her situation, felt a confusion with which she had hitherto been
unacquainted. But Delvile, presently recovering from his surprise, said
to her, with an expressive smile, “How good is Miss Beverley thus to
visit the sick! and how much better might I have had the pleasure of
seeing Mr Belfield, had I but, by prescience, known her design, and
deferred my own enquiries till he had been revived by hers!”
And then, bowing and wishing her good morning, he glided past her.
Cecilia, notwithstanding the openness and purity of her intentions, was
so much disconcerted by this unexpected meeting, and pointed speech,
that she had not the presence of mind to call him back and clear
herself: and the various interrogatories and railleries which had
already passed between them upon the subject of Mr Belfield, made
her suppose that what he had formerly suspected he would now think
confirmed, and conclude that all her assertions of indifference,
proceeded merely from that readiness at hypocrisy upon particular
subjects, of which he had openly accused her whole Sex.
This circumstance and this apprehension took from her for a while all
interest in the errand upon which she came; but the benevolence of her
heart soon brought it back, when, upon going into the room, she saw her
new favourite in tears.
“What is the matter?” cried she, tenderly; “no new affliction I hope has
happened? Your brother is not worse?”
“No, madam, he is much the same; I was not then crying for him.”
“For what then? tell me, acquaint me with your sorrows, and assure
yourself you tell them to a friend.”
“I was crying, madam, to find so much goodness in the world, when I
thought there was so little! to find I have some chance of being again
happy, when I thought I was miserable for ever! Two whole years have I
spent in nothing but unhappiness, and I thought there was nothing else
to be had; but yesterday, madam, brought me you, with every promise
of nobleness and protection; and to-day, a friend of my brother's has
behaved so generously, that even my brother has listened to him, and
almost consented to be obliged to him!”
“And have you already known so much sorrow,” said Cecilia, “that this
little dawn of prosperity should wholly overpower your spirits? Gentle,
amiable girl! may the future recompense you for the past, and may Mr
Albany's kind wishes be fulfilled in the reciprocation of our comfort
and affection!”
They then entered into a conversation which the sweetness of Cecilia,
and the gratitude of Miss Belfield, soon rendered interesting, friendly
and unreserved: and in a very short time, whatever was essential in
the story or situation of the latter was fully communicated. She gave,
however, a charge the most earnest, that her brother should never be
acquainted with the confidence she had made.
Her father, who had been dead only two years, was a linen-draper in the
city; he had six daughters, of whom herself was the youngest, and only
one son. This son, Mr Belfield, was alike the darling of his father,
mother, and sisters: he was brought up at Eton, no expence was spared
in his education, nothing was denied that could make him happy. With
an excellent understanding he had uncommon quickness of parts, and his
progress in his studies was rapid and honourable: his father, though
he always meant him for his successor in his business, heard of his
improvement with rapture, often saying, “My boy will be the ornament of
the city, he will be the best scholar in any shop in London.”
He was soon, however, taught another lesson; when, at the age of
sixteen, he returned home, and was placed in the shop, instead of
applying his talents, as his father had expected, to trade, he both
despised and abhorred the name of it; when serious, treating it with
contempt, when gay, with derision.
He was seized, also, with a most ardent desire to finish his education,
like those of his school-fellows who left Eton at the same time, at one
of the Universities; and, after many difficulties, this petition, at the
intercession of his mother, was granted, old Mr Belfield telling him
he hoped a little more learning would give him a little more sense, and
that when he became a _finished student_, he would not only know the
true value of business, but understand how to get money, and make a
bargain, better than any man whatsoever within Temple Bar.
