BOOK IX.

CHAPTER i.

A COGITATION.

Lady Margaret Monckton received Cecilia with the most gloomy coldness:

she apologised for the liberty she had taken in making use of her

ladyship's house, but, meeting no return of civility, she withdrew

to the room which had been prepared for her, and resolved as much as

possible to keep out of her sight.

It now became necessary without further delay to settle her plan of

life, and fix her place of residence. The forbidding looks of Lady

Margaret made her hasten her resolves, which otherwise would for a while

have given way to grief for her recent misfortune.

She sent for the surveyor who had the superintendance of her estates, to

enquire how soon her own house would be fit for her reception; and heard

there was yet work for near two months.

This answer made her very uncomfortable. To continue two months under

the roof with Lady Margaret was a penance she could not enjoin herself,

nor was she at all sure Lady Margaret would submit to it any better: she

determined, therefore, to release herself from the conscious burthen of

being an unwelcome visitor, by boarding with some creditable family at

Bury, and devoting the two months in which she was to be kept from her

house, to a general arrangement of her affairs, and a final settling

with her guardians.

For these purposes it would be necessary she should go to London:

but with whom, or in what manner, she could not decide. She desired,

therefore, another conference with Mr Monckton, who met her in the

parlour.

She then communicated to him her schemes; and begged his counsel in her

perplexities.

He was delighted at the application, and extremely well pleased with her

design of boarding at Bury, well knowing, he could then watch and visit

her at his pleasure, and have far more comfort in her society than even

in his own house, where all the vigilance with which he observed her,

was short of that with which he was himself observed by Lady Margaret.

He endeavoured, however, to dissuade her from going to town, but her

eagerness to pay the large sum she owed him, was now too great to be

conquered. Of age, her fortune wholly in her power, and all attendance

upon Mrs Charlton at an end, she had no longer any excuse for having a

debt in the world, and would suffer no persuasion to make her begin her

career in life, with a negligence in settling her accounts which she had

so often censured in others. To go to London therefore she was fixed,

and all that she desired was his advice concerning the journey.

He then told her that in order to settle with her guardians, she must

write to them in form, to demand an account of the sums that had been

expended during her minority, and announce her intention for the future

to take the management of her fortune into her own hands.

She immediately followed his directions, and consented to remain at the

Grove till their answers arrived.

Being now, therefore, unavoidably fixed for some time at the house, she

thought it proper and decent to attempt softening Lady Margaret in her

favour. She exerted all her powers to please and to oblige her; but the

exertion was necessarily vain, not only from the disposition, but the

situation of her ladyship, since every effort made for this conciliatory

purpose, rendered her doubly amiable in the eyes of her husband, and

consequently to herself more odious than ever. Her jealousy, already but

too well founded, received every hour the poisonous nourishment of fresh

conviction, which so much soured and exasperated a temper naturally

harsh, that her malignity and ill-humour grew daily more acrimonious.

Nor would she have contented herself with displaying this irascibility

by general moroseness, had not the same suspicious watchfulness which

discovered to her the passion of her husband, served equally to make

manifest the indifference and innocence of Cecilia; to reproach her

therefore, she had not any pretence, though her knowledge how much she

had to dread her, past current in her mind for sufficient reason to

hate her. The Angry and the Violent use little discrimination; whom

they like, they enquire not if they approve; but whoever, no matter

how unwittingly, stands in their way, they scruple not to ill use, and

conclude they may laudably detest.

Cecilia, though much disgusted, gave not over her attempt, which she

considered but as her due while she continued in her house. Her general

character, also, for peevishness and haughty ill-breeding, skilfully,

from time to time, displayed, and artfully repined at by Mr Monckton,

still kept her from suspecting any peculiar animosity to herself, and

made her impute all that passed to the mere rancour of ill-humour. She

confined herself, however, as much as possible to her own apartment,

where her sorrow for Mrs Charlton almost hourly increased, by the

comparison she was forced upon making of her house with the Grove.

That worthy old lady left her grand-daughters her co-heiresses and sole

executrixes. She bequeathed from them nothing considerable, though

she left some donations for the poor, and several of her friends were

remembered by small legacies. Among them Cecilia had her picture, and

favourite trinkets, with a paragraph in her will, that as there was no

one she so much loved, had her fortune been less splendid, she should

have shared with her grand-daughters whatever she had to bestow.

Cecilia was much affected by this last and solemn remembrance. She more

than ever coveted to be alone, that she might grieve undisturbed, and

she lamented without ceasing the fatigue and the illness which, in so

late a period, as it proved, of her life, she had herself been the means

of occasioning to her.

Mr Monckton had too much prudence to interrupt this desire of solitude,

which indeed cost him little pain, as he considered her least in

danger when alone. She received in about a week answers from both her

guardians. Mr Delvile's letter was closely to the purpose, without a

word but of business, and couched in the haughtiest terms. As he had

never, he said, acted, he had no accounts to send in; but as he was

going to town in a few days, he would see her for a moment in the

presence of Mr Briggs, that a joint release might be signed, to prevent

any future application to him.

Cecilia much lamented there was any necessity for her seeing him at all,

and looked forward to the interview as the greatest mortification she

could suffer.

Mr Briggs, though still more concise, was far kinder in his language:

but he advised her to defer her scheme of taking the money into her own

hands, assuring her she would be cheated, and had better leave it to

him.

When she communicated these epistles to Mr Monckton, he failed not to

read, with an emphasis, by which his arrogant meaning was still more

arrogantly enforced, the letter of Mr Delvile aloud. Nor was he sparing

in comments that might render it yet more offensive. Cecilia neither

concurred in what he said, nor opposed it, but contented herself, when

he was silent, with producing the other letter.

Mr Monckton read not this with more favour. He openly attacked the

character of Briggs, as covetous, rapacious, and over-reaching, and

warned her by no means to abide by his counsel, without first taking the

opinion of some disinterested person. He then stated the various arts

which might be practised upon her inexperience, enumerated the dangers

to which her ignorance of business exposed her, and annotated upon

the cheats, double dealings, and tricks of stock jobbing, to which

he assured her Mr Briggs owed all he was worth, till, perplexed and

confounded, she declared herself at a loss how to proceed, and earnestly

regretted that she could not have his counsel upon the spot.

This was his aim: to draw the wish from her, drew all suspicion of

selfish views from himself: and he told her that he considered her

present situation as so critical, the future confusion or regularity

of her money transactions seeming to depend upon it, that he would

endeavour to arrange his affairs for meeting her in London.

Cecilia gave him many thanks for the kind intention, and determined to

be totally guided by him in the disposal and direction of her fortune.

Mean time he had now another part to act; he saw that with Cecilia

nothing more remained to be done, and that, harbouring not a doubt of

his motives, she thought his design in her favour did her nothing but

honour; but he had too much knowledge of the world to believe it would

judge him in the same manner, and too much consciousness of duplicity to

set its judgment at defiance.

To parry, therefore, the conjectures which might follow his attending

her, he had already prepared Lady Margaret to wish herself of the party:

for however disagreeable to him was her presence and her company, he had

no other means to be under the same roof with Cecilia.

Miss Bennet, the wretched tool of his various schemes, and the mean

sycophant of his lady, had been employed by him to work upon her

jealousy, by secretly informing her of his intention to go to town,

at the same time that Cecilia went thither to meet her guardians.

She pretended to have learned this intelligence by accident, and to

communicate it from respectful regard; and advised her to go to London

herself at the same time, that she might see into his designs, and be

some check upon his pleasure.

The encreasing infirmities of Lady Margaret made this counsel by no

means palatable: but Miss Bennet, following the artful instructions

which she received, put in her way so strong a motive, by assuring her

how little her company was wished, that in the madness of her spite

she determined upon the journey. And little heeding how she tormented

herself while she had any view of tormenting Mr Monckton, she was led on

by her false confident to invite Cecilia to her own house.

Mr Monckton, in whom by long practice, artifice was almost nature, well

knowing his wife's perverseness, affected to look much disconcerted at

the proposal; while Cecilia, by no means thinking it necessary to extend

her compliance to such a punishment, instantly made an apology, and

declined the invitation.

Lady Margaret, little versed in civility, and unused to the arts of

persuasion, could not, even for a favourite project, prevail upon

herself to use entreaty, and therefore, thinking her scheme defeated,

looked gloomily disappointed, and said nothing more.

Mr Monckton saw with delight how much this difficulty inflamed her,

though the moment he could speak alone with Cecilia he made it his care

to remove it.

He represented to her that, however privately she might live, she was

too young to be in London lodgings by herself, and gave an hint which

she could not but understand, that in going or in staying with only

servants, suspicions might soon be raised, that the plan and motive of

her journey were different to those given out.

She knew he meant to insinuate that it would be conjectured she

designed to meet Delvile, and though colouring, vext and provoked at the

suggestion, the idea was sufficient to frighten her into his plan.

In a few days, therefore, the matter was wholly arranged, Mr Monckton,

by his skill and address, leading every one whither he pleased, while,

by the artful coolness of his manner, he appeared but to follow himself.

He [set] out the day before, though earnestly wishing to accompany

them, but having as yet in no single instance gone to town in the same

carriage with Lady Margaret, he dared trust neither the neighbourhood

nor the servants with so dangerous a subject for their comments.

Cecilia, compelled thus to travel with only her Ladyship and Miss

Bennet, had a journey the most disagreeable, and determined, if

possible, to stay in London but two days. She had already fixed upon a

house in which she could board at Bury when she returned, and there she

meant quietly to reside till she could enter her own.

Lady Margaret herself, exhilarated by a notion of having outwitted her

husband, was in unusual good spirits, and almost in good humour.

The idea of thwarting his designs, and being in the way of his

entertainment, gave to her a delight she had seldom received from any

thing; and the belief that this was effected by the superiority of her

cunning, doubled her contentment, and raised it to exultation. She owed

him, indeed, much provocation and uneasiness, and was happy in this

opportunity of paying her arrears.

Mean while that consummate master in every species of hypocrisy,

indulged her in this notion, by the air of dissatisfaction with which he

left the house. It was not that she meant by her presence to obviate any

impropriety: early and long acquainted with the character of Cecilia,

she well knew, that during her life the passion of her husband must be

confined to his own breast: but conscious of his aversion to herself,

which she resented with the bitterest ill-will, and knowing how little,

at any time, he desired her company, she consoled herself for her

inability to give pleasure by the power she possessed of giving pain,

and bore with the fatigue of a journey disagreeable and inconvenient

to her, with no other view than the hope of breaking into his plan of

avoiding her. Little imagining that the whole time she was forwarding

his favourite pursuit, and only acting the part which he had appointed

her to perform.

CHAPTER ii.

A SURPRIZE.

Lady Margaret's town house was in Soho Square; and scarcely had Cecilia

entered it, before her desire to speed her departure, made her send

a note to each of her guardians, acquainting them of her arrival, and

begging, if possible, to see them the next day.

She had soon the two following answers:

_To Miss Cecilia Beverley,----These November_ 8, 1779. Miss,--Received

yours of the same date; can't come tomorrow. Will, Wednesday the

10th.--Am, &c., Jno. Briggs.

Miss Cecilia Beverley

_To Miss Beverley_.

Mr Delvile has too many affairs of importance upon his hands, to make

any appointment till he has deliberated how to arrange them. Mr Delvile

will acquaint Miss Beverley when it shall be in his power to see her.

St James's-square, _Nov_ 8.

These characteristic letters, which at another time might have diverted

Cecilia, now merely served to torment her. She was eager to quit town,

she was more eager to have her meeting with Mr Delvile over, who,

oppressive to her even when he meant to be kind, she foresaw, now he

was in wrath, would be imperious even to rudeness. Desirous, however,

to make one interview suffice for both, and to settle whatever business

might remain unfinished by letters, she again wrote to Mr Briggs,

whom she had not spirits to encounter without absolute necessity, and

informing him of Mr Delvile's delay, begged he would not trouble himself

to call till he heard from her again.

Two days passed without any message from them; they were spent chiefly

alone, and very uncomfortably, Mr Monckton being content to see little

of her, while he knew she saw nothing of any body else. On the

third morning, weary of her own thoughts, weary of Lady Margaret's

ill-humoured looks, and still more weary of Miss Bennet's parasitical

conversation, she determined, for a little relief to the heaviness of

her mind, to go to her bookseller, and look over and order into the

country such new publications as seemed to promise her any pleasure.

She sent therefore, for a chair, and glad to have devised for herself

any amusement, set out in it immediately.

