Never had the heart of Cecilia felt so light, so gay, so glowing as
after the transaction of this affair: her life had never appeared to
her so important, nor her wealth so valuable. To see five helpless
children provided for by herself, rescued from the extremes of
penury and wretchedness, and put in a way to become useful to
society, and comfortable to themselves; to behold their feeble
mother, snatched from the hardship of that labour which, over-powering her strength, had almost destroyed her existence, now
placed in a situation where a competent maintenance might be earned
without fatigue, and the remnant of her days pass in easy
employment—to view such sights, and have power to say “These
deeds are mine!” what, to a disposition fraught with tenderness
and benevolence, could give purer self-applause, or more exquisite
satisfaction?
Such were the pleasures which regaled the reflections of Cecilia
when, in her way home, having got out of her chair to walk through
the upper part of Oxford Street, she was suddenly met by the old
gentleman whose emphatical addresses to her had so much excited her
astonishment.
He was passing quick on, but stopping the moment he perceived her,
he sternly called out “Are you proud? are you callous? are you hard
of heart so soon?”
“Put me, if you please, to some trial!” cried Cecilia, with the
virtuous courage of a self-acquitting conscience.
“I already have!” returned he, indignantly, “and already I have
found you faulty!”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said the amazed Cecilia, “but at least I
hope you will tell me in what?”
“You refused me admittance,” he answered, “yet I was your friend,
yet I was willing to prolong the term of your genuine
[tranquillity]! I pointed out to you a method of preserving peace
with your own soul; I came to you in behalf of the poor, and
instructed you how to merit their prayers; you heard me, you were
susceptible, you complied! I meant to have repeated the lesson, to
have tuned your whole heart to compassion, and to have taught you
the sad duties of sympathising humanity. For this purpose I called
again, but again I was not admitted! Short was the period of my
absence, yet long enough for the completion of your downfall!”
“Good heaven,” cried Cecilia, “how dreadful is this language! when
have you called, Sir? I never heard you had been at the house. Far
from refusing you admittance, I wished to see you.”
“Indeed?” cried he, with some softness, “and are you, in truth, not
proud? not callous? not hard of heart? Follow me, then, and visit
the humble and the poor, follow me, and give comfort to the fallen
and dejected!”
At this invitation, however desirous to do good, Cecilia started;
the strangeness of the inviter, his flightiness, his authoritative
manner, and the uncertainty whither or to whom he might carry her,
made her fearful of proceeding: yet a benevolent curiosity to see as
well as serve the objects of his recommendation, joined to the
eagerness of youthful integrity to clear her own character from the
aspersion of hard-heartedness, soon conquered her irresolution, and
making a sign to her servant to keep near her, she followed as her
conductor led.
He went on silently and solemnly till he came to Swallow-street,
then turning into it, he stopt at a small and mean-looking house,
knocked at the door, and without asking any question of the man who
opened it, beckoned her to come after him, and hastened up some
narrow winding stairs.
Cecilia again hesitated; but when she recollected that this old man,
though little known, was frequently seen, and though with few people
acquainted, was by many personally recognized, she thought it
impossible he could mean her any injury. She ordered her servant,
however, to come in, and bid him keep walking up and down the stairs
till she returned to him. And then she obeyed the directions of her
guide.
He proceeded till he came to the second floor, then, again beckoning
her to follow him, he opened a door, and entered a small and very
meanly furnished apartment.
And here, to her infinite astonishment, she perceived, employed in
washing some china, a very lovely young woman, [genteelly] dressed,
and appearing hardly seventeen years of age.
The moment they came in, with evident marks of confusion, she
instantly gave over her work, hastily putting the basin she was
washing upon the table, and endeavouring to hide the towel with
which she was wiping it behind her chair.
The old gentleman, advancing to her with quickness, said, “How is he
now? Is he better? will he live?”
“Heaven forbid he should not!” answered the young woman with
emotion, “but, indeed, he is no better!”