These expectations, equally shortsighted, were also equally fallacious
with the former: the son again returned, and returned, as his father
had hoped, a _finished student_; but, far from being more tractable,
or better disposed for application to trade, his aversion to it now was
more stubborn, and his opposition more hardy than ever. The young men
of fashion with whom he had formed friendships at school, or at the
University, and with whom, from the indulgence of his father, he was
always able to vie in expence, and from the indulgence of Nature to
excel in capacity, earnestly sought the continuance of his acquaintance,
and courted and coveted the pleasure of his conversation: but though he
was now totally disqualified for any other society, he lost all delight
in their favour from the fear they should discover his abode, and
sedulously endeavoured to avoid even occasionally meeting them, lest any
of his family should at the same time approach him: for of his family,
though wealthy, worthy, and independent, he was now so utterly ashamed,
that the mortification the most cruel he could receive, was to be asked
his address, or told he should be visited.
Tired, at length, of evading the enquiries made by some, and forcing
faint laughs at the detection made by others, he privately took a
lodging at the west end of the town, to which he thence forward directed
all his friends, and where, under various pretences, he contrived to
spend the greatest part of his time.
In all his expensive deceits and frolics, his mother was his
never-failing confidant and assistant; for when she heard that the
companions of her son were men of fashion, some born to titles, others
destined to high stations, she concluded he was in the certain road
to honour and profit, and frequently distressed herself, without
ever repining, in order to enable him to preserve upon equal terms,
connections which she believed so conducive to his future grandeur.
In this wild and unsettled manner he passed some time, struggling
incessantly against the authority of his father, privately abetted by
his mother, and constantly aided and admired by his sisters: till, sick
of so desultory a way of life, he entered himself a volunteer in the
army.
How soon he grew tired of this change has already been related,
[Footnote: Book 1, Chap. II.] as well as his reconciliation with his
father, and his becoming a student at the Temple: for the father now
grew as weary of opposing, as the young man of being opposed.
Here, for two or three years, he lived in happiness uninterrupted; he
extended his acquaintance among the great, by whom he was no sooner
known than caressed and admired, and he frequently visited his family,
which, though he blushed to own in public, he affectionately loved
in private. His profession, indeed, was but little in his thoughts,
successive engagements occupying almost all his hours. Delighted with
the favour of the world, and charmed to find his presence seemed the
signal for entertainment, he soon forgot the uncertainty of his fortune,
and the inferiority of his rank: the law grew more and more fatiguing,
pleasure became more and more alluring, and, by degrees, he had not a
day unappropriated to some party or amusement; voluntarily consigning
the few leisure moments his gay circle afforded him, to the indulgence
of his fancy in some hasty compositions in verse, which were handed
about in manuscript, and which contributed to keep him in fashion.
Such was his situation at the death of his father; a new scene was then
opened to him, and for some time he hesitated what course to pursue.
Old Mr Belfield, though he lived in great affluence, left not behind him
any considerable fortune, after the portions of his daughters, to each
of whom he bequeathed L2000, had been deducted from it. But his stock in
trade was great, and his business was prosperous and lucrative.
His son, however, did not merely want application and fortitude to
become his successor, but skill and knowledge; his deliberation,
therefore, was hasty, and his resolution improvident; he determined to
continue at the Temple himself, while the shop, which he could by no
means afford to relinquish, should be kept up by another name, and the
business of it be transacted by an agent; hoping thus to secure and
enjoy its emoluments, without either the trouble or the humiliation of
attendance.
But this scheme, like most others that have their basis in vanity, ended
in nothing but mortification and disappointment: the shop which under
old Mr. Belfield had been flourishing and successful, and enriched
himself and all his family, could now scarce support the expences of
an individual. Without a master, without that diligent attention to
its prosperity which the interest of possession alone can give, and the
authority of a principal alone can enforce, it quickly lost its fame
for the excellence of its goods, and soon after its customers from
the report of its declension. The produce, therefore, diminished every
month; he was surprised, he was provoked; he was convinced he was
cheated, and that his affairs were neglected; but though he threatened
from time to time to enquire into the real state of the business, and
investigate the cause of its decay, he felt himself inadequate to the
task; and now first lamented that early contempt of trade, which by
preventing him acquiring some knowledge of it while he had youth and
opportunity, made him now ignorant what redress to seek, though certain
of imposition and injury.