Upon entering the shop, she saw the Bookseller engaged in close

conference with a man meanly dressed, and much muffled up, who

seemed talking to him with uncommon earnestness, and just as she was

approaching, said, “To terms I am indifferent, for writing is no

labour to me; on the contrary, it is the first delight of my life, and

therefore, and not for dirty pelf, I wish to make it my profession.”

The speech struck Cecilia, but the voice struck her more, it was

Belfield's! and her amazement was so great, that she stopt short to look

at him, without heeding a man who attended her, and desired to know her

commands.

The bookseller now perceiving her, came forward, and Belfield, turning

to see who interrupted them, started as if a spectre had crossed his

eyes, slapped his hat over his face, and hastily went out of the shop.

Cecilia checking her inclination to speak to him, from observing his

eagerness to escape her, soon recollected her own errand, and employed

herself in looking over new books.

Her surprize, however, at a change so sudden in the condition of this

young man, and at a declaration of a passion for writing, so opposite to

all the sentiments which he had professed at their late meeting in

the cottage, awakened in her a strong curiosity to be informed of his

situation; and after putting aside some books which she desired to have

packed up for her, she asked if the gentleman who had just left the

shop, and who, she found by what he had said, was an Author, had written

anything that was published with his name?

“No, ma'am,” answered the Bookseller, “nothing of any consequence; he

is known, however, to have written several things that have appeared as

anonymous; and I fancy, now, soon, we shall see something considerable

from him.”

“He is about some great work, then?”

“Why no, not exactly that, perhaps, at present; we must feel our way,

with some little smart _jeu d'esprit_ before we undertake a great work.

But he is a very great genius, and I doubt not will produce something

extraordinary.”

“Whatever he produces,” said Cecilia, “as I have now chanced to see him,

I shall be glad you will, at any time, send to me.”

“Certainly, ma'am; but it must be among other things, for he does not

chuse, just now to be known; and it is a rule in our business never to

tell people's names when they desire to be secret. He is a little out

of cash, just now, as you may suppose by his appearance, so instead of

buying books, he comes to sell them. However, he has taken a very good

road to bring himself home again, for we pay very handsomely for things

of any merit, especially if they deal smartly in a few touches of the

times.”

Cecilia chose not to risk any further questions, lest her knowledge of

him should be suspected, but got into her chair, and returned to Lady

Margaret's.

The sight of Belfield reminded her not only of himself; the gentle

Henrietta again took her place in her memory, whence her various

distresses and suspences had of late driven from it everybody but

Delvile, and those whom Delvile brought into it. But her regard for

that amiable girl, though sunk in the busy scenes of her calamitous

uncertainties, was only sunk in her own bosom, and ready, upon their

removal, to revive with fresh vigour. She was now indeed more unhappy

than even in the period of her forgetfulness, yet her mind, was no

longer filled with the restless turbulence of hope, which still more

than despondency unfitted it for thinking of others.

This remembrance thus awakened, awakened also a desire of renewing the

connection so long neglected. All scruples concerning Delvile had now

lost their foundation, since the doubts from which they arose were both

explained and removed: she was certain alike of his indifference to

Henrietta, and his separation from herself; she knew that nothing was

to be feared from painful or offensive rivalry, and she resolved,

therefore, to lose no time in seeking the first pleasure to which since

her disappointment she had voluntarily looked forward.

Early in the evening, she told Lady Margaret she was going out for

an hour or two, and sending again for a chair, was carried to

Portland-street.

She enquired for Miss Belfield, and was shewn into a parlour, where she

found her drinking tea with her mother, and Mr Hobson, their landlord.

Henrietta almost screamed at her sight, from a sudden impulse of joy

and surprize, and, running up to her, flung her arms round her neck,

and embraced her with the most rapturous emotion: but then, drawing

back with a look of timidity and shame, she bashfully apologized for

her freedom, saying, “Indeed, dearest Miss Beverley, it is no want

of respect, but I am so very glad to see you it makes me quite forget

myself!”

Cecilia, charmed at a reception so ingenuously affectionate, soon

satisfied her doubting diffidence by the warmest thanks that she had

preserved so much regard for her, and by doubling the kindness with

which she returned her caresses.

“Mercy on me, madam,” cried Mrs Belfield, who during this time had

been busily employed in sweeping the hearth, wiping some slops upon the

table, and smoothing her handkerchief and apron, “why the girl's enough

to smother you. Henny, how can you be so troublesome? I never saw you

behave in this way before.”

“Miss Beverley, madam,” said Henrietta, again retreating, “is so kind as

to pardon me, and I was so much surprised at seeing her, that I hardly

knew what I was about.”

“The young ladies, ma'am,” said Mr Hobson, “have a mighty way of

saluting one another till such time as they get husbands: and then

I'll warrant you they can meet without any salutation at all. That's my

remark, at least, and what I've seen of the world has set me upon making

it.”

This speech led Cecilia to check, however artless, the tenderness of

her fervent young friend, whom she was much teized by meeting in such

company, but who seemed not to dare understand the frequent looks which

she gave her expressive of a wish to be alone with her.

“Come, ladies,” continued the facetious Mr Hobson, “what if we were all

to sit down, and have a good dish of tea? and suppose, Mrs Belfield,

you was to order us a fresh round of toast and butter? do you think the

young ladies here would have any objection? and what if we were to have

a little more water in the tea-kettle? not forgetting a little more tea

in the teapot. What I say is this, let us all be comfortable; that's my

notion of things.”

“And a very good notion too,” said Mrs Belfield, “for you who have

nothing to vex you. Ah, ma'am, you have heard, I suppose, about my son?

gone off! nobody knows where! left that lord's house, where he might

have lived like a king, and gone out into the wide world nobody knows

for what!”

“Indeed?” said Cecilia, who, from seeing him in London concluded he was

again with his family, “and has he not acquainted you where he is?”

“No, ma'am, no,” cried Mrs Belfield, “he's never once told me where

he is gone, nor let me know the least about the matter, for if I did I

would not taste a dish of tea again for a twelvemonth till I saw him get

back again to that lord's! and I believe in my heart there's never such

another in the three kingdoms, for he has sent here after him I dare say

a score of times. And no wonder, for I will take upon me to say he won't

find his fellow in a hurry, Lord as he is.”

“As to his being a Lord,” said Mr Hobson, “I am one of them that lay no

great stress upon that, unless he has got a good long purse of his own,

and then, to be sure, a Lord's no bad thing. But as to the matter of

saying Lord such a one, how d'ye do? and Lord such a one, what do you

want? and such sort of compliments, why in my mind, it's a mere nothing,

in comparison of a good income. As to your son, ma'am, he did not go

the right way to work. He should have begun with business, and gone into

pleasure afterwards and if he had but done that, I'll be bold to say we

might have had him at this very minute drinking tea with us over this

fireside.”

“My son, Sir,” said Mrs Belfield, rather angrily, “was another sort of

a person than a person of business: he always despised it from a child,

and come of it what may, I am sure he was born to be a gentleman.”

“As to his despising business,” said Mr Hobson, very contemptuously,

“why so much the worse, for business is no such despiseable thing. And

if he had been brought up behind a counter, instead of dangling after

these same Lords, why he might have had a house of his own over his

head, and been as good a man as myself.”

“A house over his head?” said Mrs Belfield, “why he might have had what

he would, and have done what he would, if he had but followed my advice,

and put himself a little forward. I have told him a hundred times to ask

some of those great people he lived amongst for a place at court, for I

know they've so many they hardly know what to do with them, and it was

always my design from the beginning that he should be something of a

great man; but I never could persuade him, though, for anything I know,

as I have often told him, if he had but had a little courage he might

have been an Ambassador by this time. And now, all of a sudden, to be

gone nobody knows where!”--

“I am sorry, indeed,” said Cecilia, who knew not whether most to pity or

wonder at her blind folly; “but I doubt not you will hear of him soon.”

“As to being an Ambassador, ma'am,” said Mr Hobson, “it's talking quite

out of character. Those sort of great people keep things of that kind

for their own poor relations and cousins. What I say is this; a man's

best way is to take care of himself. The more those great people see you

want them, the less they like your company. Let every man be brought up

to business, and then when he's made his fortune, he may walk with his

hat on. Why now there was your friend, ma'am,” turning to Cecilia, “that

shot out his brains without paying any body a souse; pray how was that

being more genteel than standing behind a counter, and not owing a

shilling?”

“Do you think a young lady,” cried Mrs Belfield warmly, “can bear to

hear of such a thing as standing behind a counter? I am sure if my son

had ever done it, I should not expect any lady would so much as look at

him, And yet, though I say it, she might look a good while, and not see

many such persons, let her look where she pleased. And then he has such

a winning manner into the bargain, that I believe in my heart there's

never a lady in the land could say no to him. And yet he has such a

prodigious shyness, I never could make him own he had so much as asked

the question. And what lady can begin first?”

“Why no,” said Mr Hobson, “that would be out of character another way.

Now my notion is this; let every man be agreeable! and then he may ask

what lady he pleases. And when he's a mind of a lady, he should look

upon a frown or two as nothing; for the ladies frown in courtship as a

thing of course; it's just like a man swearing at a coachman; why he's

not a bit more in a passion, only he thinks he sha'n't be minded without

it.”

“Well, for my part,” said Mrs Belfield, “I am sure if I was a young

lady, and most especially if I was a young lady of fortune, and all

that, I should like a modest young gentleman, such as my son, for

example, better by half than a bold swearing young fellow, that would

make a point to have me whether I would or no.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” cried Mr Hobson; “but the young ladies are not of that

way of thinking; they are all for a little life and spirit. Don't I say

right, young ladies?”

Cecilia, who could not but perceive that these speeches was levelled at

herself, felt offended and tired; and finding she had no chance of any

private conversation with Henrietta, arose to take leave: but while

she stopped in the passage to enquire when she could see her alone, a

footman knocked at the door, who, having asked if Mr Belfield lodged

there, and been answered in the affirmative; begged to know whether Miss

Beverley was then in the house?

Cecilia, much surprised, went forward, and told him who she was.

“I have been, madam,” said he, “with a message to you at Mr Monckton's,

in Soho-Square: but nobody knew where you was; and Mr Monckton came out

and spoke to me himself, and said that all he could suppose was that you

might be at this house. So he directed me to come here.”

“And from whom, Sir, is your message?”

“From the honourable Mr Delvile, madam, in St James's-Square. He desires

to know if you shall be at home on Saturday morning, the day after

to-morrow, and whether you can appoint Mr Briggs to meet him by twelve

o'clock exactly, as he sha'n't be able to stay above three minutes.”

Cecilia gave an answer as cold as the message; that she would be in

Soho-Square at the time he mentioned, and acquaint Mr Briggs of his

intention.

The footman then went away; and Henrietta told her, that if she could

call some morning she might perhaps contrive to be alone with her, and

added, “indeed I wish much to see you, if you could possibly do me so

great an honour; for I am very miserable, and have nobody to tell so!

Ah, Miss Beverley! you that have so many friends, and that deserve as

many again, you little know what a hard thing it is to have none!--but

my brother's strange disappearing has half broke our hearts!”

Cecilia was beginning a consolatory speech, in which she meant to

give her private assurances of his health and safety, when she was

interrupted by Mr Albany, who came suddenly into the passage.

Henrietta received him with a look of pleasure, and enquired why he

had so long been absent; but, surprised by the sight of Cecilia, he

exclaimed, without answering her, “why didst thou fail me? why

appoint me to a place thou wert quitting thyself?--thou thing of fair

professions! thou inveigler of esteem! thou vain, delusive promiser of

pleasure!”

“You condemn me too hastily,” said Cecilia; “if I failed in my promise,

it was not owing to caprice or insincerity, but to a real and bitter

misfortune which incapacitated me from keeping it. I shall soon,

however,--nay, I am already at your disposal, if you have any commands

for me.”

“I have always,” answered he, “commands for the rich, for I have always

compassion for the poor.”

“Come to me, then, at Mr Monckton's in Soho-Square,” cried she, and

hastened into her chair, impatient to end a conference which she saw

excited the wonder of the servants, and which also now drew out from

the parlour Mr Hobson and Mrs Belfield. She then kissed her hand to

Henrietta, and ordered the chairmen to carry her home.

It had not been without difficulty that she had restrained herself from

mentioning what she knew of Belfield, when she found his mother and

sister in a state of such painful uncertainty concerning him. But her

utter ignorance of his plans, joined to her undoubted knowledge of his

wish of concealment, made her fear doing mischief by officiousness,

and think it wiser not to betray what she had seen of him, till better

informed of his own views and intentions. Yet, willing to shorten a

suspence so uneasy to them, she determined to entreat Mr Monckton would

endeavour to find him out, and acquaint him with their anxiety.

