She went herself to the shop, which was a very small one in Fetter-lane,
and spoke with Mrs Roberts, the cousin; who agreed to take the eldest
girl, now sixteen years of age, by way of helper; but said she had room
for no other: however, upon Cecilia's offering to raise the premium, she
consented that the two little children should also live in the house,
where they might be under the care of their mother and sister.
There were still two others to be disposed of; but as no immediate
method of providing for them occurred to Cecilia, she determined, for
the present, to place them in some cheap school, where they might be
taught plain work, which could not but prove a useful qualification for
whatever sort of business they might hereafter attempt.
Her plan was to bestow upon Mrs Hill and her children L100 by way of
putting them all into a decent way of living; and, then, from time to
time, to make them such small presents as their future exigencies or
changes of situation might require.
Now, therefore, payment from Mr Harrel became immediately necessary, for
she had only L50 of the L600 she had taken up in her own possession, and
her customary allowance was already so appropriated that she could make
from it no considerable deduction.
There is something in the sight of laborious indigence so affecting and
so respectable, that it renders dissipation peculiarly contemptible,
and doubles the odium of extravagance: every time Cecilia saw this poor
family, her aversion to the conduct and the principles of Mr Harrel
encreased, while her delicacy of shocking or shaming him diminished, and
she soon acquired for them what she had failed to acquire for herself,
the spirit and resolution to claim her debt.
One morning, therefore, as he was quitting the breakfast room, she
hastily arose, and following, begged to have a moment's discourse with
him. They went together to the library, and after some apologies, and
much hesitation, she told him she fancied he had forgotten the L200
which she had lent him.
“The L200,” cried he; “O, ay, true!--I protest it had escaped me. Well,
but you don't want it immediately?”
“Indeed I do, if you can conveniently spare it.”
“O yes, certainly!--without the least doubt!--Though now I think of
it--it's extremely unlucky, but really just at this time--why did not
you put me in mind of it before?”
“I hoped you would have remembered it yourself.”
“I could have paid you two days ago extremely well--however, you shall
certainly have it very soon, that you may depend upon, and a day or two
can make no great difference to you.”
He then wished her good morning, and left her.
Cecilia, very much provoked, regretted that she had ever lent it at
all, and determined for the future strictly to follow the advice of Mr.
Monckton in trusting him no more.
Two or three days passed on, but still no notice was taken either of the
payment or of the debt. She then resolved to renew her application, and
be more serious and more urgent with him; but she found, to her utter
surprise, this was not in her power, and that though she lived under
the same roof with him, she had no opportunity to enforce her claim. Mr.
Harrel, whenever she desired to speak with him, protested he was so
much hurried he had not a moment to spare: and even when, tired of his
excuses, she pursued him out of the room, he only quickened his speed,
smiling, however, and bowing, and calling out “I am vastly sorry, but
I am so late now I cannot stop an instant; however, as soon as I come
back, I shall be wholly at your command.”
When he came back, however, Sir Robert Floyer, or some other gentleman,
was sure to be with him, and the difficulties of obtaining an audience
were sure to be encreased. And by this method, which he constantly
practised, of avoiding any private conversation, he frustrated all her
schemes of remonstrating upon his delay, since her resentment, however
great, could never urge her to the indelicacy of dunning him in presence
of a third person.
She was now much perplext herself how to put into execution her plans
for the Hills: she knew it would be as vain to apply for money to Mr.
Briggs, as for payment to Mr. Harrel. Her word, however, had been given,
and her word she held sacred: she resolved, therefore, for the present,
to bestow upon them the 50 pounds she still retained, and, if the rest
should be necessary before she became of age, to spare it, however
inconveniently, from her private allowance, which, by the will of her
uncle, was 500 pounds a year, 250 pounds of which Mr Harrel received for
her board and accommodations.
Having settled this matter in her own mind, she went to the lodging of
Mrs Hill, in order to conclude the affair. She found her and all her
children, except the youngest, hard at work, and their honest industry
so much strengthened her compassion, that her wishes for serving them
grew every instant more liberal.
