is also a man of honour; surely, then, he would be more pleasant for
confidence and consultation than one whose only notion of happiness
is money, whose only idea of excellence is avarice, and whose
only conception of sense is distrust!” Here a violent outcry again
interrupted their conversation; but not till Cecilia had satisfied her
doubts concerning the white domino, by conjecturing he was Mr Belfield,
who might easily, at the house of Mr Monckton, have gathered the little
circumstances of her situation to which he alluded, and whose size and
figure exactly resembled those of her new acquaintance.
The author of the former disturbance was now the occasion of the
present: the fiend, having vainly traversed the room in search of
Cecilia, stumbled accidentally upon Harlequin, before he was freed from
the relicks of his own mischief; and unable to resist the temptation
of opportunity and the impulse of revenge, he gave vent to the wrath so
often excited by the blunders, forwardness, and tricks of Morrice, and
inflicted upon him, with his own wooden sword, which he seized for that
purpose, a chastisement the most serious and severe.
Poor Harlequin, unable to imagine any reason for this violent attack,
and already cut with the glass, and bruised with the fall, spared not
his lungs in making known his disapprobation of such treatment: but the
fiend, regardless either of his complaints or his resistance, forbore
not to belabour him till compelled by the entrance of people with
lights. And then, after artfully playing sundry antics under pretence of
still supporting his character, with a motion too sudden for prevention,
and too rapid for pursuit, he escaped out of the room, and hurrying down
stairs, threw himself into an hackney chair, which conveyed him to a
place where he privately changed his dress before he returned home,
bitterly repenting the experiment he had made, and conscious too late
that, had he appeared in a character he might have avowed, he could,
without impropriety, have attended Cecilia the whole evening. But
such is deservedly the frequent fate of cunning, which, while it plots
surprise and detection of others, commonly overshoots its mark, and ends
in its own disgrace.
The introduction of the lights now making manifest the confusion which
the frolic of Harlequin had occasioned, he was seized with such a dread
of the resentment of Mr Harrel, that, forgetting blows, bruises, and
wounds, not one of which were so frightful to him as reproof, he made
the last exhibition of his agility by an abrupt and hasty retreat.
He had, however, no reason for apprehension, since, in every thing that
regarded expence, Mr Harrel had no feeling, and his lady had no thought.
The rooms now began to empty very fast, but among the few masks
yet remaining, Cecilia again perceived Don Quixote; and while, in
conjunction with the white domino, she was allowing him the praise of
having supported his character with more uniform propriety than any
other person in the assembly, she observed him taking off his mask for
the convenience of drinking some lemonade, and, looking in his face,
found he was no other than Mr Belfield! Much astonished, and more than
ever perplexed, she again turned to the white domino, who, seeing in
her countenance a surprise of which he knew not the reason, said,
half-laughing, “You think, perhaps, I shall never be gone? And indeed
I am almost of the same opinion; but what can I do? Instead of growing
weary by the length of my stay, my reluctance to shorten it increases
with its duration; and all the methods I take, whether by speaking
to you or looking at you, with a view to be satiated, only double my
eagerness for looking and listening again! I must go, however; and if
I am happy, I may perhaps meet with you again,--though, if I am wise, I
shall never seek you more!”
And then, with the last stragglers that reluctantly disappeared, he made
his exit, leaving Cecilia greatly pleased with his conversation and his
manners, but extremely perplexed to account for his knowledge of her
affairs and situation.
The schoolmaster had already been gone some time.
She was now earnestly pressed by the Harrels and Sir Robert, who still
remained, to send to a warehouse for a dress, and accompany them to the
Pantheon; but though she was not without some inclination to comply,
in the hope of further prolonging the entertainment of an evening from
which she had received much pleasure, she disliked the attendance of the
Baronet, and felt averse to grant any request that he could make, and
therefore she begged they would excuse her; and having waited to see
their dresses, which were very superb, she retired to her own apartment.
A great variety of conjecture upon all that had passed, now, and till
the moment that she sunk to rest, occupied her mind; the extraordinary
persecution of the fiend excited at once her curiosity and amazement,
while the knowledge of her affairs shown by the white domino surprised
her not less, and interested her more.
