bill, and if in that there is any fraud, nothing can be
so easy as detection.”
Mr Harrel bit his lips at this speech, and for some instants looked much
disturbed; but soon recovering himself, he negligently said, “Pray, how
did she get at you?”
“I met her at the street door. But tell me, is not her bill a just one?”
“I cannot say; I have never had time to look at it.”
“But you know who the woman is, and that her husband worked for you, and
therefore that in all probability it is right,--do you not?”
“Yes, yes, I know who the woman is well enough; she has taken care of
that, for she has pestered me every day these nine months.”
Cecilia was struck dumb by this speech: hitherto she had supposed that
the dissipation of his life kept him ignorant of his own injustice;
but when she found he was so well informed of it, yet, with such total
indifference, could suffer a poor woman to claim a just debt every day
for nine months together, she was shocked and astonished beyond measure.
They were both some time silent, and then Mr Harrel, yawning and
stretching out his arms, indolently asked, “Pray, why does not the man
come himself?”
“Did I not tell you,” answered Cecilia, staring at so absent a question,
“that he was very ill, and unable even to work?”
“Well, when he is better,” added he, moving towards the door, “he may
call, and I will talk to him.”
Cecilia, all amazement at this unfeeling behaviour, turned involuntarily
to Mr Arnott, with a countenance that appealed for his assistance; but
Mr Arnott hung his head, ashamed to meet her eyes, and abruptly left the
room.
Meantime Mr Harrel, half-turning back, though without looking Cecilia in
the face, carelessly said, “Well, won't you come?”
“No, sir,” answered she, coldly.
He then returned to the library, leaving her equally displeased,
surprised, and disconcerted at the conversation which had just passed
between them. “Good heaven,” cried she to herself, “what strange, what
cruel insensibility! to suffer a wretched family to starve, from an
obstinate determination to assert that they can live! to distress the
poor by retaining the recompense for which alone they labour, and
which at last they must have, merely from indolence, forgetfulness, or
insolence! Oh how little did my uncle know, how little did I imagine to
what a guardian I was entrusted!” She now felt ashamed even to return to
the poor woman, though she resolved to do all in her power to soften her
disappointment and relieve her distress.
But before she had quitted the room one of the servants came to tell her
that his master begged the honor of her company up stairs. “Perhaps he
relents!” thought she; and pleased with the hope, readily obeyed the
summons.
She found him, his lady, Sir Robert Floyer, and two other gentlemen, all
earnestly engaged in an argument over a large table, which was covered
with plans and elevations of small buildings.
Mr Harrel immediately addressed her with an air of vivacity, and said,
“You are very good for coming; we can settle nothing without your
advice: pray look at these different plans for our theatre, and tell us
which is the best.”
Cecilia advanced not a step: the sight of plans for new edifices when
the workmen were yet unpaid for old ones; the cruel wantonness of
raising fresh fabrics of expensive luxury, while those so lately built
had brought their neglected labourers to ruin, excited an indignation
she scarce thought right to repress: while the easy sprightliness of
the director of these revels, to whom but the moment before she had
represented the oppression of which they made him guilty, filled her
with aversion and disgust: and, recollecting the charge given her by the
stranger at the Opera rehearsal, she resolved to speed her departure
to another house, internally repeating, “Yes, I _will_ save myself from
_the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity_!”
Mrs Harrel, surprised at her silence and extreme gravity, enquired if
she was not well, and why she had put off her visit to Miss Larolles?
And Sir Robert Floyer, turning suddenly to look at her, said, “Do you
begin to feel the London air already?”
Cecilia endeavoured to recover her serenity, and answer these questions
in her usual manner; but she persisted in declining to give any opinion
at all about the plans, and, after slightly looking at them, left the
room.
Mr Harrel, who knew better how to account for her behaviour than he
thought proper to declare, saw with concern that she was more seriously
displeased than he had believed an occurrence which he had regarded as
wholly unimportant could have made her: and, therefore, desirous that
she should be appeased, he followed her out of the library, and said,
“Miss Beverley, will to-morrow be soon enough for your _protegee_?”
“O yes, no doubt!” answered she, most agreeably surprised by the
question.
“Well, then, will you take the trouble to bid her come to me in the
morning?”
