At the door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr Arnott and Sir
Robert Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added aversion: they
entered the great room during the second apt of the Concert, to
which as no one of the party but herself had any desire to listen,
no sort of attention was paid; the ladies entertaining themselves as
if no Orchestra was in the room, and the gentlemen, with an equal
disregard to it, struggling for a place by the fire, about which
they continued hovering till the music was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr Meadows, sauntering towards them,
whispered something to Mrs Mears, who, immediately rising,
introduced him to Cecilia; after which, the place next to her being
vacant, he cast himself upon it, and lolling as much at his ease as
his situation would permit, began something like a conversation with
her.
“Have you been long in town, ma’am?”
“No, Sir.”
“This is not your first winter?”
“Of being in town, it is.”
“Then you have something new to see; O charming! how I envy you!—
Are you pleased with the Pantheon?”
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it.”
“You have not been abroad. Travelling is the ruin of all happiness!
There’s no looking at a building here after seeing Italy.”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon the sight of buildings?” said
Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived him
yawning, with such evident inattention to her answer, that not
chusing to interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your pardon,
ma’am, you were saying something?”
“No, Sir, nothing worth repeating.” “O pray don’t punish me so
severely as not to let me hear it!”
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negligence, was
then again beginning an answer, when, looking at him as she spoke,
she perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent an air,
that he appeared not to know he had asked any question. She
therefore broke off, and left him to his cogitation.
Sometime after he addressed her again, saying, “Don’t you find this
place extremely tiresome, ma’am?”
“Yes, Sir,” said she, half laughing, “it is, indeed, not very
entertaining!”
“Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, “for two minutes together.
Things are so little different one from another, that there is no
making pleasure out of any thing. We go the same dull round for
ever; nothing new, no variety! all the same thing over again! Are
you fond of public places, ma’am?”
“Yes, Sir, soberly, as Lady Grace says.”
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement always in
your own power. How desirable that is!”
“And have not you the same resources?”
“O no! I am tired to death! tired of every thing! I would give the
universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet, after all,
what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen one thing, one has
seen every thing. O, ’tis heavy work! Don’t you find it so, ma’am?”
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning, that Cecilia
would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence, as before,
passed wholly unnoticed, exciting neither question nor comment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last, by saying, as he
writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms would be much more
agreeable if there were backs to them. “Tis intolerable to be forced
to sit like a school-boy. The first study of life is ease. There is,
indeed, no other study that pays the trouble of attainment. Don’t
you think so, ma’am?”
“But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study, become
labour?”
“I am vastly happy you think so.”
“Sir?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I thought you said—I really beg your
pardon, but I was thinking of something else.”
“You did very right, Sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I said
by no means merited any attention.”
“Will you do me the favour to repeat it?” cried he, taking out his
glass to examine some lady at a distance.
“O no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience too
severely.”
“These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; “I am sorry
they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty; no
complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be over; I
hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably.”
“You will presently, Sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of the
concert, “have a full piece; and that, I hope, will revive you.”
“A full piece! oh insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it
overpowers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room
for the smallest feeling.”
“Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing?”
“I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably off in
voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, without
fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers. I hate
every thing that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure that
does not force its own way.”
“You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers?”
“O worse and worse!—no, nothing is so disgusting to me. All my
amazement is that these people think it worth while to give Concerts
at all; one is sick to death of music.”
“Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes
none away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation, I
think every body talks more during the performance than between the
acts. And what is there better you could substitute in its place?”
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked round to
see if she had been heard; when she observed her new acquaintance,
with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to fix his eyes upon
the statue of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to forget
that he had spoke to her, very abruptly walked away.
Mr Gosport, who was advancing to Cecilia, and had watched part of
this scene, stopt him as he was retreating, and said “Why Meadows,
how’s this? are you caught at last?”
“O worn to death! worn to a thread!” cried he, stretching himself,
and yawning; “I have been talking with a young lady to entertain
her! O such heavy work! I would not go through it again for
millions!
“What, have you talked yourself out of breath?”
“No; but the effort! the effort!—O, it has unhinged me for a
fortnight!—Entertaining a young lady!—one had better be a galley-slave at once!”
“Well but, did she not pay your toils? She is surely a sweet
creature.”
“Nothing can pay one for such insufferable exertion! though she’s
well enough, too—better than the common run,—but shy, quite too
shy; no drawing her out”
“I thought that was to your taste. You commonly hate much
volubility. How have I heard you bemoan yourself when attacked by
Miss Larolles!”