That gentleman, when she returned to his house, was in a state of mind

by no means enviable. Missing her at tea, he had asked Miss Bennet where

she was, and hearing she had not left word, he could scarce conceal his

chagrin. Knowing, however, how few were her acquaintances in town,

he soon concluded she was with Miss Belfield, but, not satisfied with

sending Mr Delvile's messenger after her, he privately employed one

in whom he trusted for himself, to make enquiries at the house without

saying whence he came.

But though this man was returned, and he knew her safety, he still felt

alarmed; he had flattered himself, from the length of time in which she

had now done nothing without consulting him, she would scarce even think

of any action without his previous concurrence. And he had hoped, by a

little longer use, to make his counsel become necessary, which he knew

to be a very short step from rendering it absolute.

Nor was he well pleased to perceive, by this voluntary excursion,

a struggle to cast off her sadness, and a wish to procure herself

entertainment: it was not that he desired her misery, but he was earnest

that all relief from it should spring from himself: and though far from

displeased that Delvile should lose his sovereignty over her thoughts,

he was yet of opinion that, till his own liberty was restored, he had

less to apprehend from grief indulged, than grief allayed; one could

but lead her to repining retirement, the other might guide her to a

consolatory rival.

He well knew, however, it was as essential to his cause to disguise his

disappointments as his expectations, and, certain that by pleasing

alone he had any chance of acquiring power, he cleared up when Cecilia

returned, who as unconscious of feeling, as of owing any subjection to

him, preserved uncontrolled the right of acting for herself, however

desirous and glad of occasional instruction.

She told him where she had been, and related her meeting Belfield, and

the unhappiness of his friends, and hinted her wish that he could be

informed what they suffered. Mr Monckton, eager to oblige her, went

instantly in search of him, and returning to supper, told her he had

traced him through the Bookseller, who had not the dexterity to parry

his artful enquiries, and had actually appointed him to breakfast in

Soho-Square the next morning.

He had found him, he said, writing, but in high spirits and good humour.

He had resisted, for a while, his invitation on account of his dress,

all his clothes but the very coat which he had on being packed up and

at his mother's: but, when laughed at by Mr Monckton for still

retaining some foppery, he gaily protested what remained of it should

be extinguished; and acknowledging that his shame was no part of his

philosophy, declared he would throw it wholly aside, and, in spite of

his degradation, renew his visits at his house.

“I would not tell him,” Mr Monckton continued, “of the anxiety of his

family; I thought it would come more powerfully from yourself, who,

having seen, can better enforce it.”

Cecilia was very thankful for this compliance with her request, and

anticipated the pleasure she hoped soon to give Henrietta, by the

restoration of a brother so much loved and so regretted.

She sent, mean time, to Mr Briggs the message she had received from Mr

Delvile, and had the satisfaction of an answer that he would observe the

appointment.

CHAPTER iii.

A CONFABULATION.

The next morning, while the family was at breakfast, Belfield, according

to his promise, made his visit.

A high colour overspread his face as he entered the room, resulting from

a sensation of grief at his fallen fortune, and shame at his altered

appearance, which though he endeavoured to cover under an air of

gaiety and unconcern, gave an awkwardness to his manners, and a visible

distress to his countenance: Mr Monckton received him with pleasure, and

Cecilia, who saw the conflict of his philosophy with his pride, dressed

her features once more in smiles, which however faint and heartless,

shewed her desire to reassure him. Miss Bennet, as usual when not called

upon by the master or lady of the house, sat as a cypher; and Lady

Margaret, always disagreeable and repulsive to the friends of her

husband, though she was not now more than commonly ungracious, struck

the quick-feeling and irritable Belfield, to wear an air of rude

superiority meant to reproach him with his disgrace.

This notion, which strongly affected him, made him, for one instant,

hesitate whether he should remain another in the same room with her: but

the friendliness of Mr Monckton, and the gentleness and good breeding of

Cecilia, seemed so studious to make amends for her moroseness, that he

checked his too ready indignation, and took his seat at the table. Yet

was it some time before he could recover even the assumed vivacity which

this suspected insult had robbed him of, sufficiently to enter into

conversation with any appearance of ease or pleasure. But, after

a while, soothed by the attentions of Cecilia and Mr Monckton, his

uneasiness wore off, and the native spirit and liveliness of his

character broke forth with their accustomed energy.

“This good company, I hope,” said he, addressing himself, however, only

to Cecilia, “will not so much _mistake the thing_ as to criticise my

dress of this morning; since it is perfectly according to rule, and to

rule established from time immemorial: but lest any of you should

so much err as to fancy shabby what is only characteristic, I must

endeavour to be beforehand with the malice of conjecture, and have the

honour to inform you, that I am enlisted in the Grub-street regiment, of

the third story, and under the tattered banner of scribbling volunteers!

a race which, if it boasts not the courage of heroes, at least equals

them in enmity. This coat, therefore, is merely the uniform of my

corps, and you will all, I hope, respect it as emblematical of wit and

erudition.”

“We must at least respect you,” said Cecilia, “who thus gaily can sport

with it.”

“Ah, madam!” said he, more seriously, “it is not from you I ought

to look for respect! I must appear to you the most unsteady and

coward-hearted of beings. But lately I blushed to see you from poverty,

though more worthily employed than when I had been seen by you in

affluence; that shame vanquished, another equally narrow took its place,

and yesterday I blushed again that you detected me in a new pursuit,

though I had only quitted my former one from a conviction it was ill

chosen. There seems in human nature a worthlessness not to be conquered!

yet I will struggle with it to the last, and either die in the attempt,

or dare seem that which I am, without adding to the miseries of life,

the sting, the envenomed sting of dastardly false shame!”

“Your language is wonderfully altered within this twelvemonth,” said Mr

Monckton; “_the worthlessness of human nature_! the _miseries of

life_! this from you! so lately the champion of human nature, and the

panegyrist of human life!”

“Soured by personal disappointment,” answered he, “I may perhaps speak

with too much acrimony; yet, ultimately, my opinions have not much

changed. Happiness is given to us with more liberality than we are

willing to confess; it is judgment only that is dealt us sparingly, and

of that we have so little, that when felicity is before us, we turn

to the right or left, or when at the right or left, we proceed strait

forward. It has been so with me; I have sought it at a distance, amidst

difficulty and danger, when all that I could wish has been immediately

within my grasp.”

“It must be owned,” said Mr Monckton, “after what you have suffered from

this world you were wont to defend, there is little reason to wonder at

some change in your opinion.”

“Yet whatever have been my sufferings,” he answered, “I have generally

been involved in them by my own rashness or caprice. My last enterprise

especially, from which my expectations were highest, was the most

ill-judged of any. I considered not how little my way of life had fitted

me for the experiment I was making, how irreparably I was enervated

by long sedentary habits, and how insufficient for bodily strength

was mental resolution. We may fight against partial prejudices, and by

spirit and fortitude we may overcome them; but it will not do to war

with the general tenor of education. We may blame, despise, regret as we

please, but customs long established, and habits long indulged, assume

an empire despotic, though their power is but prescriptive. Opposing

them is vain; Nature herself, when forced aside, is not more elastic in

her rebound.”

“Will you not then,” said Cecilia, “since your experiment has failed,

return again to your family, and to the plan of life you formerly

settled?”

“You speak of them together,” said he, with a smile, “as if you thought

them inseparable; and indeed my own apprehension they would be

deemed so, has made me thus fear to see my friends, since I love not

resistance, yet cannot again attempt the plan of life they would have me

pursue. I have given up my cottage, but my independence is as dear to me

as ever; and all that I have gathered from experience, is to maintain

it by those employments for which my education has fitted me, instead of

seeking it injudiciously by the very road for which it has unqualified

me.”

“And what is this independence,” cried Mr Monckton, “which has thus

bewitched your imagination? a mere idle dream of romance and enthusiasm;

without existence in nature, without possibility in life. In uncivilised

countries, or in lawless times, independence, for a while, may perhaps

stalk abroad; but in a regular government, 'tis only the vision of a

heated brain; one part of a community must inevitably hang upon another,

and 'tis a farce to call either independent, when to break the chain by

which they are linked would prove destruction to both. The soldier wants

not the officer more than the officer the soldier, nor the tenant

the landlord, more than the landlord the tenant. The rich owe their

distinction, their luxuries, to the poor, as much as the poor owe their

rewards, their necessaries, to the rich.”

“Man treated as an Automaton,” answered Belfield, “and considered merely

with respect to his bodily operations, may indeed be called dependent,

since the food by which he lives, or, rather, without which he

dies, cannot wholly be cultivated and prepared by his own hands: but

considered in a nobler sense, he deserves not the degrading epithet;

speak of him, then, as a being of feeling and understanding, with pride

to alarm, with nerves to tremble, with honour to satisfy, and with a

soul to be immortal!--as such, may he not claim the freedom of his own

thoughts? may not that claim be extended to the liberty of speaking,

and the power of being governed by them? and when thoughts, words, and

actions are exempt from controul, will you brand him with dependency

merely because the Grazier feeds his meat, and the Baker kneads his

bread?”

“But who is there in the whole world,” said Mr Monckton, “extensive

as it is, and dissimilar as are its inhabitants, that can pretend to

assert, his thoughts, words, and actions, are exempt from controul? even

where interest, which you so much disdain, interferes not,--though where

that is I confess I cannot tell!--are we not kept silent where we wish

to reprove by the fear of offending? and made speak where we wish to be

silent by the desire of obliging? do we not bow to the scoundrel as low

as to the man of honour? are we not by mere forms kept standing when

tired? made give place to those we despise? and smiles to those we hate?

or if we refuse these attentions, are we not regarded as savages, and

shut out of society?”

“All these,” answered Belfield, “are so merely matters of ceremony, that

the concession can neither cost pain to the proud, nor give pleasure to

the vain. The bow is to the coat, the attention is to the rank, and the

fear of offending ought to extend to all mankind. Homage such as this

infringes not our sincerity, since it is as much a matter of course as

the dress that we wear, and has as little reason to flatter a man as the

shadow which follows him. I no more, therefore, hold him deceitful for

not opposing this pantomimical parade, than I hold him to be dependent

for eating corn he has not sown.”

“Where, then, do you draw the line? and what is the boundary beyond

which your independence must not step?”

“I hold that man,” cried he, with energy, “to be independent, who treats

the Great as the Little, and the Little as the Great, who neither exults

in riches nor blushes in poverty, who owes no man a groat, and who

spends not a shilling he has not earned.”

“You will not, indeed, then, have a very numerous acquaintance, if this

is the description of those with whom you purpose to associate! but is

it possible you imagine you can live by such notions? why the Carthusian

in his monastery, who is at least removed from temptation, is not

mortified so severely as a man of spirit living in the world, who would

prescribe himself such rules.”

“Not merely have I prescribed,” returned Belfield, “I have already put

them in practice; and far from finding any pennance, I never before

found happiness. I have now adopted, though poor, the very plan of life

I should have elected if rich; my pleasure, therefore, is become my

business, and my business my pleasure.”

“And is this plan,” cried Monckton, “nothing more than turning

Knight-errant to the Booksellers?”

“'Tis a Knight-errantry,” answered Belfield, laughing, “which, however

ludicrous it may seem to you, requires more soul and more brains than

any other. Our giants may, indeed, be only windmills, but they must be

attacked with as much spirit, and conquered with as much bravery, as

any fort or any town, in time of war [to] be demolished; and though the

siege, I must confess, may be of less national utility, the assailants

of the quill have their honour as much at heart as the assailants of the

sword.”

“I suppose then,” said Monckton, archly, “if a man wants a biting

lampoon, or an handsome panegyric, some newspaper scandal, or a sonnet

for a lady--”

“No, no,” interrupted Belfield eagerly, “if you imagine me a hireling

scribbler for the purposes of defamation or of flattery, you as little

know my situation as my character. My subjects shall be my own, and my

satire shall be general. I would as much disdain to be personal with an

anonymous pen, as to attack an unarmed man in the dark with a dagger I

had kept concealed.”

A reply of rallying incredulity was rising to the lips of Mr Monckton,

when reading in the looks of Cecilia an entire approbation of this

sentiment, he checked his desire of ridicule, and exclaimed, “spoken

like a man of honour, and one whose works may profit the world!”

“From my earliest youth to the present hour,” continued Belfield,

“literature has been the favourite object of my pursuit, my recreation

in leisure, and my hope in employment. My propensity to it, indeed,

has been so ungovernable, that I may properly call it the source of my

several miscarriages throughout life. It was the bar to my preferment,

for it gave me a distaste to other studies; it was the cause of my

unsteadiness in all my undertakings, because to all I preferred it.