Delighted at this unexpected commission, she thanked him with smiles for
the office; and as she hastened down stairs to chear the poor expectant
with the welcome intelligence, she framed a thousand excuses for the
part he had hitherto acted, and without any difficulty, persuaded
herself he began to see the faults of his conduct, and to meditate a
reformation.
She was received by the poor creature she so warmly wished to serve with
a countenance already so much enlivened, that she fancied Mr Harrel had
himself anticipated her intended information: this, however, she found
was not the case, for as soon as she heard his message, she shook her
head, and said, “Ah, madam, his honour always says to-morrow! but I can
better bear to be disappointed now, so I'll grumble no more; for indeed,
madam, I have been blessed enough to-day to comfort me for every thing
in the world, if I could but keep from thinking of poor Billy! I could
bear all the rest, madam, but whenever my other troubles go off, that
comes back to me so much the harder!”
“There, indeed, I can afford you no relief,” said Cecilia, “but you must
try to think less of him, and more of your husband and children who are
now alive. To-morrow you will receive your money, and that, I hope, will
raise your spirits. And pray let your husband have a physician, to tell
you how to nurse and manage him; I will give you one fee for him now,
and if he should want further advice, don't fear to let me know.”
Cecilia had again taken out her purse, but Mrs Hill, clasping her hands,
called out, “Oh madam no! I don't come here to fleece such goodness! but
blessed be the hour that brought me here to-day, and if my poor Billy
was alive, he should help me to thank you!”
She then told her that she was now quite rich, for while she was gone, a
gentleman had come into the room, who had given her five guineas.
Cecilia, by her description, soon found this gentleman was Mr Arnott,
and a charity so sympathetic with her own, failed not to raise him
greatly in her favour. But as her benevolence was a stranger to that
parade which is only liberal from emulation, when she found more money
not immediately wanted, she put up her purse, and charging Mrs Hill
to enquire for her the next morning when she came to be paid, bid her
hasten back to her sick husband.
And then, again ordering the carriage to the door, she set off upon her
visit to Miss Larolles, with a heart happy in the good already done, and
happier still in the hope of doing more.
Miss Larolles was out, and she returned home; for she was too sanguine
in her expectations from Mr Harrel, to have any desire of seeking her
other guardians. The rest of the day she was more than usually civil to
him, with a view to mark her approbation of his good intentions: while
Mr Arnott, gratified by meeting the smiles he so much valued, thought
his five guineas amply repaid, independently of the real pleasure which
he took in doing good.
CHAPTER x
A PROVOCATION.
The next morning, when breakfast was over, Cecilia waited with much
impatience to hear some tidings of the poor carpenter's wife; but though
Mr Harrel, who had always that meal in his own room, came into his
lady's at his usual hour, to see what was going forward, he did not
mention her name. She therefore went into the hall herself, to enquire
among the servants if Mrs Hill was yet come?
Yes, they answered, and had seen their master, and was gone.
She then returned to the breakfast room, where her eagerness to procure
some information detained her, though the entrance of Sir Robert Floyer
made her wish to retire. But she was wholly at a loss whether to impute
to general forgetfulness, or to the failure of performing his promise,
the silence of Mr Harrel upon the subject of her petition.
In a few minutes they were visited by Mr Morrice, who said he called to
acquaint the ladies that the next morning there was to be a rehearsal of
a very grand new dance at the Opera-House, where, though admission was
difficult, if it was agreeable to them to go, he would undertake to
introduce them.
Mrs Harrel happened to be engaged, and therefore declined the offer.
He then turned to Cecilia, and said, “Well, ma'am, when did you see our
friend Monckton?”
“Not since the rehearsal, sir.”
“He is a mighty agreeable fellow,” he continued, “and his house in the
country is charming. One is as easy at it as at home. Were you ever
there, Sir Robert?”
“Not I, truly,” replied Sir Robert; “what should I go for?--to see
an old woman with never a tooth in her head sitting at the top of the
table! Faith, I'd go an hundred miles a day for a month never to see
such a sight again.”
“O but you don't know how well she does the honours,” said Morrice; “and
for my part, except just at meal times, I always contrive to keep out of
her way.”
“I wonder when she intends to die,” said Mr Harrel.