CHAPTER iv
AN AFFRAY.
The next morning, during breakfast, Cecilia was informed that a
gentleman desired to speak with her. She begged permission of Mrs Harrel
to have him asked upstairs, and was not a little surprized when he
proved to be the same old gentleman whose singular exclamations had so
much struck her at Mr Monckton's, and at the rehearsal of Artaserse.
Abruptly and with a stern aspect advancing to her, “You are rich,” he
cried; “are you therefore worthless?”
“I hope not,” answered she, in some consternation; while Mrs Harrel,
believing his intention was to rob them, ran precipitately to the bell,
which she rang without ceasing till two or three servants hastened into
the room; by which time, being less alarmed, she only made signs to them
to stay, and stood quietly herself to wait what would follow.
The old man, without attending to her, continued his dialogue with
Cecilia.
“Know you then,” he said, “a blameless use of riches? such a use as
not only in the broad glare of day shall shine resplendent, but in
the darkness of midnight, and stillness of repose, shall give you
reflections unembittered, and slumbers unbroken? tell me, know you this
use?”
“Not so well, perhaps,” answered she, “as I ought; but I am very willing
to learn better.”
“Begin, then, while yet youth and inexperience, new to the callousness
of power and affluence, leave something good to work upon: yesterday you
saw the extravagance of luxury and folly; to-day look deeper, and see,
and learn to pity, the misery of disease and penury.”
He then put into her hand a paper which contained a most affecting
account of the misery to which a poor and wretched family had been
reduced, by sickness and various other misfortunes.
Cecilia, “open as day to melting charity,” having hastily perused it,
took out her purse, and offering to him three guineas, said, “You must
direct me, sir, what to give if this is insufficient.”
“Hast thou so much heart?” cried he, with emotion, “and has fortune,
though it has cursed thee with the temptation of prosperity, not yet
rooted from thy mind its native benevolence? I return in part
thy liberal contribution; this,” taking one guinea, “doubles my
expectations; I will not, by making thy charity distress thee,
accelerate the fatal hour of hardness and degeneracy.”
He was then going; but Cecilia, following him, said “No, take it all!
Who should assist the poor if I will not? Rich, without connections;
powerful, without wants; upon whom have they any claim if not upon me?”
“True,” cried he, receiving the rest, “and wise as true. Give,
therefore, whilst yet thou hast the heart to give, and make, in thy days
of innocence and kindness, some interest with Heaven and the poor!”
And then he disappeared.
“Why, my dear,” cried Mrs Harrel, “what could induce you to give the man
so much money? Don't you see he is crazy? I dare say he would have been
just as well contented with sixpence.”
“I know not what he is,” said Cecilia, “but his manners are not more
singular than his sentiments are affecting; and if he is actuated by
charity to raise subscriptions for the indigent, he can surely apply to
no one who ought so readily to contribute as myself.”
Mr Harrel then came in, and his lady most eagerly told him the
transaction.
“Scandalous!” he exclaimed; “why, this is no better than being a
housebreaker! Pray give orders never to admit him again. Three guineas!
I never heard so impudent a thing in my life! Indeed, Miss Beverley, you
must be more discreet in future, you will else be ruined before you know
where you are.”
“Thus it is,” said Cecilia, half smiling, “that we can all lecture one
another! to-day you recommend economy to me; yesterday I with difficulty
forbore recommending it to you.”
“Nay,” answered he, “that was quite another matter; expence incurred in
the common way of a man's living is quite another thing to an extortion
of this sort.”
“It is another thing indeed,” said she, “but I know not that it is
therefore a better.”
Mr Harrel made no answer: and Cecilia, privately moralizing upon the
different estimates of expence and economy made by the dissipated and
the charitable, soon retired to her own apartment, determined firmly to
adhere to her lately adopted plan, and hoping, by the assistance of her
new and very singular monitor, to extend her practice of doing good, by
enlarging her knowledge of distress.
Objects are, however, never wanting for the exercise of benevolence;
report soon published her liberality, and those who wished to believe
it, failed not to enquire into its truth. She was soon at the head of a
little band of pensioners, and, never satisfied with the generosity of
her donations, found in a very short time that the common allowance of
her guardians was scarce adequate to the calls of her munificence.