But yet, however disturbed by alarming suggestions in his hours of
retirement, no alteration was made in the general course of his life; he
was still the darling of his friends, and the leader in all parties, and
still, though his income was lessened, his expences encreased.
Such were his circumstances at the time Cecilia first saw him at the
house of Mr. Monckton: from which, two days after her arrival in town,
he was himself summoned, by an information that his agent had suddenly
left the kingdom.
The fatal consequence of this fraudulent elopement was immediate
bankruptcy.
His spirits, however, did not yet fail him; as he had never been the
nominal master of the shop, he escaped all dishonour from its ruin, and
was satisfied to consign what remained to the mercy of the creditors, so
that his own name should not appear in the _Gazette_.
Three of his sisters were already extremely well married to reputable
tradesmen; the two elder of those who were yet single were settled with
two of those who were married, and Henrietta, the youngest, resided
with her mother, who had a comfortable annuity, and a small house at
Padington.
Bereft thus through vanity and imprudence of all the long labours of his
father, he was now compelled to think seriously of some actual method of
maintenance; since his mother, though willing to sacrifice to him even
the nourishment which sustained her, could do for him but little, and
that little he had too much justice to accept. The law, even to the most
diligent and successful, is extremely slow of profit, and whatever,
from his connections and abilities might be hoped hereafter, at present
required an expence which he was no longer able to support.
It remained then to try his influence with his friends among the great
and the powerful.
His canvas proved extremely honourable; every one promised something,
and all seemed delighted to have an opportunity of serving him.
Pleased with finding the world so much better than report had made it,
he now saw the conclusion of his difficulties in the prospect of a place
at court.
Belfield, with half the penetration with which he was gifted, would have
seen in any other man the delusive idleness of expectations no better
founded; but though discernment teaches us the folly of others,
experience singly can teach us our own! he flattered himself that his
friends had been more wisely selected than the friends of those who in
similar circumstances had been beguiled, and he suspected not the fraud
of his vanity, till he found his invitations daily slacken, and that his
time was at his own command.
All his hopes now rested upon one friend and patron,
Mr Floyer, an uncle of Sir Robert Floyer, a man of power in the royal
household, with whom he had lived in great intimacy, and who at this
period had the disposal of a place which he solicited. The only obstacle
that seemed in his way was from Sir Robert himself, who warmly exerted
his interest in favour of a friend of his own. Mr Floyer, however,
assured Belfield of the preference, and only begged his patience till he
could find some opportunity of appeasing his nephew.
And this was the state of his affairs at the time of his quarrel at the
Opera-house. Already declared opponents of each other, Sir Robert felt
double wrath that for _him_ Cecilia should reject his civilities; while
Belfield, suspecting he presumed upon his known dependence on his uncle
to affront him, felt also double indignation at the haughtiness of his
behaviour. And thus, slight as seemed to the world the cause of their
contest, each had private motives of animosity that served to stimulate
revenge.
The very day after this duel, Mr Floyer wrote him word that he was now
obliged in common decency to take the part of his nephew, and therefore
had already given the place to the friend he had recommended.
This was the termination of his hopes, and the signal of his ruin! To
the pain of his wound he became insensible, from the superior pain of
this unexpected miscarriage; yet his pride still enabled him to disguise
his distress, and to see all the friends whom this accident induced to
seek him, while from the sprightliness he forced in order to conceal
his anguish, he appeared to them more lively and more entertaining than
ever.
But these efforts, when left to himself and to nature, only sunk him the
deeper in sadness; he found an immediate change in his way of life was
necessary, yet could not brook to make it in sight of those with whom he
had so long lived in all the brilliancy of equality. A high principle
of honour which still, in the midst of his gay career, had remained
uncorrupted, had scrupulously guarded him from running in debt, and
therefore, though of little possessed, that little was strictly his own.