“She's been a long time about it,” cried Sir Robert; “but those tough
old cats last for ever. We all thought she was going when Monckton
married her; however, if he had not managed like a driveler, he might
have broke her heart nine years ago.”
“I am sure I wish he had,” cried Mrs Harrel, “for she's an odious
creature, and used always to make me afraid of her.”
“But an old woman,” answered Sir Robert, “is a person who has no sense
of decency; if once she takes to living, the devil himself can't get rid
of her.”
“I dare say,” cried Morrice, “she'll pop off before long in one of those
fits of the asthma. I assure you sometimes you may hear her wheeze a
mile off.”
“She'll go never the sooner for that,” said Sir Robert, “for I have got
an old aunt of my own, who has been puffing and blowing as if she was
at her last gasp ever since I can remember; and for all that, only
yesterday, when I asked her doctor when she'd give up the ghost, he told
me she might live these dozen years.”
Cecilia was by no means sorry to have this brutal conversation
interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a letter for her. She was
immediately retiring to read it; but upon the petition of Mr Monckton,
who just then came into the room, she only went to a window. The letter
was as follows:
_To Miss, at his Honour Squire Harrel's--These:_
Honoured Madam,--This with my humble duty. His Honour has given me
nothing. But I would not be troublesome, having wherewithal to wait, so
conclude, Honoured Madam, your dutiful servant to command, till death,
M. HILL.
The vexation with which Cecilia read this letter was visible to the
whole company; and while Mr Arnott looked at her with a wish of enquiry
he did not dare express, and Mr Monckton, under an appearance of
inattention, concealed the most anxious curiosity, Mr Morrice alone had
courage to interrogate her; and, pertly advancing, said, “He is a happy
man who writ that letter, ma'am, for I am sure you have not read it with
indifference.”
“Were I the writer,” said Mr Arnott, tenderly, “I am sure I should
reckon myself far otherwise, for Miss Beverley seems to have read it
with uneasiness.”
“However, I have read it,” answered she, “I assure you it is not from
_any man_.”
“O pray, Miss Beverley,” cried Sir Robert, coming forward, “are you any
better to-day?”
“No, sir, for I have not been ill.”
“A little vapoured, I thought, yesterday; perhaps you want exercise.”
“I wish the ladies would put themselves under my care,” cried Morrice,
“and take a turn round the park.”
“I don't doubt you, Sir,” said Mr Monckton, contemptuously, “and, but
for the check of modesty, probably there is not a man here who would not
wish the same.”
“I could propose a much better scheme than that,” said Sir Robert; “what
if you all walk to Harley Street, and give me your notions of a house I
am about there? what say you, Mrs Harrel?”
“O, I shall like it vastly.”
“Done,” cried Mr Harrel; “'tis an excellent motion.”
“Come then,” said Sir Robert, “let's be off. Miss Beverley, I hope you
have a good warm cloak?”
“I must beg you to excuse my attending you, sir.”
Mr Monckton, who had heard this proposal with the utmost dread of its
success, revived at the calm steadiness with which it was declined. Mr
and Mrs Harrel both teized Cecilia to consent; but the haughty Baronet,
evidently more offended than hurt by her refusal, pressed the matter no
further, either with her or the rest of the party, and the scheme was
dropt entirely.
Mr Monckton failed not to remark this circumstance, which confirmed his
suspicions, that though the proposal seemed made by chance, its design
was nothing else than to obtain Cecilia's opinion concerning his house.
But while this somewhat alarmed him, the unabated insolence of his
carriage, and the confident defiance of his pride, still more surprized
him; and notwithstanding all he observed of Cecilia, seemed to
promise nothing but dislike; he could draw no other inference from his
behaviour, than that if he admired, he also concluded himself sure of
her.
This was not a pleasant conjecture, however little weight he allowed
to it; and he resolved, by outstaying all the company, to have a few
minutes' private discourse with her upon the subject.
In about half an hour, Sir Robert and Mr Harrel went out together:
Mr Monckton still persevered in keeping his ground, and tried, though
already weary, to keep up a general conversation; but what moved at once
his wonder and his indignation was the assurance of Morrice, who seemed
not only bent upon staying as long as himself, but determined, by
rattling away, to make his own entertainment.