And thus, in acts of goodness and charity, passed undisturbed another
week of the life of Cecilia: but when the fervour of self-approbation
lost its novelty, the pleasure with which her new plan was begun first
subsided into tranquillity, and then sunk into languor. To a heart
formed for friendship and affection the charms of solitude are very
short-lived; and though she had sickened of the turbulence of perpetual
company, she now wearied of passing all her time by herself, and sighed
for the comfort of society and the relief of communication. But she saw
with astonishment the difficulty with which this was to be obtained: the
endless succession of diversions, the continual rotation of assemblies,
the numerousness of splendid engagements, of which, while every one
complained, every one was proud to boast, so effectually impeded private
meetings and friendly intercourse, that, whichever way she turned
herself, all commerce seemed impracticable, but such as either led to
dissipation, or accidentally flowed from it.
Yet, finding the error into which her ardour of reformation had hurried
her, and that a rigid seclusion from company was productive of a
lassitude as little favourable to active virtue as dissipation itself,
she resolved to soften her plan, and by mingling amusement with
benevolence, to try, at least, to approach that golden mean, which, like
the philosopher's stone, always eludes our grasp, yet always invites our
wishes.
For this purpose she desired to attend Mrs Harrel to the next Opera that
should be represented.
The following Saturday, therefore, she accompanied that lady and Mrs
Mears to the Haymarket, escorted by Mr Arnott.
They were very late; the Opera was begun, and even in the lobby the
crowd was so great that their passage was obstructed. Here they were
presently accosted by Miss Larolles, who, running up to Cecilia and
taking her hand, said, “Lord, you can't conceive how glad I am to see
you! why, my dear creature, where have you hid yourself these twenty
ages? You are quite in luck in coming to-night, I assure you; it's
the best Opera we have had this season: there's such a monstrous crowd
there's no stirring. We shan't get in this half hour. The coffee-room is
quite full; only come and see; is it not delightful?”
This intimation was sufficient for Mrs Harrel, whose love of the Opera
was merely a love of company, fashion, and shew; and therefore to the
coffee-room she readily led the way.
And here Cecilia found rather the appearance of a brilliant assembly
of ladies and gentlemen, collected merely to see and to entertain
one another, than of distinct and casual parties, mixing solely from
necessity, and waiting only for room to enter a theatre.
The first person that addressed them was Captain Aresby, who, with his
usual delicate languishment, smiled upon Cecilia, and softly whispering,
“How divinely you look to-night!” proceeded to pay his compliments to
some other ladies.
“Do, pray, now,” cried Miss Larolles, “observe Mr Meadows! only just
see where he has fixed himself! in the very best place in the room, and
keeping the fire from every body! I do assure you that's always his way,
and it's monstrous provoking, for if one's ever so cold, he lollops so,
that one's quite starved. But you must know there's another thing he
does that is quite as bad, for if he gets a seat, he never offers
to move, if he sees one sinking with fatigue. And besides, if one is
waiting for one's carriage two hours together, he makes it a rule never
to stir a step to see for it. Only think how monstrous!”
“These are heavy complaints, indeed,” said Cecilia, looking at him
attentively; “I should have expected from his appearance a very
different account of his gallantry, for he seems dressed with more
studied elegance than anybody here.”
“O yes,” cried Miss Larolles, “he is the sweetest dresser in the world;
he has the most delightful taste you can conceive, nobody has half so
good a fancy. I assure you it's a great thing to be spoke to by him: we
are all of us quite angry when he won't take any notice of us.”
“Is your anger,” said Cecilia, laughing, “in honour of himself or of his
coat?”
“Why, Lord, don't you know all this time that he is an _ennuye_?
“I know, at least,” answered Cecilia, “that he would soon make one of
me.”
“O, but one is never affronted with an _ennuye_, if he is ever so
provoking, because one always knows what it means.”
“Is he agreeable?”
“Why, to tell you the truth,--but pray now, don't mention it,--I think
him most excessive disagreeable! He yawns in one's face every time
one looks at him. I assure you sometimes I expect to see him fall fast
asleep while I am talking to him, for he is so immensely absent he don't
hear one half that one says; only conceive how horrid!”