He now published that he was going out of town for the benefit of
purer air, discharged his surgeon, took a gay leave of his friends, and
trusting no one with his secret but his servant, was privately conveyed
to mean and cheap lodgings in Swallow-street.
Here, shut up from every human being he had formerly known, he purposed
to remain till he grew better, and then again to seek his fortune in the
army.
His present situation, however, was little calculated to contribute to
his recovery; the dismission of the surgeon, the precipitation of his
removal, the inconveniencies of his lodgings, and the unseasonable
deprivation of long customary indulgencies, were unavoidable delays of
his amendment; while the mortification of his present disgrace, and the
bitterness of his late disappointment, preyed incessantly upon his mind,
robbed him of rest, heightened his fever, and reduced him by degrees to
a state so low and dangerous, that his servant, alarmed for his life,
secretly acquainted his mother with his illness and retreat.
The mother, almost distracted by this intelligence, instantly, with her
daughter, flew to his lodgings. She wished to have taken him immediately
to her house at Padington, but he had suffered so much from his first
removal, that he would not consent to another. She would then have
called in a physician, but he refused even to see one; and she had too
long given way to all his desires and opinions, to have now the force of
mind for exerting the requisite authority of issuing her orders without
consulting him.
She begged, she pleaded, indeed, and Henrietta joined in her entreaties;
but sickness and vexation had not rendered him tame, though they had
made him sullen: he resisted their prayers, and commonly silenced them
by assurances that their opposition to the plan he had determined to
pursue, only inflamed his fever, and retarded his recovery.
The motive of an obduracy so cruel to his friends was the fear of a
detection which he thought not merely prejudicial to his affairs, but
dishonourable to his character: for, without betraying any symptom of
his distress, he had taken a general leave of his acquaintance upon
pretence of going out of town, and he could ill endure to make a
discovery which would at once proclaim his degradation and his deceit.
Mr. Albany had accidentally broken in upon him, by mistaking his room
for that of another sick person in the same house, to whom his visit had
been intended; but as he knew and reverenced that old gentleman, he did
not much repine at his intrusion.
He was not so easy when the same discovery was made by young Delvile,
who, chancing to meet his servant in the street, enquired concerning his
master's health, and surprising from him its real state, followed him
home; where, soon certain of the change in his affairs by the change of
his habitation, he wrote him a letter, in which, after apologizing for
his freedom, he warmly declared that nothing could make him so happy
as being favoured with his commands, if, either through himself or his
friends, he could be so fortunate as to do him any service.
Belfield, deeply mortified at this detection of his situation, returned
only a verbal answer of cold thanks, and desired he would not speak of
his being in town, as he was not well enough to be seen.
This reply gave almost equal mortification to young Delvile, who
continued, however, to call at the door with enquiries how he went on,
though he made no further attempt to see him.
Belfield, softened at length by the kindness of this conduct, determined
to admit him; and he was just come from paying his first visit, when he
was met by Cecilia upon the stairs.
His stay with him had been short, and he had taken no notice either of
his change of abode, or his pretence of going into the country; he had
talked to him only in general terms, and upon general subjects, till he
arose to depart, and then he re-urged his offers of service with so
much openness and warmth, that Belfield, affected by his earnestness,
promised he would soon see him again, and intimated to his delighted
mother and sister, that he would frankly consult with him upon his
affairs.
Such was the tale which, with various minuter circumstances, Miss
Belfield communicated to Cecilia. “My mother,” she added, “who never
quits him, knows that you are here, madam, for she heard me talking with
somebody yesterday, and she made me tell her all that had passed, and
that you said you would come again this morning.”
Cecilia returned many acknowledgments for this artless and unreserved
communication, but could not, when it was over, forbear enquiring by
what early misery she had already, though so very young, spent _two
years in nothing but unhappiness_?