It has sunk me to distress, it has involved me in difficulties; it

has brought me to the brink of ruin by making me neglect the means

of living, yet never, till now, did I discern it might itself be my

support.”

“I am heartily glad, Sir,” said Cecilia, “your various enterprizes and

struggles have at length ended in a project which promises you so much

satisfaction. But you will surely suffer your sister and your mother

to partake of it? for who is there that your prosperity will make so

happy?”

“You do them infinite honour, madam, by taking any interest in their

affairs; but to own to you the truth, what to me appears prosperity,

will to them wear another aspect. They have looked forward to my

elevation with expectations the most improbable, and thought everything

within my grasp, with a simplicity incredible. But though their hopes

were absurd, I am pained by their disappointment, and I have not courage

to meet their tears, which I am sure will not be spared when they see

me.”

“'Tis from tenderness, then,” said Cecilia, half smiling, “that you are

cruel, and from affection to your friends that you make them believe you

have forgotten them?”

There was a delicacy in this reproach exactly suited to work upon

Belfield, who feeling it with quickness, started up, and cried, “I

believe I am wrong!--I will go to them this moment!”

Cecilia felt eager to second the generous impulse; but Mr Monckton,

laughing at his impetuosity, insisted he should first finish his

breakfast.

“Your friends,” said Cecilia, “can have no mortification so hard to bear

as your voluntary absence; and if they see but that you are happy, they

will soon be reconciled to whatever situation you may chuse.”

“Happy!” repeated he, with animation, “Oh I am in Paradise! I am come

from a region in the first rude state of nature, to civilization and

refinement! the life I led at the cottage was the life of a savage; no

intercourse with society, no consolation from books; my mind locked up,

every source dried of intellectual delight, and no enjoyment in my power

but from sleep and from food. Weary of an existence which thus levelled

me with a brute, I grew ashamed of the approximation, and listening to

the remonstrance of my understanding, I gave up the precipitate plan, to

pursue one more consonant to reason. I came to town, hired a room, and

sent for pen, ink and paper: what I have written are trifles, but the

Bookseller has not rejected them. I was settled, therefore, in a moment,

and comparing my new occupation with that I had just quitted, I seemed

exalted on the sudden from a mere creature of instinct, to a rational

and intelligent being. But when first I opened a book, after so long

an abstinence from all mental nourishment,--Oh it was rapture! no

half-famished beggar regaled suddenly with food, ever seized on his

repast with more hungry avidity.”

“Let fortune turn which way it will,” cried Monckton, “you may defy all

its malice, while possessed of a spirit of enjoyment which nothing can

subdue!”

“But were you not, Sir,” said Cecilia, “as great an enthusiast the other

day for your cottage, and for labour?”

“I was, madam; but there my philosophy was erroneous: in my ardour

to fly from meanness and from dependence, I thought in labour and

retirement I should find freedom and happiness; but I forgot that my

body was not seasoned for such work, and considered not that a

mind which had once been opened by knowledge, could ill endure the

contraction of dark and perpetual ignorance. The approach, however, of

winter, brought me acquainted with my mistake. It grew cold, it grew

bleak; little guarded against the inclemency of the ----, I felt its

severity in every limb, and missed a thousand indulgencies which in

possession I had never valued. To rise at break of day, chill, freezing,

and comfortless! no sun abroad, no fire at home! to go out in all

weather to work, that work rough, coarse, and laborious!--unused to such

hardships, I found I could not bear them, and, however unwillingly, was

compelled to relinquish the attempt.”

Breakfast now being over, he again arose to take leave.

“You are going, then, Sir,” said Cecilia, “immediately to your friends?”

“No, madam,” answered he hesitating, “not just this moment; to-morrow

morning perhaps,--but it is now late, and I have business for the rest

of the day.”

“Ah, Mr Monckton!” cried Cecilia, “what mischief have you done by

occasioning this delay!”

“This goodness, madam,” said Belfield, “my sister can never sufficiently

acknowledge. But I will own, that though, just now, in a warm moment, I

felt eager to present myself to her and my mother, I rather wish, now I

am cooler, to be saved the pain of telling them in person my situation.

I mean, therefore, first to write to them.”

“You will not fail, then, to see them to-morrow?”

“Certainly--I think not.”

“Nay, but certainly you _must_ not, for I shall call upon them to-day,

and assure them they may expect you. Can I soften your task of writing

by giving them any message from you?”

“Ah, madam, have a care!” cried he; “this condescension to a poor author

may be more dangerous than you have any suspicion! and before you have

power to help yourself, you may see your name prefixed to the Dedication

of some trumpery pamphlet!”

“I will run,” cried she, “all risks; remember, therefore, you will be

responsible for the performance of my promise.”

“I will be sure,” answered he, “not to forget what reflects so much

honour upon myself.”

Cecilia was satisfied by this assent, and he then went away.

“A strange flighty character!” cried Mr Monckton, “yet of uncommon

capacity, and full of genius. Were he less imaginative, wild and

eccentric, he has abilities for any station, and might fix and

distinguish himself almost where-ever he pleased.”

“I knew not,” said Cecilia, “the full worth of steadiness and prudence

till I knew this young man; for he has every thing else; talents the

most striking, a love of virtue the most elevated, and manners the most

pleasing; yet wanting steadiness and prudence, he can neither act with

consistency nor prosper with continuance.”

“He is well enough,” said Lady Margaret, who had heard the whole

argument in sullen taciturnity, “he is well enough, I say; and there

comes no good from young women's being so difficult.”

Cecilia, offended by a speech which implied a rude desire to dispose

of her, went up stairs to her own room; and Mr Monckton, always enraged

when young men and Cecilia were alluded to in the same sentence, retired

to his library.

She then ordered a chair, and went to Portland-street, to fulfil what

she had offered to Belfield, and to revive his mother and sister by the

pleasure of the promised interview.

She found them together: and her intelligence being of equal consequence

to both, she did not now repine at the presence of Mrs Belfield.

She made her communication with the most cautious attention to their

characters, softening the ill she had to relate with respect to

Belfield's present way of living, by endeavouring to awaken affection

and joy from the prospect of the approaching meeting. She counselled

them as much as possible to restrain their chagrin at his misfortunes,

which he would but construe into reproach of his ill management; and

she represented that when once he was restored to his family, he might

almost imperceptibly be led into some less wild and more profitable

scheme of business.

When she had told all she thought proper to relate, kindly interspersing

her account with the best advice and best comfort she could suggest,

she made an end of her visit; for the affliction of Mrs Belfield

upon hearing the actual situation of her son, was so clamorous and

unappeaseable, that, little wondering at Belfield's want of courage to

encounter it, and having no opportunity in such a storm to console the

soft Henrietta, whose tears flowed abundantly that her brother should

thus be fallen, she only promised before she left town to see her again,

and beseeching Mrs Belfield to moderate her concern, was glad to leave

the house, where her presence had no power to quiet their distress.

She passed the rest of the day in sad reflections upon the meeting

she was herself to have the next morning with Mr Delvile. She wished

ardently to know whether his son was gone abroad, and whether Mrs

Delvile was recovered, whose health, in her own letter, was mentioned in

terms the most melancholy: yet neither of these enquiries could she even

think of making, since reasonably, without them, apprehensive of some

reproach.

CHAPTER iv.

A WRANGLING.

Mr Monckton, the next day, as soon as breakfast was over, went out,

to avoid showing, even to Cecilia, the anxiety he felt concerning the

regulation of her fortune, and arrangement of her affairs. He strongly,

however, advised her not to mention her large debt, which, though

contracted in the innocence of the purest benevolence, would incur

nothing but reproof and disapprobation, from all who only heard of it,

when they heard of its inutility.

At eleven o'clock, though an hour before the time appointed, while

Cecilia was sitting in Lady Margaret's dressing room, “with sad civility

and an aching head,” she was summoned to Mr Briggs in the parlour.

He immediately began reproaching her with having eloped from him, in the

summer, and with the various expences she had caused him from useless

purchases and spoilt provisions. He then complained of Mr Delvile, whom

he charged with defrauding him of his dues; but observing in the midst

of his railing her dejection of countenance, he suddenly broke off, and

looking at her with some concern, said, “what's the matter, Ducky? a'n't

well? look as if you could not help it.”

“O yes,” cried Cecilia, “I thank you, Sir, I am very well.”

“What do you look so blank for, then?” said he, “bay? what are fretting

for?--crossed in love?--lost your sweetheart?”

“No, no, no,” cried she, with quickness.

“Never mind, my chick, never mind,” said he, pinching her cheek, with

resumed good humour, “more to be had; if one won't snap, another will;

put me in a passion by going off from me with that old grandee, or would

have got one long ago. Hate that old Don; used me very ill; wish I could

trounce him. Thinks more of a fusty old parchment than the price of

stocks. Fit for nothing but to be stuck upon an old monument for a

Death's head.”

He then told her that her accounts were all made out, and he was ready

at any time to produce them; he approved much of her finishing wholly

with the _old Don_, who had been a mere cypher in the executorship; but

he advised her not to think of taking her money into her own hands, as

he was willing to keep the charge of it himself till she was married.

Cecilia, thanking him for the offer, said she meant now to make her

acknowledgments for all the trouble he had already taken, but by no

means purposed to give him any more.

He debated the matter with her warmly, told her she had no chance to

save herself from knaves and cheats, but by trusting to nobody but

himself, and informing her what interest he had already made of her

money, enquired how she would set about getting more?

Cecilia, though prejudiced against him by Mr Monckton, knew not how to

combat his arguments; yet conscious that scarce any part of the money

to which he alluded was in fact her own, she could not yield to them.

He was, however, so stubborn and so difficult to deal with, that she at

length let him talk without troubling herself to answer, and privately

determined to beg Mr Monckton would fight her battle.

She was not, therefore, displeased by his interruption, though very much

surprised by the sight of his person, when, in the midst of Mr Briggs's

oratory, Mr Hobson entered the parlour.

“I ask pardon, ma'am,” cried he, “if I intrude; but I made free to call

upon the account of two ladies that are acquaintances of yours, that are

quite, as one may say, at their wit's ends.”

“What is the matter with them, Sir?”

“Why, ma'am, no great matter, but mothers are soon frightened, and when

once they are upon the fret, one may as well talk to the boards! they

know no more of reasoning and arguing, than they do of a shop ledger!

however, my maxim is this; every body in their way; one has no more

right to expect courageousness from a lady in them cases, than one has

from a child in arms; for what I say is, they have not the proper use of

their heads, which makes it very excusable.”

“But what has occasioned any alarm? nothing, I hope, is the matter with

Miss Belfield?”

“No, ma'am; thank God, the young lady enjoys her health very well: but

she is taking on just in the same way as her mamma, as what can be more

natural? Example, ma'am, is apt to be catching, and one lady's crying

makes another think she must do the same, for a little thing serves for

a lady's tears, being they can cry at any time: but a man is quite of

another nature, let him but have a good conscience, and be clear of the

world, and I'll engage he'll not wash his face without soap! that's what

I say!”

“Will, will!” cried Mr Briggs, “do it myself! never use soap; nothing

but waste; take a little sand; does as well.”

“Let every man have his own proposal;” answered Hobson; “for my part, I

take every morning a large bowl of water, and souse my whole head in it;

and then when I've rubbed it dry, on goes my wig, and I am quite fresh

and agreeable: and then I take a walk in Tottenham Court Road as far as

the Tabernacle, or thereabouts, and snuff in a little fresh country

air, and then I come back, with a good wholesome appetite, and in a fine

breathing heat, asking the young lady's pardon; and I enjoy my pot of

fresh tea, and my round of hot toast and butter, with as good a relish

as if I was a Prince.”

“Pot of fresh tea,” cried Briggs, “bring a man to ruin; toast and

butter! never suffer it in my house. Breakfast on water-gruel, sooner

done; fills one up in a second. Give it my servants; can't eat much of

it. Bob 'em there!” nodding significantly.

“Water-gruel!” exclaimed Mr Hobson, “why I could not get it down if I

might have the world for it! it would make me quite sick, asking the

young lady's pardon, by reason I should always think I was preparing for

the small-pox. My notion is quite of another nature; the first thing I

do is to have a good fire; for what I say is this, if a man is cold in

his fingers, it's odds if ever he gets warm in his purse! ha! ha! warm,

you take me, Sir? I mean a pun. Though I ought to ask pardon, for I

suppose the young lady don't know what I am a saying.”

“I should indeed be better pleased, Sir,” said Cecilia, “to hear what

you have to say about Miss Belfield.”