“Look here,” said he, pointing to Cecilia, “I have brought you one
who has power to serve you, and to relieve your distress: one who is
rolling in affluence, a stranger to ill, a novice in the world;
unskilled in the miseries she is yet to endure, unconscious of the
depravity into which she is to sink! receive her benefactions while
yet she is untainted, satisfied that while, she aids you, she is
blessing herself!”
The young woman, blushing and abashed, said, “You are very good to
me, Sir, but there is no occasion—there is no need—I have not any
necessity—I am far from being so very much in want—”
“Poor, simple soul!” interrupted the old man, “and art thou ashamed
of poverty? Guard, guard thyself from other shames, and the
wealthiest may envy thee! Tell her thy story, plainly, roundly,
truly; abate nothing of thy indigence, repress nothing of her
liberality. The Poor not impoverished by their own Guilt, are Equals
of the Affluent, not enriched by their own Virtue. Come, then, and
let me present ye to each other! young as ye both are, with many
years and many sorrows to encounter, lighten the burthen of each
other’s cares, by the heart-soothing exchange of gratitude for
beneficence!”
He then took a hand of each, and joining them between his own,
“You,” he continued, “who, though rich, are not hardened, and
you, who though poor, are not debased, why should ye not love, why
should ye not cherish each other? The afflictions of life are
tedious, its joys are evanescent; ye are now both young, and, with
little to enjoy, will find much to suffer. Ye are both, too, I
believe, innocent—Oh could ye always remain so!—Cherubs were ye
then, and the sons of men might worship you!”
He stopt, checked by his own rising emotion; but soon resuming his
usual austerity, “Such, however,” he continued, “is not the
condition of humanity; in pity, therefore, to the evils impending
over both, be kind to each other! I leave you together, and to your
mutual tenderness I recommend you!”
Then, turning particularly to Cecilia, “Disdain not,” he said, “to
console the depressed; look upon her without scorn, converse with
her without contempt: like you, she is an orphan, though not like
you, an heiress;—like her, you are fatherless, though not like her
friendless! If she is awaited by the temptations of adversity, you,
also, are surrounded by the corruptions of prosperity. Your fall is
most probable, her’s most excusable;—commiserate her
therefore now,—by and by she may commiserate you?”
And with these words he left the room.
A total silence for some time succeeded his departure: Cecilia found
it difficult to recover from the surprise into which she had been
thrown sufficiently for speech: in following her extraordinary
director, her imagination had painted to her a scene such as she had
so lately quitted, and prepared her to behold some family in
distress, some helpless creature in sickness, or some children in
want; but of these to see none, to meet but one person, and that one
fair, young, and delicate,—an introduction so singular to an object
so unthought of, deprived her of all power but that of shewing her
amazement.
Mean while the young woman looked scarcely less surprised, and
infinitely more embarrassed. She surveyed her apartment with
vexation, and her guest with confusion; she had listened to the
exhortation of the old man with visible uneasiness, and now he was
gone, seemed overwhelmed with shame and chagrin.
Cecilia, who in observing these emotions felt both her curiosity and
her compassion encrease, pressed her hand as she parted with it,
and, when a little recovered, said, “You must think this a strange
intrusion; but the gentleman who brought me hither is perhaps so
well known to you, as to make his singularities plead with you their
own apology.”
“No indeed, madam,” she answered, bashfully, “he is very little
known to me; but he is very good, and very desirous to do me
service:—not but what I believe he thinks me much worse off than I
really am, for, I assure you, madam, whatever he has said, I am not
ill off at all—hardly.”
The various doubts to her disadvantage, which had at first, from her
uncommon situation, arisen in the mind of Cecilia, this anxiety to
disguise, not display her distress, considerably removed, since it
cleared her of all suspicion of seeking by artifice and imposition
to play upon her feelings.