Mrs Hill readily undertook to make her cousin accept half the premium
for the present, which would suffice to fix her, with three of her
children, in the shop: Cecilia then went with her to Fetter-lane,
and there, drawing up herself an agreement for their entering into
partnership, she made each of them sign it and take a copy, and kept a
third in her own possession: after which, she gave a promissory note to
Mrs Roberts for the rest of the money.
She presented Mrs Hill, also, with 10 pounds to clothe them all
decently, and enable her to send two of the children to school; and
assured her that she would herself pay for their board and instruction,
till she should be established in her business, and have power to save
money for that purpose.
She then put herself into a chair to return home, followed by the
prayers and blessings of the whole family.
CHAPTER v
AN ADVENTURE.
Never had the heart of Cecilia felt so light, so gay, so glowing as
after the transaction of this affair: her life had never appeared to her
so important, nor her wealth so valuable. To see five helpless children
provided for by herself, rescued from the extremes of penury and
wretchedness, and put in a way to become useful to society, and
comfortable to themselves; to behold their feeble mother, snatched
from the hardship of that labour which, over-powering her strength,
had almost destroyed her existence, now placed in a situation where a
competent maintenance might be earned without fatigue, and the remnant
of her days pass in easy employment--to view such sights, and have power
to say “_These deeds are mine!_” what, to a disposition fraught with
tenderness and benevolence, could give purer self-applause, or more
exquisite satisfaction?
Such were the pleasures which regaled the reflections of Cecilia when,
in her way home, having got out of her chair to walk through the upper
part of Oxford Street, she was suddenly met by the old gentleman whose
emphatical addresses to her had so much excited her astonishment.
He was passing quick on, but stopping the moment he perceived her, he
sternly called out “Are you proud? are you callous? are you hard of
heart so soon?”
“Put me, if you please, to some trial!” cried Cecilia, with the virtuous
courage of a self-acquitting conscience.
“I already have!” returned he, indignantly, “and already I have found
you faulty!”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said the amazed Cecilia, “but at least I hope
you will tell me in what?”
“You refused me admittance,” he answered, “yet I was your friend, yet
I was willing to prolong the term of your genuine [tranquillity]! I
pointed out to you a method of preserving peace with your own soul; I
came to you in behalf of the poor, and instructed you how to merit their
prayers; you heard me, you were susceptible, you complied! I meant to
have repeated the lesson, to have tuned your whole heart to compassion,
and to have taught you the sad duties of sympathising humanity. For
this purpose I called again, but again I was not admitted! Short was
the period of my absence, yet long enough for the completion of your
downfall!”
“Good heaven,” cried Cecilia, “how dreadful is this language! when
have you called, Sir? I never heard you had been at the house. Far from
refusing you admittance, I wished to see you.”
“Indeed?” cried he, with some softness, “and are you, in truth, not
proud? not callous? not hard of heart? Follow me, then, and visit the
humble and the poor, follow me, and give comfort to the fallen and
dejected!”
At this invitation, however desirous to do good, Cecilia started; the
strangeness of the inviter, his flightiness, his authoritative manner,
and the uncertainty whither or to whom he might carry her, made her
fearful of proceeding: yet a benevolent curiosity to see as well as
serve the objects of his recommendation, joined to the eagerness of
youthful integrity to clear her own character from the aspersion of
hard-heartedness, soon conquered her irresolution, and making a sign to
her servant to keep near her, she followed as her conductor led.
He went on silently and solemnly till he came to Swallow-street, then
turning into it, he stopt at a small and mean-looking house, knocked
at the door, and without asking any question of the man who opened it,
beckoned her to come after him, and hastened up some narrow winding
stairs.
Cecilia again hesitated; but when she recollected that this old man,
though little known, was frequently seen, and though with few people
acquainted, was by many personally recognized, she thought it impossible
he could mean her any injury. She ordered her servant, however, to come
in, and bid him keep walking up and down the stairs till she returned to
him. And then she obeyed the directions of her guide.
He proceeded till he came to the second floor, then, again beckoning
her to follow him, he opened a door, and entered a small and very meanly
furnished apartment.
And here, to her infinite astonishment, she perceived, employed in
washing some china, a very lovely young woman, [genteelly] dressed, and
appearing hardly seventeen years of age.