“Why, ma'am, the thing is this; we have been expecting the young

'Squire, as I call him, all the morning, and he has never come; so Mrs

Belfield, not knowing where to send after him, was of opinion he might

be here, knowing your kindness to him, and that.”

“You make the enquiry at the wrong place, Sir,” said Cecilia, much

provoked by the implication it conveyed; “if Mr Belfield is in this

house, you must seek him with Mr Monckton.”

“You take no offence, I hope, ma'am, at my just asking of the question?

for Mrs Belfield crying, and being in that dilemma, I thought I could

do no less than oblige her by coming to see if the young gentleman was

here.”

“What's this? what's this?” cried Mr Briggs eagerly; “who are talking

of? hay?--who do mean? is this the sweet heart? eh, Duck?”

“No, no, Sir,” cried Cecilia.

“No tricks! won't be bit! who is it? will know; tell me, I say!”

“_I'll_ tell Sir,” cried Mr Hobson; “it's a very handsome young

gentleman, with as fine a person, and as genteel a way of behaviour, and

withal, as pretty a manner of dressing himself, and that, as any lady

need desire. He has no great head for business, as I am told, but the

ladies don't stand much upon that topic, being they know nothing of it

themselves.”

“Has got the ready?” cried Mr Briggs, impatiently; “can cast an account?

that's the point; can come down handsomely? eh?”

“Why as to that, Sir, I'm not bound to speak to a gentleman's private

affairs. What's my own, is my own, and what is another person's, is

another person's; that's my way of arguing, and that's what I call

talking to the purpose.”

“Dare say he's a rogue! don't have him, chick. Bet a wager i'n't

worth two shillings; and that will go for powder and pomatum; hate a

plaistered pate; commonly a numscull: love a good bob-jerom.”

“Why this is talking quite wide of the mark,” said Mr Hobson, “to

suppose a young lady of fortunes would marry a man with a bob-jerom.

What I say is, let every body follow their nature; that's the way to be

comfortable; and then if they pay every one his own, who's a right to

call 'em to account, whether they wear a bob-jerom, or a pig-tail down

to the calves of their legs?”

“Ay, ay,” cried Briggs, sneeringly, “or whether they stuff their gullets

with hot rounds of toast and butter.”

“And what if they do, Sir?” returned Hobson, a little angrily; “when a

man's got above the world, where's the harm of living a little genteel?

as to a round of toast and butter, and a few oysters, fresh opened, by

way of a damper before dinner, no man need be ashamed of them, provided

he pays as he goes: and as to living upon water-gruel, and scrubbing

one's flesh with sand, one might as well be a galley-slave at once. You

don't understand life, Sir, I see that.”

“Do! do!” cried Briggs, speaking through his shut teeth; “you're out

there! oysters!--come to ruin, tell you! bring you to jail!”

“To jail, Sir?” exclaimed Hobson, “this is talking quite ungenteel! let

every man be civil; that's what I say, for that's the way to make every

thing agreeable but as to telling a man he'll go to jail, and that, it's

tantamount to affronting him.”

A rap at the street-door gave now a new relief to Cecilia, who began to

grow very apprehensive lest the delight of spending money, thus warmly

contested with that of hoarding it, should give rise to a quarrel,

which, between two such sturdy champions for their own opinions, might

lead to a conclusion rather more rough and violent than she desired to

witness: but when the parlour-door opened, instead of Mr Delvile, whom

she now fully expected, Mr Albany made his entrance.

This was rather distressing, as her real business with her guardians

made it proper her conference with them should be undisturbed: and

Albany was not a man with whom a hint that she was engaged could be

risked: but she had made no preparation to guard against interruption,

as her little acquaintance in London had prevented her expecting any

visitors.

He advanced with a solemn air to Cecilia, and, looking as if hardly

determined whether to speak with severity or gentleness, said, “once

more I come to prove thy sincerity; now wilt thou go with me where

sorrow calls thee? sorrow thy charity can mitigate?”

“I am very much concerned,” she answered, “but indeed at present it is

utterly impossible.”

“Again,” cried he, with a look at once stern and disappointed, “again

thou failest me? what wanton trifling! why shouldst thou thus elate a

worn-out mind, only to make it feel its lingering credulity? or why,

teaching me to think I had found an angel, so unkindly undeceive me?”

“Indeed,” said Cecilia, much affected by this reproof, “if you knew how

heavy a loss I had personally suffered--”

“I do know it,” cried he, “and I grieved for thee when I heard it. Thou

hast lost a faithful old friend, a loss which with every setting sun

thou mayst mourn, for the rising sun will never repair it! but was that

a reason for shunning the duties of humanity? was the sight of death a

motive for neglecting the claims of benevolence? ought it not rather to

have hastened your fulfilling them? and should not your own suffering

experience of the brevity of life, have taught you the vanity of all

things but preparing for its end?”

“Perhaps so, but my grief at that time made me think only of myself.”

“And of what else dost thou think now?”

“Most probably of the same person still!” said she, half smiling, “but

yet believe me, I have real business to transact.”

“Frivolous, unmeaning, ever-ready excuses! what business is so important

as the relief of a fellow-creature?”

“I shall not, I hope, there,” answered she, with alacrity, “be backward;

but at least for this morning I must beg to make you my Almoner.”

She then took out her purse.

Mr Briggs and Mr Hobson, whose quarrel had been suspended by the

appearance of a third person, and who had stood during this short

dialogue in silent amazement, having first lost their anger in their

mutual consternation, now lost their consternation in their mutual

displeasure Mr. Hobson felt offended to hear business spoken of

slightly, and Mr Briggs felt enraged at the sight of Cecilia's ready

purse. Neither of them, however, knew which way to interfere, the

stem gravity of Albany, joined to a language too lofty for their

comprehension, intimidating them both. They took, however, the relief of

communing with one another, and Mr Hobson said in a whisper “This, you

must know, is, I am told, a very particular old gentleman; quite what I

call a genius. He comes often to my house, to see my lodger Miss Henny

Belfield, though I never happen to light upon him myself, except once in

the passage: but what I hear of him is this; he makes a practice, as

one may say, of going about into people's houses, to do nothing but find

fault.”

“Shan't get into mine!” returned Briggs, “promise him that! don't half

like him; be bound he's an old sharper.”

Cecilia, mean time, enquired what he desired to have.

“Half a guinea,” he answered.

“Will that do?”

“For those who have nothing,” said he, “it is much. Hereafter, you may

assist them again. Go but and see their distresses, and you will wish to

give them every thing.”

Mr Briggs now, when actually between her fingers he saw the half

guinea, could contain no longer; he twitched the sleeve of her gown, and

pinching her arm, with a look of painful eagerness, said in a whisper

“Don't give it! don't let him have it! chouse him, chouse him! nothing

but an old bite!”

“Pardon me, Sir,” said Cecilia, in a low voice, “his character is very

well known to me.” And then, disengaging her arm from him, she presented

her little offering.

At this sight, Mr Briggs was almost outrageous, and losing in his wrath,

all fear of the stranger, he burst forth with fury into the following

outcries, “Be ruined! see it plainly; be fleeced! be stript! be robbed!

won't have a gown to your back! won't have a shoe to your foot! won't

have a rag in the world! be a beggar in the street! come to the parish!

rot in a jail!--half a guinea at a time!--enough to break the Great

Mogul!”

“Inhuman spirit of selfish parsimony!” exclaimed Albany, “repinest thou

at this loan, given from thousands to those who have worse than nothing?

who pay to-day in hunger for bread they borrowed yesterday from pity?

who to save themselves from the deadly pangs of famine, solicit but what

the rich know not when they possess, and miss not when they give?”

“Anan!” cried Briggs, recovering his temper from the perplexity of

his understanding, at a discourse to which his ears were wholly

unaccustomed, “what d'ye say?”

“If to thyself distress may cry in vain,” continued Albany, “if thy own

heart resists the suppliant's prayer, callous to entreaty, and hardened

in the world, suffer, at least, a creature yet untainted, who melts

at sorrow, and who glows with charity, to pay from her vast wealth a

generous tax of thankfulness, that fate has not reversed her doom, and

those whom she relieves, relieve not her!”

“Anan!” was again all the wondering Mr Briggs could say.

“Pray, ma'am,” said Mr Hobson, to Cecilia, “if it's no offence, was the

Gentleman ever a player?”

“I fancy not, indeed!”

“I ask pardon, then, ma'am; I mean no harm; but my notion was the

gentleman might be speaking something by heart.”

“Is it but on the stage, humanity exists?” cried Albany, indignantly;

“Oh thither hasten, then, ye monopolizers of plenty! ye selfish,

unfeeling engrossers of wealth, which ye dissipate without enjoying,

and of abundance, which ye waste while ye refuse to distribute! thither,

thither haste, if there humanity exists!”

“As to engrossing,” said Mr Hobson, happy to hear at last a word with

which he was familiar, “it's what I never approved myself. My maxim is

this; if a man makes a fair penny, without any underhand dealings, why

he has as much a title to enjoy his pleasure as the Chief Justice, or

the Lord Chancellor: and it's odds but he's as happy as a greater man.

Though what I hold to be best of all, is a clear conscience, with a neat

income of 2 or 3000 a year. That's my notion; and I don't think it's a

bad one.”

“Weak policy of short-sighted ignorance!” cried Albany, “to wish for

what, if used, brings care, and if neglected, remorse! have you not now

beyond what nature craves? why then still sigh for more?”

“Why?” cried Mr Briggs, who by dint of deep attention began now better

to comprehend him, “why to buy in, to be sure! ever hear of stocks, eh?

know any thing of money?”

“Still to make more and more,” cried Albany, “and wherefore? to spend in

vice and idleness, or hoard in chearless misery! not to give succour

to the wretched, not to support the falling; all is for self,

however little wanted, all goes to added stores, or added luxury; no

fellow-creature served, nor even one beggar relieved!”

“Glad of it!” cried Briggs, “glad of it; would not have 'em relieved;

don't like 'em; hate a beggar; ought to be all whipt; live upon

spunging.”

“Why as to a beggar, I must needs say,” cried Mr Hobson, “I am by no

means an approver of that mode of proceeding; being I take 'em all for

cheats: for what I say is this, what a man earns, he earns, and it's no

man's business to enquire what he spends, for a free-born Englishman is

his own master by the nature of the law, and as to his being a subject,

why a duke is no more, nor a judge, nor the Lord High Chancellor, and

the like of those; which makes it tantamount to nothing, being he is

answerable to nobody by the right of Magna Charta: except in cases of

treason, felony, and that. But as to a beggar, it's quite another thing;

he comes and asks me for money; but what has he to shew for it? what

does he bring me in exchange? why a long story that he i'n't worth a

penny! what's that to me? nothing at all. Let every man have his own;

that's my way of arguing.”

“Ungentle mortals!” cried Albany, “in wealth exulting; even in

inhumanity! think you these wretched outcasts have less sensibility

than yourselves? think you, in cold and hunger, they lose those feelings

which even in voluptuous prosperity from time to time disturb you? you

say they are all cheats? 'tis but the niggard cant of avarice, to lure

away remorse from obduracy. Think you the naked wanderer begs from

choice? give him your wealth and try.”

“Give him a whip!” cried Briggs, “sha'n't have a souse! send him to

Bridewell! nothing but a pauper; hate 'em; hate 'em all! full of tricks;

break their own legs, put out their arms, cut off their fingers, snap

their own ancles,--all for what? to get at the chink! to chouse us of

cash! ought to be well flogged; have 'em all sent to the Thames; worse

than the Convicts.”

“Poor subterfuge of callous cruelty! you cheat yourselves, to shun the

fraud of others! and yet, how better do you use the wealth so guarded?

what nobler purpose can it answer to you, than even a chance to snatch

some wretch from sinking? think less how _much_ ye save, and more

for _what_; and then consider how thy full coffers may hereafter make

reparation, for the empty catalogue of thy virtues.”

“Anan!” said Mr Briggs, again lost in perplexity and wonder.

“Oh yet,” continued Albany, turning towards Cecilia, “preach not here

the hardness which ye practice; rather amend yourselves than corrupt

her; and give with liberality what ye ought to receive with gratitude!”

“This is not my doctrine,” cried Hobson; “I am not a near man, neither,

but as to giving at that rate, it's quite out of character. I have as

good a right to my own savings, as to my own gettings; and what I say

is this, who'll give to _me_? let me see that, and it's quite another

thing: and begin who will, I'll be bound to go on with him, pound for

pound, or pence for pence. But as to giving to them beggars, it's what

I don't approve; I pay the poor's rate, and that's what I call charity

enough for any man. But for the matter of living well, and spending

one's money handsomely, and having one's comforts about one, why it's a

thing of another nature, and I can say this for myself, and that is,

I never grudged myself any thing in my life. I always made myself

agreeable, and lived on the best. That's my way.”