“Larolles? O distraction! She talks me into a fever in two minutes.
But so it is for ever! nothing but extremes to be met with! common
girls are too forward, this lady is too reserved—always some fault!
always some drawback! nothing ever perfect!”
“Nay, nay,” cried Mr Gosport, “you do not know her; she is perfect
enough in all conscience.”
“Better not know her, then,” answered he, again yawning, “for she
cannot be pleasing. Nothing perfect is natural;—I hate every thing
out of nature.”
He then strolled on, and Mr Gosport approached Cecilia.
“I have been wishing,” cried he, “to address you this half hour, but
as you were engaged with Mr Meadows, I did not dare advance.”
“O, I see your malice!” cried Cecilia; “you were determined to add
weight to the value of your company, by making me fully sensible
where the balance would preponderate.”
“Nay, if you do not admire Mr Meadows,” cried he, “you must not even
whisper it to the winds.”
“Is he, then, so very admirable?”
“O, he is now in the very height of fashionable favour: his dress is
a model, his manners are imitated, his attention is courted, and his
notice is envied.”
“Are you not laughing?”
“No, indeed; his privileges are much more extensive than I have
mentioned: his decision fixes the exact limits between what is
vulgar and what is elegant, his praise gives reputation, and a word
from him in public confers fashion!”
“And by what wonderful powers has he acquired such influence?”
“By nothing but a happy art in catching the reigning foibles of the
times, and carrying them to an extreme yet more absurd than any one
had done before him. Ceremony, he found, was already exploded for
ease, he, therefore, exploded ease for indolence; devotion to the
fair sex, had given way to a more equal and rational intercourse,
which, to push still farther, he presently exchanged for rudeness;
joviality, too, was already banished for philosophical indifference,
and that, therefore, he discarded, for weariness and disgust.”
“And is it possible that qualities such as these should recommend
him to favour and admiration?”
“Very possible, for qualities such as these constitute the present
taste of the times. A man of the Ton, who would now be
conspicuous in the gay world, must invariably be insipid, negligent,
and selfish.”
“Admirable requisites!” cried Cecilia; “and Mr Meadows, I
acknowledge, seems to have attained them all.”
“He must never,” continued Mr Gosport, “confess the least pleasure
from any thing, a total apathy being the chief ingredient of his
character: he must, upon no account, sustain a conversation with any
spirit, lest he should appear, to his utter disgrace, interested in
what is said: and when he is quite tired of his existence, from a
total vacuity of ideas, he must affect a look of absence, and
pretend, on the sudden, to be wholly lost in thought.”
“I would not wish,” said Cecilia, laughing, “a more amiable
companion!”
“If he is asked his opinion of any lady,” he continued, “he must
commonly answer by a grimace; and if he is seated next to one, he
must take the utmost pains to shew by his listlessness, yawning, and
inattention, that he is sick of his situation; for what he holds of
all things to be most gothic, is gallantry to the women. To avoid
this is, indeed, the principal solicitude of his life. If he sees a
lady in distress for her carriage, he is to enquire of her what is
the matter, and then, with a shrug, wish her well through her
fatigues, wink at some bye-stander, and walk away. If he is in a
room where there is a crowd of company, and a scarcity of seats, he
must early ensure one of the best in the place, be blind to all
looks of fatigue, and deaf to all hints of assistance, and seeming
totally to forget himself, lounge at his ease, and appear an
unconscious spectator of what is going forward. If he is at a ball
where there are more women than men, he must decline dancing at all,
though it should happen to be his favourite amusement, and smiling
as he passes the disengaged young ladies, wonder to see them sit
still, and perhaps ask them the reason!”
“A most alluring character indeed!” cried Cecilia; “and pray how
long have these been the accomplishments of a fine gentleman?”
“I am but an indifferent chronologer of the modes,” he answered,
“but I know it has been long enough to raise just expectations that
some new folly will be started soon, by which the present race of
INSENSIBLISTS may be driven out. Mr Meadows is now at the head of
this sect, as Miss Larolles is of the VOLUBLE, and Miss Leeson of
the SUPERCILIOUS. But this way comes another, who, though in a
different manner, labours with the same view, and aspires at the
same reward, which stimulate the ambition of this happy
Triplet, that of exciting wonder by peculiarity, and envy by
wonder.”