With a gentleness, therefore, the most soothing, she replied, “I
should by no means have broken in upon you thus unexpectedly, if I
had not concluded my conductor had some right to bring me. However,
since we are actually met, let us remember his injunctions, and
endeavour not to part till, by a mutual exchange of good-will, each
has added a friend to the other.”
“You are condescending, indeed, madam,” answered the young woman,
with an air the most humble, “looking as you look, to talk of a
friend when you come to such a place as this! up two pair of stairs!
no furniture! no servant! every thing in such disorder!—indeed I
wonder at Mr. Albany! he should not—but he thinks every body’s
affairs may be made public, and does not care what he tells, nor who
hears him;—he knows not the pain he gives, nor the mischief he may
do.”
“I am very much concerned,” cried Cecilia, more and more surprised
at all she heard, “to find I have been thus instrumental to
distressing you. I was ignorant whither I was coming, and followed
him, believe me, neither from curiosity nor inclination, but simply
because I knew not how to refuse him. He is gone, however, and I
will therefore relieve you by going too: but permit me to leave
behind me a small testimony that the intention of my coming was not
mere impertinence.”
She then took out her purse; but the young woman, starting back with
a look of resentful mortification, exclaimed, “No, madam! you are
quite mistaken; pray put up your purse; I am no beggar! Mr Albany
has misrepresented me, if he has told you I am.”
Cecilia, mortified in her turn at this unexpected rejection of an
offer she had thought herself invited to make, stood some moments
silent; and then said, “I am far from meaning to offend you, and I
sincerely beg your pardon if I have misunderstood the charge just
now given to me.”
“I have nothing to pardon, madam,” said she, more calmly, “except,
indeed, to Mr Albany; and to him, ’tis of no use to be angry, for he
minds not what I say! he is very good, but he is very strange, for
he thinks the whole world made to live in common, and that every one
who is poor should ask, and every one who is rich should give: he
does not know that there are many who would rather starve.”
“And are you,” said Cecilia, half-smiling, “of that number?”
“No, indeed, madam! I have not so much greatness of mind. But those
to whom I belong have more fortitude and higher spirit. I wish I
could imitate them!”
Struck with the candour and simplicity of this speech, Cecilia now
felt a warm desire to serve her, and taking her hand, said, “Forgive
me, but though I see you wish me gone, I know not how to leave you:
recollect, therefore, the charge that has been given to us both, and
if you refuse my assistance one way, point out to me in what other I
may offer it.”
“You are very kind, madam,” she answered, “and I dare say you are
very good; I am sure you look so, at least. But I want nothing; I do
very well, and I have hopes of doing better. Mr Albany is too
impatient. He knows, indeed, that I am not extremely rich, but he is
much to blame if he supposes me therefore an object of charity, and
thinks me so mean as to receive money from a stranger.”
“I am truly sorry,” cried Cecilia, “for the error I have committed,
but you must suffer me to make my peace with you before we part:
yet, till I am better known to you, I am fearful of proposing terms.
Perhaps you will permit me to leave you my direction, and do me the
favour to call upon me yourself?”
“O no, madam! I have a sick relation whom I cannot leave: and
indeed, if he were well, he would not like to have me make an
acquaintance while I am in this place.”
“I hope you are not his only nurse? I am sure you do not look able
to bear such fatigue. Has he a physician? Is he properly attended?”
“No, madam; he has no physician, and no attendance at all!”
“And is it possible that in such a situation you can refuse to be
assisted? Surely you should accept some help for him, if not for
yourself.”
“But what will that signify when, if I do, he will not make use of
it? and when he had a thousand and a thousand times rather die, than
let any one know he is in want?”
“Take it, then, unknown to him; serve him without acquainting him
you serve him. Surely you would not suffer him to perish without
aid?”
“Heaven forbid! But what can I do? I am under his command, madam,
not he under mine!”
“Is he your father?—Pardon my question, but your youth seems much
to want such a protector.”
“No, madam, I have no father! I was happier when I had! He is my
brother.”