“But why, then, do you encourage him? why do you take any notice of
him?”
“O, every body does, I assure you, else I would not for the world; but
he is so courted you have no idea. However, of all things let me advise
you never to dance with him; I did once myself, and I declare I was
quite distressed to death the whole time, for he was taken with such
a fit of absence he knew nothing he was about, sometimes skipping and
jumping with all the violence in the world, just as if he only danced
for exercise, and sometimes standing quite still, or lolling against
the wainscoat and gaping, and taking no more notice of me than if he had
never seen me in his life!”
The Captain now, again advancing to Cecilia, said, “So you would not do
us the honour to try the masquerade at the Pantheon? however, I hear
you had a very brilliant spectacle at Mr Harrel's. I was quite _au
desespoir_ that I could not get there. I did _mon possible_, but it was
quite beyond me.”
“We should have been very happy,” said Mrs Harrel, “to have seen you; I
assure you we had some excellent masks.”
“So I have heard _partout_, and I am reduced to despair that I could not
have the honour of sliding in. But I was _accable_ with affairs all day.
Nothing could be so mortifying.”
Cecilia now, growing very impatient to hear the Opera, begged to know if
they might not make a trial to get into the pit?
“I fear,” said the Captain, smiling as they passed him, without offering
any assistance, “you will find it extreme petrifying; for my part, I
confess I am not upon the principle of crowding.”
The ladies, however, accompanied by Mr Arnott, made the attempt, and
soon found, according to the custom of report, that the difficulty, for
the pleasure of talking of it, had been considerably exaggerated. They
were separated, indeed, but their accommodation was tolerably good.
Cecilia was much vexed to find the first act of the Opera almost over;
but she was soon still more dissatisfied when she discovered that she
had no chance of hearing the little which remained: the place she had
happened to find vacant was next to a party of young ladies, who were
so earnestly engaged in their own discourse, that they listened not to a
note of the Opera, and so infinitely diverted with their own witticisms,
that their tittering and loquacity allowed no one in their vicinity
to hear better than themselves. Cecilia tried in vain to confine her
attention to the singers; she was distant from the stage, and to them
she was near, and her fruitless attempts all ended in chagrin and
impatience.
At length she resolved to make an effort for entertainment in another
way, and since the expectations which brought her to the Opera were
destroyed, to try by listening to her fair neighbours, whether those who
occasioned her disappointment could make her any amends.
For this purpose she turned to them wholly; yet was at first in no
little perplexity to understand what was going forward, since so
universal was the eagerness for talking, and so insurmountable the
antipathy to listening, that every one seemed to have her wishes bounded
by a continual utterance of words, without waiting for any answer, or
scarce even desiring to be heard.
But when, somewhat more used to their dialect and manner, she began
better to comprehend their discourse, wretchedly indeed did it supply
to her the loss of the Opera. She heard nothing but descriptions of
trimmings, and complaints of hair-dressers, hints of conquest that
teemed with vanity, and histories of engagements which were inflated
with exultation.
At the end of the act, by the crowding forward of the gentlemen to
see the dance, Mrs Harrel had an opportunity of making room for her by
herself, and she had then some reason to expect hearing the rest of the
Opera in peace, for the company before her, consisting entirely of young
men, seemed, even during the dance, fearful of speaking, lest their
attention should be drawn for a moment from the stage.
But to her infinite surprize, no sooner was the second act begun, than
their attention ended! they turned from the performers to each other,
and entered into a whispering but gay conversation, which, though not
loud enough to disturb the audience in general, kept in the ears of
their neighbours a buzzing which interrupted all pleasure from the
representation. Of this effect of their gaiety it seemed uncertain
whether they were conscious, but very evident that they were totally
careless.
The desperate resource which she had tried during the first act, of
seeking entertainment from the very conversation which prevented her
enjoying it, was not now even in her power: for these gentlemen, though
as negligent as the young ladies had been whom they disturbed, were much
more cautious whom they instructed: their language was ambiguous, and
their terms, to Cecilia, were unintelligible: their subjects,
indeed, required some discretion, being nothing less than a ludicrous
calculation of the age and duration of jointured widows, and of the
chances and expectations of unmarried young ladies.
