The next day Cecilia, to drive Delvile a little from her thoughts,
which she now no longer wished him to occupy, again made a visit to
Miss Belfield, whose society afforded her more consolation than any
other she could procure.
She found her employed in packing up, and preparing to remove to
another lodging, for her brother, she said, was so much better, that
he did not think it right to continue in so disgraceful a situation.
She talked with her accustomed openness of her affairs, and the
interest which Cecilia involuntarily took in them, contributed to
lessen her vexation in thinking of her own. “The generous friend of my
brother,” said she, “who, though but a new acquaintance to him, has
courted him in all his sorrows, when every body else forsook him, has
brought him at last into a better way of thinking. He says there is a
gentleman whose son is soon going abroad, who he is almost sure will
like my brother vastly, and in another week, he is to be introduced to
him. And so, if my mother can but reconcile herself to parting with
him, perhaps we may all do well again.”
“Your mother,” said Cecilia, “when he is gone, will better know the
value of the blessing she has left in her daughter.”
“O no, madam, no; she is wrapt up in him, and cares nothing for all
the world besides. It was always so, and we have all of us been used
to it. But we have had a sad scene since you were so kind as to come
last; for when she told him what you had done, he was almost out of
his senses with anger that we had acquainted you with his distress,
and he said it was publishing his misery, and undoing whatever his
friend or himself could do, for it was making him ashamed to appear in
the world, even when his affairs might be better. But I told him again
and again that you had as much sweetness as goodness, and instead of
hurting his reputation, would do him nothing but credit.”
“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “Mrs Belfield mentioned the circumstance
at all; it would have been better, for many reasons, that he should
not have heard of it.”
“She hoped it would please him,” answered Miss Belfield, “however, he
made us both promise we would take no such step in future, for he said
we were not reduced to so much indigence, whatever he was: and that as
to our accepting money from other people, that we might save up our
own for him, it would be answering no purpose, for he should think
himself a monster to make use of it.”
“And what said your mother?”
“Why she gave him a great many promises that she would never vex him
about it again; and indeed, much as I know we are obliged to you,
madam, and gratefully as I am sure I would lay down my life to serve
you, I am very glad in this case that my brother has found it out. For
though I so much wish him to do something for himself, and not to be
so proud, and live in a manner he has no right to do, I think, for all
that, that it is a great disgrace to my’ poor father’s honest memory,
to have us turn beggars after his death, when he left us all so well
provided for, if we had but known how to be satisfied.”
“There is a natural rectitude in your heart,” said Cecilia, “that the
ablest casuists could not mend.”
She then enquired whither they were removing, and Miss Belfield told
her to Portland Street, Oxford Road, where they were to have two
apartments up two pair of stairs, and the use of a very good parlour,
in which her brother might see his friends. “And this,” added she, “is
a luxury for which nobody can blame him, because if he has not the
appearance of a decent home, no gentleman will employ him.”
The Padington house, she said, was already let, and her mother was
determined not to hire another, but still to live as penuriously as
possible, in order, notwithstanding his remonstrances, to save all she
could of her income for her son.
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Belfield,
who very familiarly said she came to tell Cecilia they were all in
the wrong box in letting her son know of the £10 bank note, “for,”
continued she, “he has a pride that would grace a duke, and he thinks
nothing of his hardships, so long as nobody knows of them. So another
time we must manage things better, and when we do him any good, not
let him know a word of the matter. We’ll settle it all among
ourselves, and one day or other he’ll be glad enough to thank us.”
Cecilia, who saw Miss Belfield colour with shame at the freedom of
this hint, now arose to depart: but Mrs Belfield begged her not to go
so soon, and pressed her with such urgency to again sit down, that she
was obliged to comply.
She then began a warm commendation of her son, lavishly praising all
his good qualities, and exalting even his defects, concluding with
saying “But, ma’am, for all he’s such a complete gentleman, and for
all he’s made so much of, he was so diffident, I could not get him to
call and thank you for the present you made him, though, when he went
his last airing, I almost knelt to him to do it. But, with all his
merit, he wants as much encouragement as a lady, for I can tell you it
is not a little will do for him.”