“And what is his illness?”
“A fever.”
“A fever, and without a physician! Are you sure, too, it is not
infectious?”
“O yes, too sure!”
“Too sure? how so?”
“Because I know too well the occasion of it!”
“And what is the occasion?” cried Cecilia, again taking her hand,
“pray trust me; indeed you shall not repent your confidence. Your
reserve hitherto has only raised you in my esteem, but do not carry
it so far as to mortify me by a total rejection of my good offices.”
“Ah madam!” said the young woman, sighing, “you ought to be good, I
am sure, for you will draw all out of me by such kindness as this!
the occasion was a neglected wound, never properly healed.”
“A wound? is he in the army?”
“No,—he was shot through the side in a duel.”
“In a duel?” exclaimed Cecilia, “pray what is his name?”
“O that I must not tell you! his name is a great secret now, while
he is in this poor place, for I know he had almost rather never see
the light again than have it known.”
“Surely, surely,” cried Cecilia, with much emotion, “he cannot—I
hope he cannot be Mr Belfield?”
“Ah Heaven!” cried the young woman, screaming, “do you then know
him?”
Here, in mutual astonishment, they looked at each other.
“You are then,” said Cecilia, “the sister of Mr Belfield? And Mr
Belfield is thus sick, his wound is not yet healed,—and he is
without any help!”
“And who, madam, are you?” cried she, “and how is it you know
him?”
“My name is Beverley.”
“Ah!” exclaimed she again, “I fear I have done nothing but mischief!
I know very well who you are now, madam, but if my brother discovers
that I have betrayed him, he will take it very unkind, and perhaps
never forgive me.”
“Be not alarmed,” cried Cecilia; “rest assured he shall never know
it. Is he not now in the country?”
“No, madam, he is now in the very next room.”
“But what is become of the surgeon who used to attend him, and why
does he not still visit him?”
“It is in vain, now, to hide any thing from you; my brother deceived
him, and said he was going out of town merely to get rid of him.”
“And what could induce him to act so strangely?”
“A reason which you, madam, I hope, will never know, Poverty!—he
would not run up a bill he could not pay.”
“Good Heaven!—But what can be done for him? He must not be suffered
to linger thus; we must contrive some method of relieving and
assisting him, whether he will consent or not.”
“I fear that will not be possible. One of his friends has already
found him out, and has written him the kindest letter! but he would
not answer it, and would not see him, and was only fretted and
angry.”
“Well,” said Cecilia, “I will not keep you longer, lest he should be
alarmed by your absence. To-morrow morning, with your leave, I will
call upon you again, and then, I hope, you will permit me to make
some effort to assist you.”
“If it only depended upon me, madam,” she answered, “now I have the
honour to know who you are, I believe I should not make much
scruple, for I was not brought up to notions so high as my brother.
Ah! happy had it been for him, for me, for all his family, if he had
not had them neither!”
Cecilia then repeated her expressions of comfort and kindness, and
took her leave.
This little adventure gave her infinite concern; all the horror
which the duel had originally occasioned her, again returned; she
accused herself with much bitterness for having brought it on; and
finding that Mr Belfield was so cruelly a sufferer both in his
health and his affairs, she thought it incumbent upon her to relieve
him to the utmost of her ability.
His sister, too, had extremely interested her; her youth, and the
uncommon artlessness of her conversation, added to her melancholy
situation, and the loveliness of her person, excited in her a desire
to serve, and an inclination to love her; and she determined, if she
found her as deserving as she seemed engaging, not only to assist
her at present, but, if her distresses continued, to received her
into her own house in future.
Again she regretted the undue detention of her L200. What she now
had to spare was extremely inadequate to what she now wished to
bestow, and she looked forward to the conclusion of her minority
with encreasing eagerness. The generous and elegant plan of life she
then intended to pursue, daily gained ground in her imagination, and
credit in her opinion.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Cecilia (Burney)/Book 3/Chapter v. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.