This description announced Captain Aresby; who, advancing from the
fire-place, told Cecilia how much he rejoiced in seeing her, said he
had been reduced to despair by so long missing that honour,
and that he had feared she made it a principle to avoid
coming in public, having sought her in vain partout.
He then smiled, and strolled on to another party.
“And pray of what sect,” said Cecilia, “is this gentleman?”
“Of the sect of JARGONISTS,” answered Mr Gosport; “he has not an
ambition beyond paying a passing compliment, nor a word to make use
of that he has not picked up at public places. Yet this dearth of
language, however you may despise it, is not merely owing to a
narrow capacity: foppery and conceit have their share in the
limitation, for though his phrases are almost always ridiculous or
misapplied, they are selected with much study, and introduced with
infinite pains.”
“Poor man!” cried Cecilia, “is it possible it can cost him any
trouble to render himself so completely absurd?”
“Yes; but not more than it costs his neighbours to keep him in
countenance. Miss Leeson, since she has presided over the sect of
the SUPERCILIOUS, spends at least half her life in wishing the
annihilation of the other half; for as she must only speak in her
own Coterie, she is compelled to be frequently silent, and
therefore, having nothing to think of, she is commonly gnawn with
self-denial, and soured with want of amusement: Miss Larolles,
indeed, is better off, for in talking faster than she thinks, she
has but followed the natural bent of her disposition: as to this
poor JARGONIST, he has, I must own, rather a hard task, from the
continual restraint of speaking only out of his own [Lilliputian]
vocabulary, and denying himself the relief of ever uttering one word
by the call of occasion but what hardship is that, compared with
what is borne by Mr Meadows? who, since he commenced INSENSIBLIST,
has never once dared to be pleased, nor ventured for a moment to
look in good humour!”
“Surely, then,” said Cecilia, “in a short time, the punishment of
this affectation will bring its cure.”
“No; for the trick grows into habit, and habit is a second nature. A
secret idea of fame makes his forbearance of happiness supportable
to him: for he has now the self-satisfaction of considering himself
raised to that highest pinnacle of fashionable refinement which is
built upon apathy and scorn, and from which, proclaiming himself
superior to all possibility of enjoyment, he views the whole world
with contempt! holding neither beauty, virtue, wealth, nor power of
importance sufficient to kindle the smallest emotion!”
“O that they could all round listen to you!” cried Cecilia; “they
would soon, I think, sicken of their folly, if they heard it thus
admirably exposed.”
“No; they would but triumph that it had obtained them so much
notice!—But pray do you see that gentleman, or don’t you chuse to
know him, who has been bowing to you this half hour?”
“Where?” cried Cecilia, and, looking round, perceived Mr Morrice;
who, upon her returning his salutation, instantly approached her,
though he had never ventured to shew himself at Mr Harrel’s, since
his unfortunate accident on the evening of the masquerade.
Entirely casting aside the easy familiarity at which he had latterly
arrived, he enquired after her health with the most fearful
diffidence, and then, bowing profoundly, was modestly retiring; when
Mrs Harrel perceiving him, smiled with so much good-humour, that he
gathered courage to return and address her, and found her, to his
infinite delight, as obliging and civil as ever.
The Concert was now over; the ladies arose, and the gentlemen joined
them. Morrice, at sight of Mr Harrel, was again shrinking; but Mr
Harrel, immediately shaking hands with him, enquired what had kept
him so long from Portman-Square? Morrice then, finding, to his great
surprise, that no one had thought more of the mischief but himself
who had committed it, joyously discarded his timidity, and became as
sprightly as before his mortification.
A motion was now made for going to the tea-room; and as they walked
on, Cecilia, in looking up to examine the building, saw in one of
the galleries young Delvile, and almost at the same time caught his
eye.
Scarcely now did a moment elapse before he joined her. The sight of
him, strongly reviving in her mind the painful contrariety of
opinion with which she had lately thought of him, the sentiments so
much in his favour which but a few days before she had encouraged,
and which it was only that morning she had endeavoured to crush,
made her meet him with a kind of melancholy that almost induced her
to lament he was amiable, and repine that she knew none like him.
His appearance, meantime, was far different; he seemed enchanted at
the sight of her, he flew eagerly to meet her, and his eyes sparkled
with pleasure as he approached her; a pleasure neither moderate nor
disguised, but lively, unrestrained, and expressive.