At length a servant came in to tell Mrs Harrel that a stranger, who was
waiting in the house-keeper's room, begged to speak with her upon very
particular business.
“O, I know,” cried she, “'tis that odious John Groot: do pray, brother,
try to get rid of him for me, for he comes to teize me about his bill,
and I never know what to say to him.”
Mr Arnott went immediately, and Mr Monckton could scarce refrain from
going too, that he might entreat John Groot by no means to be satisfied
without seeing Mrs Harrel herself: John Groot, however, wanted not his
entreaties, as the servant soon returned to summons his lady to the
conference.
But though Mr Monckton now seemed near the completion of his purpose,
Morrice still remained; his vexation at this circumstance soon grew
intolerable; to see himself upon the point of receiving the recompense
of his perseverance, by the fortunate removal of all the obstacles in
its way, and then to have it held from him by a young fellow he so much
despised, and who had no entrance into the house but through his own
boldness, and no inducement to stay in it but from his own impertinence,
mortified him so insufferably, that it was with difficulty he even
forbore from affronting him. Nor would he have scrupled a moment
desiring him to leave the room, had he not prudently determined to guard
with the utmost sedulity against raising any suspicions of his passion
for Cecilia.
He arose, however, and was moving towards her, with the intention to
occupy a part of a sofa on which she was seated, when Morrice, who was
standing at the back of it, with a sudden spring which made the whole
room shake, jumpt over, and sunk plump into the vacant place himself,
calling out at the same time, “Come, come, what have you married men to
do with young ladies? I shall seize this post for myself.”
The rage of Mr Monckton at this feat, and still more at the words
_married men_, almost exceeded endurance; he stopt short, and looking at
him with a fierceness that overpowered his discretion, was bursting out
with, “Sir, you are an---_impudent fellow_,” but checking himself when
he got half way, concluded with, “a very facetious gentleman!”
Morrice, who wished nothing so little as disobliging Mr Monckton, and
whose behaviour was merely the result of levity and a want of early
education, no sooner perceived his displeasure, than, rising with yet
more agility than he had seated himself, he resumed the obsequiousness
of which an uncommon flow of spirits had robbed him, and guessing no
other subject for his anger than the disturbance he had made, he bowed
almost to the ground, first to him, and afterwards to Cecilia, most
respectfully begging pardon of them both for his frolic, and protesting
he had no notion he should have made such a noise!
Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott, now hastening back, enquired what had been the
matter? Morrice, ashamed of his exploit, and frightened by the looks of
Mr Monckton, made an apology with the utmost humility, and hurried away:
and Mr Monckton, hopeless of any better fortune, soon did the same,
gnawn with a cruel discontent which he did not dare avow, and longing to
revenge himself upon Morrice, even by personal chastisement.
CHAPTER xi
A NARRATION.
The moment Cecilia was at liberty, she sent her own servant to examine
into the real situation of the carpenter and his family, and to desire
his wife would call upon her as soon as she was at leisure. The account
which he brought back encreased her concern for the injuries of these
poor people, and determined her not to rest satisfied till she saw them
redressed. He informed her that they lived in a small lodging up two
pair of stairs; that there were five children, all girls, the
three eldest of whom were hard at work with their mother in matting
chair-bottoms, and the fourth, though a mere child, was nursing the
youngest; while the poor carpenter himself was confined to his bed, in
consequence of a fall from a ladder while working at Violet-Bank, by
which he was covered with wounds and contusions, and an object of misery
and pain.
As soon as Mrs Hill came, Cecilia sent for her into her own room, where
she received her with the most compassionate tenderness, and desired to
know when Mr Harrel talked of paying her?
“To-morrow, madam,” she answered, shaking her head, “that is always his
honour's speech: but I shall bear it while I can. However, though I dare
not tell his honour, something bad will come of it, if I am not paid
soon.”
“Do you mean, then, to apply to the law?”
“I must not tell you, madam; but to be sure we have thought of it many a
sad time and often; but still, while we could rub on, we thought it best
not to make enemies: but, indeed, madam, his honour was so hardhearted
this morning, that if I was not afraid you would be angry, I could not
tell how to bear it; for when I told him I had no help now, for I had
lost my Billy, he had the heart to say, 'So much the better, there's one
the less of you.'”