“Because,” she answered, “when my poor father died all our family
separated, and I left every body to go and live with my mother at
Padington; and I was never a favourite with my mother--no more, indeed,
was any body but my brother, for she thinks all the rest of the world
only made for his sake. So she used to deny both herself and me almost
common necessaries, in order to save up money to make him presents:
though, if he had known how it was done, he would only have been angry
instead of taking them. However, I should have regarded nothing that had
but been for his benefit, for I loved him a great deal more than my
own convenience; but sums that would distress us for months to save up,
would by him be spent in a day, and then thought of no more! Nor was
that all--O no! I had much greater uneasiness to suffer; for I was
informed by one of my brothers-in-law how ill every thing went, and that
certain ruin would come to my poor brother from the treachery of his
agent; and the thought of this was always preying upon my mind, for
I did not dare tell it my mother, for fear it should put her out of
humour, for, sometimes, she is not very patient; and it mattered little
what any of us said to my brother, for he was too gay and too confident
to believe his danger.”
“Well but,” said Cecilia, “I hope, now, all will go better; if your
brother will consent to see a physician--”
“Ah, madam! that is the thing I fear he never will do, because of being
seen in these bad lodgings. I would kneel whole days to prevail with
him, but he is unused to controul, and knows not how to submit to it;
and he has lived so long among the great, that he forgets he was not
born as high as themselves. Oh that he had never quitted his own
family! If he had not been spoilt by ambition, he had the best heart and
sweetest disposition in the world. But living always with his superiors,
taught him to disdain his own relations, and be ashamed of us all; and
yet now, in the hour of his distress--who else comes to help him?”
Cecilia then enquired if she wanted not assistance for herself and her
mother, observing that they did not seem to have all the conveniencies
to which they were entitled.
“Why indeed, madam,” she replied, with an ingenuous smile, “when you
first came here I was a little like my brother, for I was sadly ashamed
to let you see how ill we lived! but now you know the worst, so I shall
fret about it no more.”
“But this cannot be your usual way of life; I fear the misfortunes of Mr
Belfield have spread a ruin wider than his own.”
“No indeed; he took care from the first not to involve us in his
hazards, for he is very generous, madam, and very noble in all his
notions, and could behave to us all no better about money matters than
he has ever done. But from the moment we came to this dismal place,
and saw his distress, and that he was sunk so low who used always to be
higher than any of us, we had a sad scene indeed! My poor mother, whose
whole delight was to think that he lived like a nobleman, and who always
flattered herself that he would rise to be as great as the company he
kept, was so distracted with her disappointment, that she would not
listen to reason, but immediately discharged both our servants, said she
and I should do all the work ourselves, hired this poor room for us to
live in, and sent to order a bill to be put upon her house at Padington,
for she said she would never return to it any more.”
“But are you, then,” cried Cecilia, “without any servant?”
“We have my brother's man, madam, and so he lights our fires, and takes
away some of our litters; and there is not much else to be done, except
sweeping the rooms, for we eat nothing but cold meat from the cook
shops.”
“And how long is this to last?”
“Indeed I cannot tell; for the real truth is, my poor mother has
almost lost her senses; and ever since our coming here, she has been so
miserable and so complaining, that indeed, between her and my brother,
I have almost lost mine too! For when she found all her hopes at an
end, and that her darling son, instead of being rich and powerful, and
surrounded by friends and admirers, all trying who should do the most
for him, was shut up by himself in this poor little lodging, and
instead of gaining more, had spent all he was worth at first, with not
a creature to come near him, though ill, though confined, though keeping
his bed!--Oh madam, had you seen my poor mother when she first cast her
eyes upon him in that condition!--indeed you could never have forgotten
it!”
“I wonder not at her disappointment,” cried Cecilia; “with expectations
so sanguine, and a son of so much merit, it might well indeed be
bitter.”
“Yes, and besides the disappointment, she is now continually reproaching
herself for always complying with his humours, and assisting him to
appear better than the rest of his family, though my father never
approved her doing so. But she thought herself so sure of his rising,
that she believed we should all thank her for it in the end. And she
always used to say that he was born to be a gentleman, and what a
grievous thing it would be to have him made a tradesman.”