Cecilia, whose plans since she had last seen him had twice varied,
who first had looked forward to being united with him for ever, and
afterwards had determined to avoid with him even a common
acquaintance, could not, while these thoughts were all recurring to
her memory, receive much delight from observing his gaiety, or feel
at all gratified by his unembarrassed manners. The openness of his
attentions, and the frankness of his admiration, which hitherto had
charmed her as marks of the sincerity of his character, now shocked
her as proofs of the indifference of his heart, which feeling for
her a mere common regard, that affected neither his spirits nor his
peace, he manifested without scruple, since it was not accompanied
with even a wish beyond the present hour.
She now, too, recollected that such had always been his conduct, one
single and singular moment excepted, when, as he gave to her his
letter for Mr Belfield, he seemed struck as she was herself by the
extraordinary co-incidence of their ideas and proceedings: that
emotion, however, she now regarded as casual and transitory, and
seeing him so much happier than herself, she felt ashamed of her
delusion, and angry at her easy captivation.
Reflections such as these, though they added fresh motives to her
resolution of giving up all thoughts of his alliance, were yet so
humiliating, that they robbed her of all power of receiving pleasure
from what was passing, and made her forget that the place she was in
was even intended for a place of entertainment.
Young Delvile, after painting in lively colours the loss his house
had sustained by her quitting it, and dwelling with equal force upon
the regret of his mother and his own, asked in a low voice if she
would do him so much honour as to introduce him to Mr Harrel; “As
the son,” added he, “of a brother guardian, I think I have a kind of
claim to his acquaintance.”
Cecilia could not refuse, though as the request was likely to
occasion more frequent meetings, she persuaded herself she was
unwilling to comply. The ceremony therefore past, and was again
repeated with Mrs Harrel, who, though she had several times seen
him, had never been formally made known to him.
The Harrels were both of them much pleased at this mark of civility
in a young man whose family had prepared them rather to expect his
scorn, and expressed their wishes that he would drink his tea in
their party; he accepted their invitation with alacrity, and turning
to Cecilia, said, “Have I not skilfully timed my introduction! But
though you have done me this honour with Mr and Mrs Harrel, I must
not yet, I presume, entreat you to extend it to a certain happy
gentleman of this company;” glancing his eyes toward Sir Robert
Floyer.
“No, Sir,” answered she, with quickness, “yet, nor ever!”
They were now at the door leading down stairs to the tea-room.
Cecilia saw that Sir Robert, who had hitherto been engaged with some
gentlemen, seemed to be seeking her; and the remembrance of the
quarrel which had followed her refusal of his assistance at the
Opera-house, obliged her to determine, should he offer it again, to
accept it: but the same brutality which forced this intention,
contributed to render it repugnant to her, and she resolved if
possible to avoid him, by hurrying down stairs before he reached
her. She made, therefore, a sudden attempt to slip through the
crowd, and as she was light and active, she easily succeeded; but
though her hasty motion separated her from the rest of her party,
Delvile, who was earnestly looking at her, to discover her meaning
in the disclaiming speech she made about Sir Robert, saw into her
design, but suffered her not to go alone; he contrived in a moment
to follow and join her, while she was stopping at the foot of the
stairs for Mrs Harrel.
“Why what a little thief you are,” cried he, “to run away from us
thus! what do you think Sir Robert will say? I saw him looking for
you at the very instant of your flight.”
“Then you saw at the same time,” said Cecilia, “the reason of it.”
“Will you give me leave,” cried he, laughing, “to repeat this to my
Lord Ernolf?”
“You may repeat it, Sir, if you please,” said Cecilia, piqued that
he had not rather thought of himself than of Lord Ernolf, “to the
whole Pantheon.”
“And if I should, “cried he, “half of it, at least, would thank me;
and to obtain the applause of so noble an assembly, what would it
signify that Sir Robert should cut my throat?”
“I believe,” said Cecilia, deeply mortified by a raillery that
shewed so little interest in her avowal of indifference, “you are
determined to make me as sick of that man’s name, as I am of his
conversation.”
“And is it possible,” exclaimed Delvile, in a tone of surprise,
“that such can be your opinion, and yet, situated as you are, the
whole world at your command, and all mankind at your devotion—but I
am answering you seriously, when you are only speaking by rule.”
“What rule, Sir?”
“That which young ladies, upon certain occasions, always prescribe
themselves.”