“Bad way too,” cried Briggs, “never get on with it, never see beyond

your nose; won't be worth a plum while your head wags!” then, taking

Cecilia apart, “hark'ee, my duck,” he added, pointing to Albany, “who is

that Mr Bounce, eh? what is he?”

“I have known him but a short time, Sir; but I think of him very

highly.”

“Is he a _good_ man? that's the point, is he a _good_ man?”

“Indeed he appears to me uncommonly benevolent and charitable.”

“But that i'n't the thing; is he _warm_? that's the point, is he

_warm_?”

“If you mean _passionate_,” said Cecilia, “I believe the energy of his

manner is merely to enforce what he says.”

“Don't take me, don't take me,” cried he, impatiently; “can come down

with the ready, that's the matter; can chink the little gold boys? eh?”

“Why I rather fear not by his appearance; but I know nothing of his

affairs.”

“What does come for? eh? come a courting?”

“Mercy on me, no!”

“What for then? only a spunging?”

“No, indeed. He seems to have no wish but to assist and plead for

others.”

“All fudge! think he i'n't touched? ay, ay; nothing but a trick! only to

get at the chink: see he's as poor as a rat, talks of nothing but giving

money; a bad sign! if he'd got any, would not do it. Wanted to make

us come down; warrant thought to bam us all! out there! a'n't so soon

gulled.”

A knock at the street door gave now a new interruption, and Mr Delvile

at length appeared.

Cecilia, whom his sight could not fail to disconcert, felt doubly

distressed by the unnecessary presence of Albany and Hobson; she

regretted the absence of Mr Monckton, who could easily have taken them

away; for though without scruple she could herself have acquainted Mr

Hobson she had business, she dreaded offending Albany, whose esteem she

was ambitious of obtaining.

Mr Delvile entered the room with an air stately and erect; he took off

his hat, but deigned not to make the smallest inclination of his head,

nor offered any excuse to Mr Briggs for being past the hour of his

appointment: but having advanced a few paces, without looking either

to the right or left, said, “as I have never acted, my coming may not,

perhaps, be essential; but as my name is in the Dean's Will, and I have

once or twice met the other executors mentioned in it, I think it a duty

I owe to my own heirs to prevent any possible future enquiry or trouble

to them.”

This speech was directly addressed to no one, though meant to be

attended to by every one, and seemed proudly uttered as a mere apology

to himself for not having declined the meeting.

Cecilia, though she recovered from her confusion by the help of her

aversion to this self-sufficiency, made not any answer. Albany retired

to a corner of the room; Mr Hobson began to believe it was time for him

to depart; and Mr Briggs thinking only of the quarrel in which he had

separated with Mr Delvile in the summer, stood swelling with venom,

which he longed for an opportunity to spit out.

Mr Delvile, who regarded this silence as the effect of his awe-inspiring

presence, became rather more complacent; but casting his eyes round the

room, and perceiving the two strangers, he was visibly surprised, and

looking at Cecilia for some explanation, seemed to stand suspended from

the purpose of his visit till he heard one.

Cecilia, earnest to have the business concluded, turned to Mr Briggs,

and said, “Sir, here is pen and ink: are you to write, or am I? or what

is to be done?”

“No, no,” said he, with a sneer, “give it t'other; all in our turn;

don't come before his Grace the Right Honourable Mr Vampus.”

“Before whom, Sir?” said Mr Delvile, reddening.

“Before my Lord Don Pedigree,” answered Briggs, with a spiteful grin,

“know him? eh? ever hear of such a person?”

Mr Delvile coloured still deeper, but turning contemptuously from him,

disdained making any reply.

Mr Briggs, who now regarded him as a defeated man, said exultingly to Mr

Hobson, “what do stand here for?--hay?--fall o' your marrowbones; don't

see 'Squire High and Mighty?”

“As to falling on my marrowbones,” answered Mr Hobson, “it's what I

shall do to no man, except he was the King himself, or the like of that,

and going to make me Chancellor of the Exchequer, or Commissioner of

Excise. Not that I mean the gentleman any offence; but a man's a man,

and for one man to worship another is quite out of law.”

“Must, must!” cried Briggs, “tell all his old grand-dads else: keeps 'em

in a roll; locks 'em in a closet; says his prayers to 'em; can't live

without 'em: likes 'em better than cash!--wish had 'em here! pop 'em all

in the sink!”

“If your intention, Sir,” cried Mr Delvile, fiercely, “is only to insult

me, I am prepared for what measures I shall take. I declined seeing you

in my own house, that I might not be under the same restraint as when it

was my unfortunate lot to meet you last.”

“Who cares?” cried Briggs, with an air of defiance, “what can do, eh?

poke me into a family vault? bind me o' top of an old monument? tie

me to a stinking carcase? make a corpse of me, and call it one of your

famous cousins?--”

“For heaven's sake, Mr Briggs,” interrupted Cecilia, who saw that Mr

Delvile, trembling with passion, scarce refrained lifting up his stick,

“be appeased, and let us finish our business!”

Albany now, hearing in Cecilia's voice the alarm with which she was

seized, came forward and exclaimed, “Whence this unmeaning dissension?

to what purpose this irritating abuse? Oh vain and foolish! live ye so

happily, last ye so long, that time and peace may thus be trifled with?”

“There, there!” cried Briggs, holding up his finger at Mr Delvile, “have

it now! got old Mr Bounce upon you! give you enough of it; promise you

that!”

“Restrain,” continued Albany, “this idle wrath; and if ye have ardent

passions, employ them to nobler uses; let them stimulate acts of virtue,

let them animate deeds of beneficence! Oh waste not spirits that may

urge you to good, lead you to honour, warm you to charity, in poor and

angry words, in unfriendly, unmanly debate!”

Mr Delvile, who from the approach of Albany, had given him his whole

attention, was struck with astonishment at this address, and almost

petrified with wonder at his language and exhortations.

“Why I must own,” said Mr Hobson, “as to this matter I am much of the

same mind myself; for quarreling's a thing I don't uphold; being it

advances one no way; for what I say is this, if a man gets the better,

he's only where he was before, and if he gets worsted, why it's odds but

the laugh's against him: so, if I may make bold to give my verdict, I

would have one of these gentlemen take the other by the hand, and so

put an end to bad words. That's my maxim, and that's what I call being

agreeable.”

Mr Delvile, at the words _one of these gentlemen take the other by the

hand_, looked scornfully upon Mr Hobson, with a frown that expressed his

highest indignation, at being thus familiarly coupled with Mr Briggs.

And then, turning from him to Cecilia, haughtily said, “Are these

two persons,” pointing towards Albany and Hobson, “waiting here to be

witnesses to any transaction?”

“No, Sir, no,” cried Hobson, “I don't mean to intrude, I am going

directly. So you can give me no insight, ma'am,” addressing Cecilia, “as

to where I might light upon Mr Belfield?”

“Me? no!” cried she, much provoked by observing that Mr Delvile suddenly

looked at her.

“Well, ma'am, well, I mean no harm: only I hold it that the right way to

hear of a young gentleman, is to ask for him of a young lady: that's my

maxim. Come, Sir,” to Mr Briggs, “you and I had like to have fallen out,

but what I say is this; let no man bear malice; that's my way: so I hope

we part without ill blood?”

“Ay, ay;” said Mr Briggs, giving him a nod.

“Well, then,” added Hobson, “I hope the good-will may go round, and that

not only you and I, but these two good old gentlemen will also lend a

hand.”

Mr Delvile now was at a loss which way to turn for very rage; but after

looking at every one with a face flaming with ire, he said to Cecilia,

“If you have collected together these persons for the purpose of

affronting me, I must beg you to remember I am not one to be affronted

with impunity!”

Cecilia, half frightened, was beginning an answer that disclaimed any

such intention, when Albany, with the most indignant energy, called out,

“Oh pride of heart, with littleness of soul! check this vile arrogance,

too vain for man, and spare to others some part of that lenity thou

nourishest for thyself, or justly bestow on thyself that contempt thou

nourishest for others!”

And with these words he sternly left the house.

The thunderstruck Mr Delvile began now to fancy that all the demons

of torment were designedly let loose upon him, and his surprise and

resentment operated so powerfully that it was only in broken sentences

he could express either. “Very extraordinary!--a new method of

conduct!--liberties to which I am not much used!--impertinences I shall

not hastily forget,--treatment that would scarce be pardonable to a

person wholly unknown!--”

“Why indeed, Sir,” said Hobson, “I can't but say it was rather a cut up;

but the old gentleman is what one may call a genius, which makes it a

little excusable; for he does things all his own way, and I am told it's

the same thing who he speaks to, so he can but find fault, and that.”

“Sir,” interrupted the still more highly offended Mr Delvile, “what

_you_ may be told is extremely immaterial to _me_; and I must take the

liberty to hint to you, a conversation of this easy kind is not what I

am much in practice in hearing.”

“Sir, I ask pardon,” said Hobson, “I meant nothing but what was

agreeable; however, I have done, and I wish you good day. Your humble

servant, ma'am, and I hope, Sir,” to Mr Briggs, “you won't begin bad

words again?”

“No, no,” said Briggs, “ready to make up; all at end; only don't much

like _Spain_, that's all!” winking significantly, “nor a'n't over fond

of a _skeleton_!”

Mr Hobson now retired; and Mr Delvile and Mr Briggs, being both wearied

and both in haste to have done, settled in about five minutes all for

which they met, after passing more than an hour in agreeing what that

was.

Mr Briggs then, saying he had an engagement upon business, declined

settling his own accounts till another time, but promised to see Cecilia

again soon, and added, “be sure take care of that old Mr Bounce! cracked

in the noddle; see that with half an eye! better not trust him! break

out some day: do you a mischief!”

He then went away: but while the parlour-door was still open, to the no

little surprise of Cecilia, the servant announced Mr Belfield. He hardly

entered the room, and his countenance spoke haste and eagerness. “I have

this moment, madam,” he said, “been informed a complaint has been lodged

against me here, and I could not rest till I had the honour of assuring

you, that though I have been rather dilatory, I have not neglected my

appointment, nor has the condescension of your interference been thrown

away.”

He then bowed, shut the door, and ran off Cecilia, though happy to

understand by this speech that he was actually restored to his family,

was sorry at these repeated intrusions in the presence of Mr Delvile,

who was now the only one that remained.

She expected every instant that he would ring for his chair, which he

kept in waiting; but, after a pause of some continuance, to her equal

surprise and disturbance, he made the following speech. “As it is

probable I am now for the last time alone with you, ma'am, and as it is

certain we shall meet no more upon business, I cannot, in justice to my

own character, and to the respect I retain for the memory of the Dean,

your uncle, take a final leave of the office with which he was pleased

to invest me, without first fulfilling my own ideas of the duty it

requires from me, by giving you some counsel relating to your future

establishment.”

This was not a preface much to enliven Cecilia; it prepared her for such

speeches as she was least willing to hear, and gave to her the mixt and

painful sensation of spirits depressed, with ride alarmed.

“My numerous engagements,” he continued, “and the appropriation of my

time, already settled, to their various claims, must make me brief in

what I have to represent, and somewhat, perhaps, abrupt in coming to the

purpose. But that you will excuse.”

Cecilia disdained to humour this arrogance by any compliments or

concessions: she was silent, therefore; and when they were both seated,

he went on.

“You are now at a time of life when it is natural for young women to

wish for some connection: and the largeness of your fortune will remove

from you such difficulties as prove bars to the pretensions, in this

expensive age, of those who possess not such advantages. It would have

been some pleasure to me, while I yet considered you as my Ward, to have

seen you properly disposed of: but as that time is past, I can only give

you some general advice, which you may follow or neglect as you think

fit. By giving it, I shall satisfy myself; for the rest, I am not

responsible.”

He paused; but Cecilia felt less and less inclination to make use of the

opportunity by speaking in her turn.

“Yet though, as I just now hinted, young women of large fortunes may

have little trouble in finding themselves establishments, they ought

not, therefore, to trifle when proper ones are in their power, nor to

suppose themselves equal to any they may chance to desire.”

Cecilia coloured high at this pointed reprehension; but feeling her

disgust every moment encrease, determined to sustain herself with

dignity, and at least not suffer him to perceive the triumph of his

ostentation and rudeness.

“The proposals,” he continued, “of the Earl of Ernolf had always my

approbation; it was certainly an ill-judged thing to neglect such an

opportunity of being honourably settled. The clause of the name was, to

_him_, immaterial; since his own name half a century ago was unheard of,

and since he is himself only known by his title. He is still, however,

I have authority to acquaint you, perfectly well disposed to renew his

application to you.”