But what more even than their talking provoked her, was finding that the
moment the act was over, when she cared not if their vociferation had
been incessant, one of them called out, “Come, be quiet, the dance is
begun;” and then they were again all silent attention!
In the third act, however, she was more fortunate; the gentlemen again
changed their places, and they were succeeded by others who came to the
Opera not to hear themselves but the performers: and as soon as she was
permitted to listen, the voice of Pacchierotti took from her all desire
to hear any thing but itself.
During the last dance she was discovered by Sir Robert Floyer, who,
sauntering down fop's alley, stationed himself by her side, and whenever
the _figurante_ relieved the principal dancers, turned his eyes from the
stage to her face, as better worth his notice, and equally destined for
his amusement.
Mr Monckton, too, who for some time had seen and watched her, now
approached; he had observed with much satisfaction that her whole mind
had been intent upon the performance, yet still the familiarity of Sir
Robert Floyer's admiration disturbed and perplexed him; he determined,
therefore, to make an effort to satisfy his doubts by examining into
his intentions: and, taking him apart, before the dance was quite over,
“Well,” he said, “who is so handsome here as Harrel's ward?”
“Yes,” answered he, calmly, “she is handsome, but I don't like her
expression.”
“No? why, what is the fault of it?”
“Proud, cursed proud. It is not the sort of woman I like. If one says a
civil thing to her, she only wishes one at the devil for one's pains.”
“O, you have tried her, then, have you? why, you are not, in general,
much given to say civil things.”
“Yes, you know, I said something of that sort to her once about Juliet,
at the rehearsal. Was not you by?”
“What, then, was that all? and did you imagine one compliment would do
your business with her?”
“O, hang it, who ever dreams of complimenting the women now? that's all
at an end.”
“You won't find she thinks so, though; for, as you well say, her pride
is insufferable, and I, who have long known her, can assure you it does
not diminish upon intimacy.”
“Perhaps not,--but there's very pretty picking in 3000 pounds per annum!
one would not think much of a little encumbrance upon such an estate.”
“Are you quite sure the estate is so considerable? Report is mightily
given to magnify.”
“O, I have pretty good intelligence: though, after all, I don't know but
I may be off; she'll take a confounded deal of time and trouble.”
Monckton, too much a man of interest and of the world to cherish
that delicacy which covets universal admiration for the object of
its fondness, then artfully enlarged upon the obstacles he already
apprehended, and insinuated such others as he believed would be
most likely to intimidate him. But his subtlety was lost upon the
impenetrable Baronet, who possessed that hard insensibility which
obstinately pursues its own course, deaf to what is said, and
indifferent to what is thought.
Meanwhile the ladies were now making way to the coffee-room, though very
slowly on account of the crowd; and just as they got near the lobby,
Cecilia perceived Mr Belfield, who, immediately making himself known
to her, was offering his service to hand her out of the pit, when Sir
Robert Floyer, not seeing or not heeding him, pressed forward, and said,
“Will you let me have the honour, Miss Beverley, of taking care of you?”
Cecilia, to whom he grew daily more disagreeable, coldly declined his
assistance, while she readily accepted that which had first been offered
her by Mr Belfield.
The haughty Baronet, extremely nettled, forced his way on, and rudely
stalking up to Mr Belfield, motioned with his hand for room to pass him,
and said, “Make way, sir!”
“Make way for _me_, Sir!” cried Belfield, opposing him with one hand,
while with the other he held Cecilia.
“You, Sir? and who are you, Sir?” demanded the Baronet, disdainfully.
“Of that, Sir, I shall give you an account whenever you please,”
answered Belfield, with equal scorn.
“What the devil do you mean, Sir?”
“Nothing very difficult to be understood,” replied Belfield, and
attempted to draw on Cecilia, who, much alarmed, was shrinking back.
Sir Robert then, swelling with rage, reproachfully turned to her,
and said, “Will you suffer such an impertinent fellow as that, Miss
Beverley, to have the honour of taking your hand?”