Here they were interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the
company; though not before Cecilia had received some little
consolation for her displeasure, by finding that young Delvile still
supposed she was engaged, and flattering herself his language would
be different were he informed of the contrary.
Morrice now undertook to procure them a table for tea, which, as the
room was very full, was not easily done; and while they were waiting
his success, Miss Larolles, who from the stairs had perceived
Cecilia, came running up to her, and taking her hand, called out
“Lord, my dear creature, who’d have thought of seeing you here? I
was never so surprised in my life! I really thought you was gone
into a convent, it’s so extreme long since I’ve seen you. But of all
things in the world, why was you not at Lady Nyland’s last assembly?
I thought of asking Mrs Harrel fifty times why you did not come, but
it always went out of my head. You’ve no notion how excessively I
was disappointed.”
“You are very obliging,” said Cecilia laughing, “but I hope, since
you so often forgot it, the disappointment did [not] much lessen
your entertainment.”
“O Lord no! I was never so happy in my life. There was such a crowd,
you could not move a finger. Every body in the world was there.
You’ve no idea how delightful it was. I thought verily I should have
fainted with the heat.”
“That was delightful indeed! And how long did you stay?”
“Why we danced till three in the morning. We began with Cotillons,
and finished with country dances. It was the most elegant thing you
ever saw in your life; every thing quite in a style. I was so
monstrously fatigued, I could hardly get through the last dance. I
really thought I should have dropt down dead. Only conceive dancing
five hours in such a monstrous crowd! I assure you when I got home
my feet were all blisters. You have no idea how they smarted.”
“And whence comes it,” cried young Delvile, “that you partake
so little of these delights?”
“Because I fear,” answered Cecilia, “I came too late into the school
of fashion to be a ductile pupil.”
“Do you know,” continued Miss Larolles, “Mr Meadows has not spoke
one word to me all the evening! Though I am sure he saw me, for I
sat at the outside on purpose to speak to a person or two, that I
knew would be strolling about; for if one sits on the inside,
there’s no speaking to a creature, you know, so I never do it at the
Opera, nor in the boxes at Ranelagh, nor any where. It’s the
shockingest thing you can conceive to be made sit in the middle of
those forms; one might as well be at home, for nobody can speak to
one,”
“But you don’t seem to have had much better success,” said Cecilia,
“in keeping at the outside.”
“O yes I have, for I got a little chat with two or three people as
they were passing, for, you know, when one sits there, they can’t
help saying something; though I assure you all the men are so
exceedingly odd they don’t care whether they speak to one or no. As
to Mr Meadows, he’s really enough to provoke one to death. I suppose
he’s in one of his absent fits. However, I assure you I think it’s
extreme impertinent of him, and so I shall tell Mr Sawyer, for I
know he’ll make a point of telling him of it again.”
“I rather think,” said Cecilia, “the best would be to return the
compliment in kind, and when he next recollects you, appear to have
forgotten him.”
“O Lord, that’s a very good notion! so I will, I declare. But you
can’t conceive how glad I am the Concert’s over; for I assure you,
though I sat as near the fire as possible, I was so extreme cold
you’ve no idea, for Mr Meadows never would let me have the least
peep at it. I declare I believe he does it on purpose to plague one,
for he grows worse and worse every day. You can’t think how I hate
him!”
“Not easily, I believe indeed!” said Cecilia, archly.
“O do but look!” resumed the fair VOLUBLE, “if there is not Mrs
Mears in her old red gown again! I begin to think she’ll never have
another. I wish she was to have an execution in her house, if it was
only to get rid of it! I am so fatigued with the sight of it you
can’t conceive.”
Mr Morrice now brought intelligence that he had secured one side of
a table which would very well accommodate the ladies; and that the
other side was only occupied by one gentleman, who, as he was not
drinking tea himself, would doubtless give up his place when the
party appeared.
Miss Larolles then ran back to her own set, and the rest followed Mr
Morrice; Mrs Harrell, Mrs Mears and Cecilia took their places. The
gentleman opposite to them proved to be Mr Meadows: Morrice,
therefore, was much deceived in his expectations, for, far from
giving up his place, he had flung himself all along upon the form in
such a lounging posture, while he rested one arm upon the table,
that, not contented with merely keeping his own seat, he filled up a
space meant for three.