“But what,” cried Cecilia, extremely shocked by this unfeeling speech,
“is the reason he gives for disappointing you so often?”
“He says, madam, that none of the other workmen are paid yet; and that,
to be sure, is very true; but then they can all better afford to wait
than we can, for we were the poorest of all, madam, and have been
misfortunate from the beginning: and his honour would never have
employed us, only he had run up such a bill with Mr Wright, that he
would not undertake any thing more till he was paid. We were told from
the first we should not get our money; but we were willing to hope for
the best, for we had nothing to do, and were hard run, and had never had
the offer of so good a job before; and we had a great family to keep,
and many losses, and so much illness!--Oh madam! if you did but know
what the poor go through!”
This speech opened to Cecilia a new view of life; that a young man could
appear so gay and happy, yet be guilty of such injustice and inhumanity,
that he could take pride in works which not even money had made his own,
and live with undiminished splendor, when his credit itself began to
fail, seemed to her incongruities so irrational, that hitherto she had
supposed them impossible.
She then enquired if her husband had yet had any physician?
“Yes, madam, I humbly thank your goodness,” she answered; “but I am
not the poorer for that, for the gentleman was so kind he would take
nothing.”
“And does he give you any hopes? what does he say?”
“He says he must die, madam, but I knew that before.”
“Poor woman! and what will you do then?”
“The same, madam, as I did when I lost my Billy, work on the harder!”
“Good heaven, _how severe a lot_! but tell me, why is it you seem to
love your Billy so much better than the rest of your children?”
“Because, madam, he was the only boy that ever I had; he was seventeen
years old, madam, and as tall and as pretty a lad! and so good, that he
never cost me a wet eye till I lost him. He worked with his father, and
all the folks used to say he was the better workman of the two.”
“And what was the occasion of his death?”
“A consumption, madam, that wasted him quite to nothing: and he was ill
a long time, and cost us a deal of money, for we spared neither for wine
nor any thing that we thought would but comfort him; and we loved him so
we never grudged it. But he died, madam! and if it had not been for very
hard work, the loss of him would quite have broke my heart.”
“Try, however, to think less of him,” said Cecilia; “and depend upon
my speaking again for you to Mr Harrel. You shall certainly have your
money; take care, therefore, of your own health, and go home and give
comfort to your sick husband.”
“Oh, madam,” cried the poor woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, “you
don't know how touching it is to hear gentlefolks talk so kindly! And I
have been used to nothing but roughness from his honour! But what I most
fear, madam, is that when my husband is gone, he will be harder to deal
with than ever; for a widow, madam, is always hard to be righted; and I
don't expect to hold out long myself, for sickness and sorrow wear fast:
and then, when we are both gone, who is to help our poor children?”
“_I_ will!” cried the generous Cecilia; “I am able, and I am willing;
you shall not find all the rich hardhearted, and I will try to make you
some amends for the unkindness you have suffered.”
The poor woman, overcome by a promise so unexpected, burst into a
passionate fit of tears, and sobbed out her thanks with a violence of
emotion that frightened Cecilia almost as much as it melted her. She
endeavoured, by re-iterated assurances of assistance, to appease her,
and solemnly pledged her own honour that she should certainly be paid
the following Saturday, which was only three days distant.
Mrs Hill, when a little calmer, dried her eyes, and humbly begging her
to forgive a transport which she could not restrain, most gratefully
thanked her for the engagement into which she had entered, protesting
that she would not be _troublesome to her goodness_ as long as she could
help it; “And I believe,” she continued, “that if his honour will but
pay me time enough for the burial, I can make shift with what I have
till then. But when my poor Billy died, we were sadly off indeed, for we
could not bear but bury him prettily, because it was the last we could
do for him: but we could hardly scrape up enough for it, and yet we all
went without our dinners to help forward, except the little one of all.
But that did not much matter, for we had no great heart for eating.”.
“I cannot bear this!” cried Cecilia; “you must tell me no more of your
Billy; but go home, and chear your spirits, and do every thing in your
power to save your husband.”
“I will, madam,” answered the woman, “and his dying prayers shall bless
you! and all my children shall bless you, and every night they shall
pray for you. And oh!”--again bursting into tears, “that Billy was but
alive to pray for you too!”