“I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia coldly, “to hear it.”

“You have, perhaps, some other better offer in view?”

“No, Sir,” cried she, with spirit, “nor even in desire.”

“Am I, then, to infer that some inferior offer has more chance of your

approbation?”

“There is no reason, Sir, to infer any thing; I am content with my

actual situation, and have, at present, neither prospect nor intention

of changing it.”

“I perceive, but without surprise, your unwillingness to discuss

the subject; nor do I mean to press it: I shall merely offer to your

consideration one caution, and then relieve you from my presence. Young

women of ample fortunes, who are early independent, are sometimes apt

to presume they may do every thing with impunity; but they are mistaken;

they are as liable to censure as those who are wholly unprovided for.”

“I hope, Sir,” said Cecilia, staring, “this at least is a caution rather

drawn from my situation than my behaviour?”

“I mean not, ma'am, narrowly to go into, or investigate the subject;

what I have said you may make your own use of; I have only to observe

further, that when young women, at your time of life, are at all

negligent of so nice a thing as reputation, they commonly live to repent

it.”

He then arose to go, but Cecilia, not more offended than amazed, said,

“I must beg, Sir, you will explain yourself!”

“Certainly this matter,” he answered, “must be immaterial to _me_: yet,

as I have once been your guardian by the nomination of the Dean

your uncle, I cannot forbear making an effort towards preventing any

indiscretion: and frequent visits to a young man--”

“Good God! Sir,” interrupted Cecilia, “what is it you mean?”

“It can certainly, as I said before, be nothing to _me_, though I should

be glad to see you in better hands: but I cannot suppose you have been

led to take such steps without some serious plan; and I would advise

you, without loss of time, to think better of what you are about.”

“Should I think, Sir, to eternity,” cried Cecilia, “I could never

conjecture what you mean!”

“You may not chuse,” said he, proudly, “to understand me; but I have

done. If it had been in my power to have interfered in your service with

my Lord Derford, notwithstanding my reluctance to being involved in any

fresh employment, I should have made a point of not refusing it: but

this young man is nobody,--a very imprudent connection--”

“What young man, Sir?”

“Nay, _I_ know nothing of him! it is by no means likely I should: but as

I had already been informed of your attention to him, the corroborating

incidents of my servant's following you to his house, his friend's

seeking him at yours, and his own waiting upon you this morning; were

not well calculated to make me withdraw my credence to it.”

“Is it, then, Mr Belfield, Sir, concerning whom you draw these

inferences, from circumstances the most accidental and unmeaning?”

“It is by no means my practice,” cried he, haughtily, and with evident

marks of high displeasure at this speech, “to believe any thing lightly,

or without even unquestionable authority; what once, therefore, I have

credited, I do not often find erroneous. Mistake not, however, what I

have said into supposing I have any objection to your marrying; on the

contrary, it had been for the honour of my family had you been married a

year ago I should not then have suffered the degradation of seeing a son

of the first expectations in the kingdom upon the point of renouncing

his birth, nor a woman of the first distinction ruined in her health,

and broken for ever in her constitution.”

The emotions of Cecilia at this speech were too powerful for

concealment; her colour varied, now reddening with indignation, now

turning pale with apprehension; she arose, she trembled and sat down,

she arose again, but not knowing what to say or what to do, again sat

down.

Mr Delvile then, making a stiff bow, wished her good morning.

“Go not so, Sir!” cried she, in faltering accents; “let me at least

convince you of the mistake with regard to Mr Belfield--”

“My mistakes, ma'am,” said he, with a contemptuous smile, “are perhaps

not easily convicted: and I may possibly labour under others that

would give you no less trouble: it may therefore be better to avoid any

further disquisition.”

“No, not better,” answered she, again recovering her courage from this

fresh provocation; “I fear no disquisition; on the contrary, it is my

interest to solicit one.”

“This intrepidity in a young woman,” said he, ironically, “is certainly

very commendable; and doubtless, as you are your own mistress, your

having run out great part of your fortune, is nothing beyond what you

have a right to do.”

“Me!” cried Cecilia, astonished, “run out great part of my fortune!”

“Perhaps that is another _mistake_! I have not often been so

unfortunate; and you are not, then, in debt?”

“In debt, Sir?”

“Nay, I have no intention to inquire into your affairs. Good morning to

you, ma'am.”

“I beg, I entreat, Sir, that you will stop!--make me, at least,

understand what you mean, whether you deign to hear my justification or

not.”

“O, I am mistaken, it seems! misinformed, deceived; and you have neither

spent more than you have received, nor taken up money of Jews? your

minority has been clear of debts? and your fortune, now you are of age,

will be free from incumbrances?”

Cecilia, who now began to understand him, eagerly answered, “do you

mean, Sir, the money which I took up last spring?”

“O no; by no means, I conceive the whole to be a _mistake_!”

And he went to the door.

“Hear me but a moment, Sir!” cried she hastily, following him; “since

you know of that transaction, do not refuse to listen to its occasion; I

took up the money for Mr Harrel; it was all, and solely for him.”

“For Mr Harrel, was it?” said he, with an air of supercilious

incredulity; “that was rather an unlucky step. Your servant, ma'am.”

And he opened the door.

“You will not hear me, then? you will not credit me?” cried she in the

cruellest agitation.

“Some other time, ma'am; at present my avocations are too numerous to

permit me.”

And again, stiffly bowing, he called to his servants, who were waiting

in the hall, and put himself into his chair.

CHAPTER v.

A SUSPICION.

Cecilia was now left in a state of perturbation that was hardly to be

endured. The contempt with which she had been treated during the whole

visit was nothing short of insult, but the accusations with which it was

concluded did not more irritate than astonish her.

That some strange prejudice had been taken against her, even more than

belonged to her connection with young Delvile, the message brought her

by Dr Lyster had given her reason to suppose: what that prejudice was

she now knew, though how excited she was still ignorant; but she found

Mr Delvile had been informed she had taken up money of a Jew, without

having heard it was for Mr Harrel, and that he had been acquainted with

her visits in Portland-street, without seeming to know Mr Belfield had

a sister. Two charges such as these, so serious in their nature, and so

destructive of her character, filled her with horror and consternation,

and even somewhat served to palliate his illiberal and injurious

behaviour.

But how reports thus false and thus disgraceful should be raised, and by

what dark work of slander and malignity they had been spread, remained a

doubt inexplicable. They could not, she was certain, be the mere rumour

of chance, since in both the assertions there was some foundation of

truth, however cruelly perverted, or basely over-charged.

This led her to consider how few people there were not only who had

interest, but who had power to propagate such calumnies; even her

acquaintance with the Belfields she remembered not ever mentioning,

for she knew none of their friends, and none of her own knew them. How,

then, should it be circulated, that she “visited often at the house?”

however be invented that it was from her “attention to the young man?”

Henrietta, she was sure, was too good and too innocent to be guilty of

such perfidy; and the young man himself had always shewn a modesty and

propriety that manifested his total freedom from the vanity of such a

suspicion, and an elevation of sentiment that would have taught him to

scorn the boast, even if he believed the partiality.

The mother, however, had neither been so modest nor so rational; she had

openly avowed her opinion that Cecilia was in love with her son; and as

that son, by never offering himself, had never been refused, her opinion

had received no check of sufficient force, for a mind so gross and

literal, to change it.

This part, therefore, of the charge she gave to Mrs Belfield, whose

officious and loquacious forwardness she concluded had induced her to

narrate her suspicions, till, step by step, they had reached Mr Delvile.

But though able, by the probability of this conjecture, to account for

the report concerning Belfield, the whole affair of the debt remained a

difficulty not to be solved. Mr Harrel, his wife, Mr Arnott, the Jew and

Mr Monckton, were the only persons to whom the transaction was known;

and though from five, a secret, in the course of so many months, might

easily be supposed likely to transpire, those five were so particularly

bound to silence, not only for her interest but their own, that it was

not unreasonable to believe it as safe among them all, as if solely

consigned to one. For herself, she had revealed it to no creature but Mr

Monckton; not even to Delvile; though, upon her consenting to marry him,

he had an undoubted right to be acquainted with the true state of

her affairs; but such had been the hurry, distress, confusion and

irresolution of her mind at that period, that this whole circumstance

had been driven from it entirely, and she had, since, frequently

blamed herself for such want of recollection. Mr Harrel, for a thousand

reasons, she was certain had never named it; and had the communication

come from his widow or from Mr Arnott, the motives would have been

related as well as the debt, and she had been spared the reproach of

contracting it for purposes of her own extravagance. The Jew, indeed,

was, to her, under no obligation of secrecy, but he had an obligation

far more binding,--he was tied to himself.

A suspicion now arose in her mind which made it thrill with horror;

“good God! she exclaimed, can Mr Monckton---”

She stopt, even to herself;--she checked the idea;--she drove it hastily

from her;--she was certain it was false and cruel,--she hated herself

for having started it.

“No,” cried she, “he is my friend, the confirmed friend of many years,

my well-wisher from childhood, my zealous counsellor and assistant

almost from my birth to this hour:--such perfidy from him would not even

be human!”

Yet still her perplexity was undiminished; the affair was undoubtedly

known, and it only could be known by the treachery of some one entrusted

with it: and however earnestly her generosity combated her rising

suspicions, she could not wholly quell them; and Mr Monckton's strange

aversion to the Delviles, his earnestness to break off her connexion

with them, occurred to her remembrance, and haunted her perforce with

surmises to his disadvantage.

That gentleman, when he came home, found her in this comfortless and

fluctuating state, endeavouring to form conjectures upon what had

happened, yet unable to succeed, but by suggestions which one moment

excited her abhorrence of him, and the next of herself.

He enquired, with his usual appearance of easy friendliness, into what

had passed with her two guardians, and how she had settled her affairs.

She answered without hesitation all his questions, but her manner was

cold and reserved, though her communication was frank.

This was not unheeded by Mr Monckton, who, after a short time, begged to

know if any thing had disturbed her.

Cecilia, ashamed of her doubts, though unable to get rid of them, then

endeavoured to brighten up, and changed the subject to the difficulties

she had had to encounter from the obstinacy of Mr Briggs.

Mr Monckton for a while humoured this evasion; but when, by her

own exertion, her solemnity began to wear off, he repeated his

interrogatory, and would not be satisfied without an answer.

Cecilia, earnest that surmises so injurious should be removed, then

honestly, but without comments, related the scene which had just past

between Mr Delvile and herself.

No comments were, however, wanting to explain to Mr Monckton the change

of her behaviour. “I see,” he cried hastily, “what you cannot but

suspect; and I will go myself to Mr Delvile, and insist upon his

clearing me.”

Cecilia, shocked to have thus betrayed what was passing within her,

assured him his vindication required not such a step, and begged he

would counsel her how to discover this treachery, without drawing from

her concern at it a conclusion so offensive to himself.

He was evidently, however, and greatly disturbed; he declared his own

wonder equal to hers how the affair had been betrayed, expressed the

warmest indignation at the malevolent insinuations against her conduct,

and lamented with mingled acrimony and grief, that there should exist

even the possibility of casting the odium of such villainy upon himself.

Cecilia, distressed, perplexed, and ashamed at once, again endeavoured

to appease him, and though a lurking doubt obstinately clung to her

understanding, the purity of her own principles, and the softness of her

heart, pleaded strongly for his innocence, and urged her to detest her

suspicion, though to conquer it they were unequal.

“It is true,” said he, with an air ingenuous though mortified, “I

dislike the Delviles, and have always disliked them; they appear to me

a jealous, vindictive, and insolent race, and I should have thought I

betrayed the faithful regard I professed for you, had I concealed my

opinion when I saw you in danger of forming an alliance with them; I

spoke to you, therefore, with honest zeal, thoughtless of any enmity I

might draw upon myself; but though it was an interference from which I

hoped, by preventing the connection, to contribute to your happiness,

it was not with a design to stop it at the expence of your character,--a

design black, horrible, and diabolic! a design which must be formed by a

Daemon, but which even a Daemon could never, I think, execute!”

The candour of this speech, in which his aversion to the Delviles was

openly acknowledged, and rationally justified, somewhat quieted the

suspicions of Cecilia, which far more anxiously sought to be confuted

than confirmed: she began, therefore, to conclude that some accident,

inexplicable as unfortunate, had occasioned the partial discovery to Mr

Delvile, by which her own goodness proved the source of her defamation:

and though something still hung upon her mind that destroyed that firm

confidence she had hitherto felt in the friendship of Mr Monckton, she

held it utterly unjust to condemn him without proof, which she was not

more unable to procure, than to satisfy herself with any reason why so

perfidiously he should calumniate her.