Mr Harrel had already walked off to another party: Delvile stood
aloof for some minutes, expecting Sir Robert Floyer would station
himself behind Cecilia; but Sir Robert, who would scarce have
thought such a condescension due to a princess, disdained any
appearance of assiduity, even while he made it his care to publish
his pretensions: and therefore, finding no accommodation to please
him, he stalked towards some gentlemen in another part of the room.
Delvile then took the post he had neglected, and Mr Arnott, who had
not had courage to make any effort in his own favour, modestly stood
near him. Cecilia contrived to make room for Mr Gosport next to
herself, and Morrice was sufficiently happy in being allowed to call
the waiters, superintend, the provisions, and serve the whole party.
The task of making tea fell upon Cecilia, who being somewhat
incommoded by the vicinity of her neighbours, Mrs Mears called out
to Mr Meadows “Do pray, Sir, be so good as to make room for one of
us at your side.”
Mr Meadows, who was indolently picking his teeth, and examining them
with a tooth pick case glass, did not, at first, seem to hear her;
and when she repeated her request, he only looked at her, and said
“umph?”
“Now really, Mr Meadows,” said she, “when you see any ladies in such
distress, I wonder how you can forbear helping them.”
“In distress, are you?” cried he, with a vacant smile, “pray, what’s
the matter?”
“Don’t you see? we are so crowded we can hardly sit.”
“Can’t you?” cried he, “upon my honour it’s very shameful that these
people don’t contrive some seats more convenient”
“Yes,” said Mrs Mears; “but if you would be so kind as to let
somebody else sit by you we should not want any contrivance.”
Here Mr Meadows was seized with a furious fit of yawning, which as
much diverted Cecilia and Mr Gosport, as it offended Mrs Mears, who
with great displeasure added, “Indeed, Mr Meadows, it’s very strange
that you never hear what’s said to you.”
“I beg your pardon,” said he, “were you speaking to me?” and again
began picking his teeth.
Morrice, eager to contrast his civility with the inattention of Mr
Meadows, now flew round to the other side of the table, and calling
out “let me help you, Miss Beverley, I can make tea better
than anybody,” he lent over that part of the form which Mr Meadows
had occupied with one of his feet, in order to pour it out himself:
but Mr Meadows, by an unfortunate removal of his foot, bringing him
forwarder than he was prepared to go, the tea pot and its contents
were overturned immediately opposite to Cecilia.
Young Delvile, who saw the impending evil, from an impetuous impulse
to prevent her suffering by it, hastily drew her back, and bending
down before her, secured her preservation by receiving himself the
mischief with which she was threatened.
Mrs Mears and Mrs Harrel vacated their seats in a moment, and Mr
Gosport and Mr Arnott assisted in clearing the table, and removing
Cecilia, who was very slightly hurt, and at once surprised, ashamed,
and pleased at the manner in which she had been saved.
Young Delvile, though a sufferer from his gallantry, the hot water
having penetrated through his coat to his arm and shoulder, was at
first insensible to his situation, from an apprehension that Cecilia
had not wholly escaped; and his enquiries were so eager and so
anxious, made with a look of such solicitude, and a voice of such
alarm, that, equally astonished and gratified, she secretly blest
the accident which had given birth to his uneasiness, however she
grieved for its consequence to himself.
But no sooner was he satisfied of her safety, than he felt himself
obliged to retire; yet attributing to inconvenience what was really
the effect of pain, he hurried away with an appearance of sport,
saying, “There is something I must own, rather unknightly in
quitting the field for a wet jacket, but the company, I hope, will
only give me credit for flying away to Ranelagh. So
He then hastened to his carriage: and poor Morrice, frightened and
confounded at the disaster he had occasioned, sneaked after him with
much less ceremony. While Mr Meadows, wholly unconcerned by the
distress and confusion around him, sat quietly picking his teeth,
and looking on, during the whole transaction, with an unmeaning
stare, that made it doubtful whether he had even perceived it.
Order being now soon restored, the ladies finished their tea, and
went up stairs. Cecilia, to whom the late accident had afforded much
new and interesting matter for reflection, wished immediately to
have returned home, but she was not the leader of the party, and
therefore could not make the proposal.
They then strolled through all the apartments, and having walked
about till the fashionable time of retiring, they were joined by Sir
Robert Floyer, and proceeded to the little room near the entrance to
the great one, in order to wait for their carriages.
Here Cecilia again met Miss Larolles, who came to make various
remarks, and infinite ridicule, upon sundry unfashionable or
uncostly articles in the dresses of the surrounding company; as well
as to complain, with no little resentment, that Mr Meadows was again
standing before the fire!