The moment they came in, with evident marks of confusion, she instantly
gave over her work, hastily putting the basin she was washing upon the
table, and endeavouring to hide the towel with which she was wiping it
behind her chair.
The old gentleman, advancing to her with quickness, said, “How is he
now? Is he better? will he live?”
“Heaven forbid he should not!” answered the young woman with emotion,
“but, indeed, he is no better!”
“Look here,” said he, pointing to Cecilia, “I have brought you one who
has power to serve you, and to relieve your distress: one who is rolling
in affluence, a stranger to ill, a novice in the world; unskilled in the
miseries she is yet to endure, unconscious of the depravity into which
she is to sink! receive her benefactions while yet she is untainted,
satisfied that while, she aids you, she is blessing herself!”
The young woman, blushing and abashed, said, “You are very good to
me, Sir, but there is no occasion--there is no need--I have not any
necessity--I am far from being so very much in want--”
“Poor, simple soul!” interrupted the old man, “and art thou ashamed of
poverty? Guard, guard thyself from other shames, and the wealthiest may
envy thee! Tell her thy story, plainly, roundly, truly; abate nothing
of thy indigence, repress nothing of her liberality. The Poor not
impoverished by their own Guilt, are Equals of the Affluent, not
enriched by their own Virtue. Come, then, and let me present ye to
each other! young as ye both are, with many years and many sorrows
to encounter, lighten the burthen of each other's cares, by the
heart-soothing exchange of gratitude for beneficence!”
He then took a hand of each, and joining them between his own, “_You_,”
he continued, “who, though rich, are not hardened, and you, who though
poor, are not debased, why should ye not love, why should ye not
cherish each other? The afflictions of life are tedious, its joys are
evanescent; ye are now both young, and, with little to enjoy, will
find much to suffer. Ye are both, too, I believe, innocent--Oh could
ye always remain so!--Cherubs were ye then, and the sons of men might
worship you!”
He stopt, checked by his own rising emotion; but soon resuming his
usual austerity, “Such, however,” he continued, “is not the condition of
humanity; in pity, therefore, to the evils impending over both, be kind
to each other! I leave you together, and to your mutual tenderness I
recommend you!”
Then, turning particularly to Cecilia, “Disdain not,” he said, “to
console the depressed; look upon her without scorn, converse with her
without contempt: like you, she is an orphan, though not like you, an
heiress;--like her, you are fatherless, though not like her friendless!
If she is awaited by the temptations of adversity, you, also, are
surrounded by the corruptions of prosperity. Your fall is most probable,
her's most excusable;--commiserate _her_ therefore now,--by and by she
may commiserate _you_?”
And with these words he left the room.
A total silence for some time succeeded his departure: Cecilia found it
difficult to recover from the surprise into which she had been thrown
sufficiently for speech: in following her extraordinary director,
her imagination had painted to her a scene such as she had so lately
quitted, and prepared her to behold some family in distress, some
helpless creature in sickness, or some children in want; but of these
to see none, to meet but one person, and that one fair, young, and
delicate,--an introduction so singular to an object so unthought of,
deprived her of all power but that of shewing her amazement.
Mean while the young woman looked scarcely less surprised, and
infinitely more embarrassed. She surveyed her apartment with vexation,
and her guest with confusion; she had listened to the exhortation of the
old man with visible uneasiness, and now he was gone, seemed overwhelmed
with shame and chagrin.
Cecilia, who in observing these emotions felt both her curiosity and her
compassion encrease, pressed her hand as she parted with it, and, when
a little recovered, said, “You must think this a strange intrusion; but
the gentleman who brought me hither is perhaps so well known to you, as
to make his singularities plead with you their own apology.”
“No indeed, madam,” she answered, bashfully, “he is very little known
to me; but he is very good, and very desirous to do me service:--not
but what I believe he thinks me much worse off than I really am, for,
I assure you, madam, whatever he has said, I am not ill off at
all--hardly.”