Comfortless, however, and tormented with conjectures equally vague and

afflicting, she could only clear him to be lost in perplexity, she could

only accuse him to be penetrated with horror. She endeavoured to suspend

her judgment till time should develop the mystery, and only for the

present sought to finish her business and leave London.

She renewed, therefore, again, the subject of Mr Briggs, and told him

how vain had been her effort to settle with him. Mr Monckton instantly

offered his services in assisting her, and the next morning they went

together to his house, where, after an obstinate battle, they gained

a complete victory: Mr Briggs gave up all his accounts, and, in a few

days, by the active interference of Mr Monckton, her affairs were wholly

taken out of his hands. He stormed, and prophesied all ill to Cecilia,

but it was not to any purpose; he was so disagreeable to her, by his

manners, and so unintelligible to her in matters of business, that

she was happy to have done with him; even though, upon inspecting his

accounts, they were all found clear and exact, and his desire to retain

his power over her fortune, proved to have no other motive than a love

of money so potent, that to manage it, even for another, gave him a

satisfaction he knew not how to relinquish.

Mr Monckton, who, though a man of pleasure, understood business

perfectly well, now instructed and directed her in making a general

arrangement of her affairs. The estate which devolved to her from her

uncle, and which was all in landed property, she continued to commit to

the management of the steward who was employed in his life-time; and

her own fortune from her father, which was all in the stocks, she now

diminished to nothing by selling out to pay Mr Monckton the principal

and interest which she owed him, and by settling with her Bookseller.

While these matters were transacting, which, notwithstanding her

eagerness to leave town, could not be brought into such a train as to

permit her absence in less than a week, she passed her time chiefly

alone. Her wishes all inclined her to bestow it upon Henrietta, but

the late attack of Mr Delvile had frightened her from keeping up

that connection, since however carefully she might confine it to the

daughter, Mrs Belfield, she was certain, would impute it all to the son.

That attack rested upon her mind, in defiance of all her endeavours

to banish it; the contempt with which it was made seemed intentionally

offensive, as if he had been happy to derive from her supposed ill

conduct, a right to triumph over as well as reject her. She concluded,

also, that Delvile would be informed of these calumnies, yet she judged

his generosity by her own, and was therefore convinced he would not

credit them: but what chiefly at this time encreased her sadness and

uneasiness, was the mention of Mrs Delvile's broken constitution

and ruined health. She had always preserved for that lady the most

affectionate respect, and could not consider herself as the cause of her

sufferings, without feeling the utmost concern, however conscious she

had not wilfully occasioned them.

Nor was this scene the only one by which her efforts to forget this

family were defeated; her watchful monitor, Albany, failed not again to

claim her promise; and though Mr Monckton earnestly exhorted her not to

trust herself out with him, she preferred a little risk to the keenness

of his reproaches, and the weather being good on the morning that he

called, she consented to accompany him in his rambles: only charging her

footman to follow where-ever they went, and not to fail enquiring for

her if she stayed long out of his sight. These precautions were rather

taken to satisfy Mr Monckton than herself, who, having now procured

intelligence of the former disorder of his intellects, was fearful of

some extravagance, and apprehensive for her safety.

He took her to a miserable house in a court leading into Piccadilly,

where, up three pair of stairs, was a wretched woman ill in bed, while a

large family of children were playing in the room.

“See here,” cried he, “what human nature can endure! look at that poor

wretch, distracted with torture, yet lying in all this noise! unable to

stir in her bed, yet without any assistant! suffering the pangs of acute

disease, yet wanting the necessaries of life!”

Cecilia went up to the bed-side, and enquired more particularly into the

situation of the invalid; but finding she could hardly speak from pain,

she sent for the woman of the house, who kept a Green Grocer's shop on

the ground floor, and desired her to hire a nurse for her sick lodger,

to call all the children down stairs, and to send for an apothecary,

whose bill she promised to pay. She then gave her some money to get what

necessaries might be wanted, and said she would come again in two days

to see how they went on.

Albany, who listened to these directions with silent, yet eager

attention, now clasped both his hands with a look of rapture, and

exclaimed “Virtue yet lives,--and I have found her?”

Cecilia, proud of such praise, and ambitious to deserve it, chearfully

said, “where, Sir, shall we go now?”

“Home;” answered he with an aspect the most benign; “I will not wear out

thy pity by rendering woe familiar to it.”

Cecilia, though at this moment more disposed for acts of charity than

for business or for pleasure, remembered that her fortune however large

was not unlimited, and would not press any further bounty for objects

she knew not, certain that occasions and claimants, far beyond her

ability of answering, would but too frequently arise among those with

whom she was more connected, she therefore yielded herself to his

direction, and returned to Soho-Square.

Again, however, he failed not to call the time she had appointed for

re-visiting the invalid, to whom, with much gladness, he conducted her.

The poor woman, whose disease was a rheumatic fever, was already much

better; she had been attended by an apothecary who had given her some

alleviating medicine; she had a nurse at her bedside, and the room being

cleared of the children, she had had the refreshment of some sleep.

She was now able to raise her head, and make her acknowledgments to her

benefactress; but not a little was the surprise of Cecilia, when, upon

looking in her face, she said, “Ah, madam, I have seen you before!”

Cecilia, who had not the smallest recollection of her, in return desired

to know when, or where?

“When you were going to be married, madam, I was the Pew-Opener at ----

Church.”

Cecilia started with secret horror, and involuntarily retreated from the

bed; while Albany with a look of astonishment exclaimed, “Married!--why,

then, is it unknown?”

“Ask me not!” cried she, hastily; “it is all a mistake.”

“Poor thing!” cried he, “this, then, is the string thy nerves endure not

to have touched! sooner will I expire than a breath of mine shall make

it vibrate! Oh sacred be thy sorrow, for thou canst melt at that of the

indigent!”

Cecilia then made a few general enquiries, and heard that the poor

woman, who was a widow, had been obliged to give up her office, from

the frequent attacks which she suffered of the rheumatism; that she had

received much assistance both from the Rector and the Curate of ----

Church, but her continual illness, with the largeness of her family,

kept her distressed in spite of all help.

Cecilia promised to consider what she could do for her, and then giving

her more money, returned to Lady Margaret's.

Albany, who found that the unfortunate recollection of the Pew-Opener

had awakened in his young pupil a melancholy train of reflections,

seemed now to compassionate the sadness which hitherto he had reproved,

and walking silently by her side till she came to Soho-Square, said

in accents of kindness, “Peace light upon thy head, and dissipate thy

woes!” and left her.

“Ah when!” cried she to herself, “if thus they are to be revived

for-ever!”

Mr Monckton, who observed that something had greatly affected her, now

expostulated warmly against Albany and his wild schemes; “You trifle

with your own happiness,” he cried, “by witnessing these scenes of

distress, and you will trifle away your fortune upon projects you can

never fulfil: the very air in those miserable houses is unwholesome for

you to breathe; you will soon be affected with some of the diseases to

which you so uncautiously expose yourself, and while not half you give

in charity will answer the purpose you wish, you will be plundered by

cheats and sharpers till you have nothing left to bestow. You must be

more considerate for yourself, and not thus governed by Albany, whose

insanity is but partially cured, and whose projects are so boundless,

that the whole capital of the East India Company would not suffice to

fulfil them.”

Cecilia, though she liked not the severity of this remonstrance,

acknowledged there was some truth in it, and promised to be discreet,

and take the reins into her own hands.

There remained for her, however, no other satisfaction; and the path

which had thus been pointed out to her, grew more and more alluring

every step. Her old friends, the poor Hills, now occurred to her memory,

and she determined to see herself in what manner they went on.

The scene which this enquiry presented to her, was by no means

calculated to strengthen Mr Monckton's doctrine, for the prosperity in

which she found this little family, amply rewarded the liberality she

had shewn to it, and proved an irresistible encouragement to similar

actions. Mrs Hill wept for joy in recounting how well she succeeded,

and Cecilia, delighted by the power of giving such pleasure, forgot all

cautions and promises in the generosity which she displayed. She paid

Mrs Roberts the arrears that were due to her, she discharged all that

was owing for the children who had been put to school, desired they

might still be sent to it solely at her expense, and gave the mother a

sum of money to be laid out in presents for them all.

To perform her promise with the Pew Opener was however more difficult;

her ill health, and the extreme youth of her children making her utterly

helpless: but these were not considerations for Cecilia to desert her,

but rather motives for regarding her as more peculiarly an object

of charity. She found she had once been a clear starcher, and was a

tolerable plain work-woman; she resolved, therefore, to send her into

the country, where she hoped to be able to get her some business, and

knew that at least, she could help her, if unsuccessful, and see that

her children were brought up to useful employments. The woman herself

was enchanted at the plan, and firmly persuaded the country air would

restore her health. Cecilia told her only to wait till she was well

enough to travel, and promised, in the mean time, to look out some

little habitation for her. She then gave her money to pay her bills, and

for her journey, and writing a full direction where she would hear of

her at Bury, took leave of her till that time.

These magnificent donations and designs, being communicated to Albany,

seemed a renovation to him of youth, spirit, and joy! while their effect

upon Mr Monckton resembled an annihilation of all three! to see money

thus sported away, which he had long considered as his own, to behold

those sums which he had destined for his pleasures, thus lavishly

bestowed upon beggars, excited a rage he could with difficulty conceal,

and an uneasiness he could hardly endure; and he languished, he sickened

for the time, when he might put a period to such romantic proceedings.

Such were the only occupations which interrupted the solitude of

Cecilia, except those which were given to her by actual business; and

the moment her affairs were in so much forwardness that they could be

managed by letters, she prepared for returning into the country. She

acquainted Lady Margaret and Mr Monckton with her design, and gave

orders to her servants to be ready to set off the next day.

Mr Monckton made not any opposition, and refused himself the

satisfaction of accompanying her: and Lady Margaret, whose purpose was

now answered, and who wished to be in the country herself, determined to

follow her.

CHAPTER vi.

A DISTURBANCE.

This matter being settled at breakfast, Cecilia, having but one day more

to spend in London, knew not how to let it pass without taking leave of

Henrietta, though she chose not again to expose herself to the forward

insinuations of her mother; she sent her, therefore, a short note,

begging to see her at Lady Margaret's, and acquainting her that the next

day she was going out of town.

Henrietta returned the following answer.

_To Miss Beverley_.

Madam,--My mother is gone to market, and I must not go out without her

leave; I have run to the door at every knock this whole week in hopes

you were coming, and my heart has jumpt at every coach that has gone

through the street. Dearest lady, why did you tell me you would come? I

should not have thought of such a great honour if you had not put it in

my head. And now I have got the use of a room where I can often be alone

for two or three hours together. And so I shall this morning, if it

was possible my dear Miss Beverley could come. But I don't mean to be

teasing, and I would not be impertinent or encroaching for the world;

but only the thing is I have a great deal to say to you, and if you was

not so rich a lady, and so much above me, I am sure I should love you

better than any body in the whole world, almost; and now I dare say I

shan't see you at all; for it rains very hard, and my mother, I know,

will be sadly angry if I ask to go in a coach. O dear! I don't know

what I can do! for it will half break my heart, if my dear Miss Beverley

should go out of town, and I not see her!--I am, Madam, with the

greatest respectfulness, your most humble servant,

HENRIETTA BELFIELD.

This artless remonstrance, joined to the intelligence that she could

see her alone, made Cecilia instantly order a chair, and go herself to

Portland-street: for she found by this letter there was much doubt if

she could otherwise see her, and the earnestness of Henrietta made her

now not endure to disappoint her. “She has much,” cried she, “to say to

me, and I will no longer refuse to hear her; she shall unbosom to me

her gentle heart, for we have now nothing to fear from each other. She

promises herself pleasure from the communication, and doubtless it must

be some relief to her. Oh were there any friendly bosom, in which I

might myself confide!--happier Henrietta! less fearful of thy pride,

less tenacious of thy dignity! thy sorrows at least seek the consolation

of sympathy,--mine, alas! fettered by prudence, must fly it!”

She was shewn into the parlour, which she had the pleasure to find

empty; and, in an instant, the warm-hearted Henrietta was in her arms.

“This is sweet of you indeed,” cried she, “for I did not know how to ask

it, though it rains so hard I could not have walked to you, and I don't

know what I should have done, if you had gone away and quite forgot me.”

She then took her into the back parlour, which she said they had lately

hired, and, as it was made but little use of, she had it almost entirely

to herself.