Captain Aresby also advanced, to tell her he was quite abattu
by having so long lost sight of her, to hope she would make a
renounce of mortifying the world by discarding it, and to
protest he had waited for his carriage till he was actually upon the
point of being [accable.]
In the midst of this jargon, to which the fulness of
Cecilia’s mind hardly permitted her to listen, there suddenly
appeared at the door of the apartment, Mr Albany, who, with his
usual austerity of countenance, stopt to look round upon the
company.
“Do you see,” cried Mr Gosport to Cecilia, “who approaches? your
poor sycophants will again be taken to task, and I, for one,
tremble at the coming storm!”
“O Lord,” cried Miss Larolles, “I wish I was safe in my chair! that
man always frightens me out of my senses. You’ve no notion what
disagreeable things he says to one. I assure you I’ve no doubt but
he’s crazy; and I’m always in the shockingest fright in the world
for fear he should be taken with a fit while I’m near him.”
“It is really a petrifying thing,” said the Captain, “that one can
go to no spectacle without the horreur of being
obsede by that person! if he comes this way, I shall
certainly make a renounce, and retire.”
“Why so?” said Sir Robert, “what the d——l do you mind him for?”
“O he is the greatest bore in nature!” cried the Captain, “and I
always do mon possible to avoid him; for he breaks out in
such barbarous phrases, that I find myself degoute with him
in a moment.”
“O, I assure you,” said Miss Larolles, “he attacks one sometimes in
a manner you’ve no idea. One day he came up to me all of a sudden,
and asked me what good I thought I did by dressing so much? Only
conceive how shocking!”
“O, I have had the horreur of questions of that sort from him
sans fin,” said the Captain; “once he took the liberty to ask
me, what service I was of to the world! and another time, he desired
me to inform him whether I had ever made any poor person pray for
me! and, in short, he has so frequently inconvenienced me by his
impertinences, that he really bores me to a degree.”
“That’s just the thing that makes him hunt you down,” said Sir
Robert; “if he were to ask me questions for a month together, I
should never trouble myself to move a muscle.”
“The matter of his discourse,” said Mr Gosport, “is not more
singular than the manner, for without any seeming effort or
consciousness, he runs into blank verse perpetually. I have made
much enquiry about him, but all I am able to learn, is that he was
certainly confined, at one part of his life, in a private mad-house:
and though now, from not being mischievous, he is set at liberty,
his looks, language, and whole behaviour, announce the former injury
of his intellects.”
“O Lord,” cried Miss Larolles, half-screaming, “what shocking
notions you put in one’s head! I declare I dare say I sha’n’t get
safe home for him, for I assure you I believe he’s taken a spite to
me! and all because one day, before I knew of his odd ways, I
happened to fall a laughing at his going about in that old coat. Do
you know it put him quite in a passion! only conceive how ill-natured!”
“O he has distressed me,” exclaimed the Captain, with a shrug,
“partout! and found so much fault with every thing I have
done, that I should really be glad to have the honour to cut, for
the moment he comes up to me, I know what I have to expect!”
“But I must tell you,” cried Miss Larolles, “how monstrously he put
me in a fright one evening when I was talking with Miss Moffat. Do
you know, he came up to us, and asked what we were saying! and
because we could not think in a minute of something to answer him,
he said he supposed we were only talking some scandal, and so we had
better go home, and employ ourselves in working for the poor! only
think how horrid! and after that, he was so excessive impertinent in
his remarks, there was quite no bearing him. I assure you he cut me
up so you’ve no notion.”
Here Mr Albany advanced; and every body but Sir Robert moved out of
the way.
Fixing his eyes upon Cecilia, with an expression more in sorrow
than in anger, after contemplating her some time in silence, he
exclaimed, “Ah lovely, but perishable flower! how long will that
ingenuous countenance, wearing, because wanting no disguise, look
responsive of the whiteness of the region within? How long will that
air of innocence irradiate your whole appearance? unspoilt by
prosperity, unperverted by power! pure in the midst of surrounding
depravity! unsullied in the tainted air of infectious perdition!”
The confusion of Cecilia at this public address, which drew upon her
the eyes and attention of all the company, was inexpressible; she
arose from her seat, covered with blushes, and saying, “I fancy the
carriage must be ready,” pressed forward to quit the room, followed
by Sir Robert, who answered, “No, no, they’ll call it when it comes
up. Arnott, will you go and see where it is?”