The various doubts to her disadvantage, which had at first, from her
uncommon situation, arisen in the mind of Cecilia, this anxiety to
disguise, not display her distress, considerably removed, since it
cleared her of all suspicion of seeking by artifice and imposition to
play upon her feelings.
With a gentleness, therefore, the most soothing, she replied, “I should
by no means have broken in upon you thus unexpectedly, if I had not
concluded my conductor had some right to bring me. However, since we are
actually met, let us remember his injunctions, and endeavour not to part
till, by a mutual exchange of good-will, each has added a friend to the
other.”
“You are condescending, indeed, madam,” answered the young woman, with
an air the most humble, “looking as you look, to talk of a friend when
you come to such a place as this! up two pair of stairs! no furniture!
no servant! every thing in such disorder!--indeed I wonder at Mr.
Albany! he should not--but he thinks every body's affairs may be made
public, and does not care what he tells, nor who hears him;--he knows
not the pain he gives, nor the mischief he may do.”
“I am very much concerned,” cried Cecilia, more and more surprised at
all she heard, “to find I have been thus instrumental to distressing
you. I was ignorant whither I was coming, and followed him, believe me,
neither from curiosity nor inclination, but simply because I knew not
how to refuse him. He is gone, however, and I will therefore relieve you
by going too: but permit me to leave behind me a small testimony that
the intention of my coming was not mere impertinence.”
She then took out her purse; but the young woman, starting back with a
look of resentful mortification, exclaimed, “No, madam! you are
quite mistaken; pray put up your purse; I am no beggar! Mr Albany has
misrepresented me, if he has told you I am.”
Cecilia, mortified in her turn at this unexpected rejection of an offer
she had thought herself invited to make, stood some moments silent; and
then said, “I am far from meaning to offend you, and I sincerely beg
your pardon if I have misunderstood the charge just now given to me.”
“I have nothing to pardon, madam,” said she, more calmly, “except,
indeed, to Mr Albany; and to him, 'tis of no use to be angry, for he
minds not what I say! he is very good, but he is very strange, for he
thinks the whole world made to live in common, and that every one who is
poor should ask, and every one who is rich should give: he does not know
that there are many who would rather starve.”
“And are you,” said Cecilia, half-smiling, “of that number?”
“No, indeed, madam! I have not so much greatness of mind. But those
to whom I belong have more fortitude and higher spirit. I wish I could
imitate them!”
Struck with the candour and simplicity of this speech, Cecilia now felt
a warm desire to serve her, and taking her hand, said, “Forgive me, but
though I see you wish me gone, I know not how to leave you: recollect,
therefore, the charge that has been given to us both, and if you refuse
my assistance one way, point out to me in what other I may offer it.”
“You are very kind, madam,” she answered, “and I dare say you are very
good; I am sure you look so, at least. But I want nothing; I do very
well, and I have hopes of doing better. Mr Albany is too impatient. He
knows, indeed, that I am not extremely rich, but he is much to blame if
he supposes me therefore an object of charity, and thinks me so mean as
to receive money from a stranger.”
“I am truly sorry,” cried Cecilia, “for the error I have committed, but
you must suffer me to make my peace with you before we part: yet, till
I am better known to you, I am fearful of proposing terms. Perhaps you
will permit me to leave you my direction, and do me the favour to call
upon me yourself?”
“O no, madam! I have a sick relation whom I cannot leave: and indeed, if
he were well, he would not like to have me make an acquaintance while I
am in this place.”
“I hope you are not his only nurse? I am sure you do not look able to
bear such fatigue. Has he a physician? Is he properly attended?”
“No, madam; he has no physician, and no attendance at all!”
“And is it possible that in such a situation you can refuse to be
assisted? Surely you should accept some help for him, if not for
yourself.”
“But what will that signify when, if I do, he will not make use of it?
and when he had a thousand and a thousand times rather die, than let any
one know he is in want?”
“Take it, then, unknown to him; serve him without acquainting him you
serve him. Surely you would not suffer him to perish without aid?”
“Heaven forbid! But what can I do? I am under his command, madam, not he
under mine!”
“Is he your father?--Pardon my question, but your youth seems much to
want such a protector.”
“No, madam, I have no father! I was happier when I had! He is my
brother.”