Cecilia stopt, but whispered Mrs Harrel to stand near her.
“And whither,” cried Albany indignantly, “whither wouldst thou go?
Art thou already disdainful of my precepts? and canst thou not one
short moment spare from the tumultuous folly which encircles thee?
Many and many are the hours thou mayst spend with such as these; the
world, alas! is full of them; weary not then, so soon, of an old man
that would admonish thee,—he cannot call upon thee long, for soon
he will be called upon himself!”
This solemn exhortation extremely distressed her; and fearing to
still further offend him by making another effort to escape, she
answered in a low voice, “I will not only hear, but thank you for
your precepts, if you will forbear to give them before so many
witnesses.”
“Whence,” cried he sternly, “these vain and superficial
distinctions? Do you not dance in public? What renders you more
conspicuous? Do you not dress to be admired, and walk to be
observed? Why then this fantastical scruple, unjustified by reason,
unsupported by analogy? Is folly only to be published? Is vanity
alone to be exhibited? Oh slaves of senseless contradiction! Oh
feeble followers of yet feebler prejudice! daring to be wicked, yet
fearing to be wise; dauntless in levity, yet shrinking from the name
of virtue!”
The latter part of this speech, during which he turned with energy
to the whole company, raised such a general alarm, that all the
ladies hastily quitted the room, and all the gentlemen endeavoured
to enter it, equally curious to see the man who made the oration,
and the lady to whom it was addressed. Cecilia, therefore, found her
situation unsupportable; “I must go,” she cried, “whether there is a
carriage or not! pray, Mrs Harrel, let us go!”
Sir Robert then offered to take her hand, which she was extremely
ready to give him; but while the crowd made their passage difficult,
Albany, following and stopping her, said, “What is it you fear? a
miserable old man, worn out by the sorrows of that experience from
which he offers you counsel? What, too, is it you trust? a libertine
wretch, coveting nothing but your wealth, for the gift of which he
will repay you by the perversion of your principles!”
“What the d—l do you mean by that?” cried the Baronet.
“To shew,” answered he, austerely, “the inconsistency of false
delicacy; to show how those who are too timid for truth, can
fearless meet licentiousness.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Sir,” cried Cecilia, “say no more to me now:
call upon me in Portman-square when you please,—reprove me in
whatever you think me blameable, I shall be grateful for your
instructions, and bettered, perhaps, by your care;—but lessons and
notice thus public can do me nothing but injury.”
“How happy,” cried he, “were no other injury near thee! spotless
were then the hour of thy danger, bright, fair and refulgent thy
passage to security! the Good would receive thee with praise, the
Guilty would supplicate thy prayers, the Poor would follow thee with
blessings, and Children would be taught by thy example!”
He then quitted her, every body making way as he moved, and
proceeded into the great room. Mrs Harrel’s carriage being announced
at the same time, Cecilia lost not an instant in hastening away.
Sir Robert, as he conducted her, disdainfully laughed at the
adventure, which the general licence allowed to Mr Albany prevented
his resenting, and which therefore he scorned to appear moved at.
Miss Harrel could talk of nothing else, neither was Cecilia disposed
to change the subject, for the remains of insanity which seemed to
hang upon him were affecting without being alarming, and her desire
to know more of him grew every instant stronger.
This desire, however, outlived not the conversation to which it gave
rise; when she returned to her own room, no vestige of it remained
upon her mind, which a nearer concern and deeper interest wholly
occupied.
The behaviour of young Delvile had pained, pleased, and disturbed
her; his activity to save her from mischief might proceed merely
from gallantry or good nature; upon that, therefore, she dwelt
little: but his eagerness, his anxiety, his insensibility to
himself, were more than good breeding could claim, and seemed to
spring from a motive less artificial.
She now, therefore, believed that her partiality was returned; and
this belief had power to shake all her resolves, and enfeeble all
her objections. The arrogance of Mr Delvile lessened in her
reflections, the admonitions of Mr Monckton abated in their
influence. With the first she considered that though connected she
need not live, and for the second, though she acknowledged the
excellence of his judgment, she concluded him wholly ignorant of her
sentiments of Delvile; which she imagined, when once revealed, would
make every obstacle to the alliance seem trifling, when put in
competition with mutual esteem and affection.
Footnotes
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