“And what is his illness?”
“A fever.”
“A fever, and without a physician! Are you sure, too, it is not
infectious?”
“O yes, too sure!”
“Too sure? how so?”
“Because I know too well the occasion of it!”
“And what is the occasion?” cried Cecilia, again taking her hand, “pray
trust me; indeed you shall not repent your confidence. Your reserve
hitherto has only raised you in my esteem, but do not carry it so far as
to mortify me by a total rejection of my good offices.”
“Ah madam!” said the young woman, sighing, “you ought to be good, I
am sure, for you will draw all out of me by such kindness as this! the
occasion was a neglected wound, never properly healed.”
“A wound? is he in the army?”
“No,--he was shot through the side in a duel.”
“In a duel?” exclaimed Cecilia, “pray what is his name?”
“O that I must not tell you! his name is a great secret now, while he is
in this poor place, for I know he had almost rather never see the light
again than have it known.”
“Surely, surely,” cried Cecilia, with much emotion, “he cannot--I hope
he cannot be Mr Belfield?”
“Ah Heaven!” cried the young woman, screaming, “do you then know him?”
Here, in mutual astonishment, they looked at each other.
“You are then,” said Cecilia, “the sister of Mr Belfield? And Mr
Belfield is thus sick, his wound is not yet healed,--and he is without
any help!”
“And who, madam, are _you_?” cried she, “and how is it you know him?”
“My name is Beverley.”
“Ah!” exclaimed she again, “I fear I have done nothing but mischief! I
know very well who you are now, madam, but if my brother discovers that
I have betrayed him, he will take it very unkind, and perhaps never
forgive me.”
“Be not alarmed,” cried Cecilia; “rest assured he shall never know it.
Is he not now in the country?”
“No, madam, he is now in the very next room.”
“But what is become of the surgeon who used to attend him, and why does
he not still visit him?”
“It is in vain, now, to hide any thing from you; my brother deceived
him, and said he was going out of town merely to get rid of him.”
“And what could induce him to act so strangely?”
“A reason which you, madam, I hope, will never know, Poverty!--he would
not run up a bill he could not pay.”
“Good Heaven!--But what can be done for him? He must not be suffered
to linger thus; we must contrive some method of relieving and assisting
him, whether he will consent or not.”
“I fear that will not be possible. One of his friends has already found
him out, and has written him the kindest letter! but he would not answer
it, and would not see him, and was only fretted and angry.”
“Well,” said Cecilia, “I will not keep you longer, lest he should be
alarmed by your absence. To-morrow morning, with your leave, I will call
upon you again, and then, I hope, you will permit me to make some effort
to assist you.”
“If it only depended upon me, madam,” she answered, “now I have the
honour to know who you are, I believe I should not make much scruple,
for I was not brought up to notions so high as my brother. Ah! happy
had it been for him, for me, for all his family, if he had not had them
neither!”
Cecilia then repeated her expressions of comfort and kindness, and took
her leave.
This little adventure gave her infinite concern; all the horror which
the duel had originally occasioned her, again returned; she accused
herself with much bitterness for having brought it on; and finding
that Mr Belfield was so cruelly a sufferer both in his health and his
affairs, she thought it incumbent upon her to relieve him to the utmost
of her ability.
His sister, too, had extremely interested her; her youth, and the
uncommon artlessness of her conversation, added to her melancholy
situation, and the loveliness of her person, excited in her a desire to
serve, and an inclination to love her; and she determined, if she found
her as deserving as she seemed engaging, not only to assist her at
present, but, if her distresses continued, to received her into her own
house in future.
Again she regretted the undue detention of her L200. What she now had to
spare was extremely inadequate to what she now wished to bestow, and
she looked forward to the conclusion of her minority with encreasing
eagerness. The generous and elegant plan of life she then intended
to pursue, daily gained ground in her imagination, and credit in her
opinion.
CHAPTER vi
A MAN OF GENIUS.
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Cecilia went in a chair
to Swallow-street; she enquired for Miss Belfield, and was told to go up
stairs: but what was her amazement to meet, just coming out of the room
into which she was entering, young Delvile!