Cecilia, amazed at this extraordinary speech, looked from the mother
to the daughter in order to discover its meaning, which, however, was
soon rendered plainer by what followed.
“But pray now, ma’am, don’t think him the more ungrateful for his
shyness, for young ladies so high in the world as you are, must go
pretty good lengths before a young man will get courage to speak to
them. And though I have told my son over and over that the ladies
never like a man the worse for being a little bold, he’s so much down
in the mouth that it has no effect upon him. But it all comes of his
being brought up at the university, for that makes him think he knows
better than I can tell him. And so, to be sure, he does. However, for
all that, it is a hard thing upon a mother to find all she says goes
just for nothing. But I hope you’ll excuse him, ma’am, for it’s
nothing in the world but his over-modesty.”
Cecilia now stared with a look of so much astonishment and
displeasure, that Mrs Belfield, suspecting she had gone rather too
far, added “I beg you won’t take what I’ve said amiss, ma’am, for we
mothers of families are more used to speak out than maiden ladies. And
I should not have said so much, but only I was afraid you would
misconstrue my son’s backwardness, and so that he might be flung out
of your favour at last, and all for nothing but having too much
respect for you.”
“O dear mother!” cried Miss Belfield, whose face was the colour of
scarlet, “pray!”—
“What’s the matter now?” cried Mrs Belfield; “you are as shy as your
brother; and if we are all to be so, when are we to come to an
understanding?”
“Not immediately, I believe indeed,” said Cecilia, rising, “but that
we may not plunge deeper in our mistakes, I will for the present take
my leave.”
“No, ma’am,” cried Mrs Belfield, stopping her, “pray don’t go yet, for
I’ve got a great many things I want to talk to you about. In the first
place, ma’am, pray what is your opinion of this scheme for sending my
son abroad into foreign parts? I don’t know what you may think of it,
but as to me, it half drives me out of my senses to have him taken
away from me at last in that unnatural manner. And I’m sure, ma’am, if
you would only put in a word against it, I dare say he would give it
up without a demur.”
“Me?” cried Cecilia, disengaging herself from her hold, “No, madam,
you must apply to those friends who better understand his affairs, and
who would have a deeper interest in detaining him.”
“Lack a day!” cried Mrs Belfield, with scarcely smothered vexation,
“how hard it is to make these grand young ladies come to reason! As to
my son’s other friends, what good will it do for him to mind what they
say? who can expect him to give up his journey, without knowing what
amends he shall get for it?”
“You must settle this matter with him at your leisure,” said Cecilia,
“I cannot now stay another moment.”
Mrs Belfield, again finding she had been too precipitate, tried to
draw back, saying “Pray, ma’am, don’t let what I have mentioned go
against my son in your good opinion, for he knows no more of it than
the furthest person in the world, as my daughter can testify for as to
shyness, he’s just as shy as a lady himself; so what good he ever got
at the University, as to the matter of making his fortune, it’s what I
never could discover. However, I dare say he knows best; though when
all comes to all, if I was to speak my mind, I think he’s made but a
poor hand of it.”
Cecilia, who only through compassion to the blushing Henrietta forbore
repressing this forwardness more seriously, merely answered Mrs
Belfield by wishing her good morning: but, while she was taking a
kinder leave of her timid daughter, the mother added “As to the
present, ma’am, you was so kind to make us, Henny can witness for me
every penny of it shall go to my son.”
“I rather meant it,” said Cecilia, “for your daughter; but if it is of
use to any body, my purpose is sufficiently answered.”
Mrs Belfield again pressed her to sit down, but she would not again
listen to her, coldly saying “I am sorry you troubled Mr Belfield with
any mention of what passed between his sister and me, but should you
speak of it again, I beg you will explain to him that he had no
concern in that little transaction, which belonged wholly to
ourselves.”
She then hastened down stairs, followed, however, by Mrs Belfield,
making awkward excuses for what she had said, intermixed with frequent
hints that she knew all the time she was in the right.
This little incident, which convinced Cecilia Mrs Belfield was firmly
persuaded she was in love with her son, gave her much uneasiness; she
feared the son himself might entertain the same notion, and thought it
most probable the daughter also had imbibed it, though but for the
forward vulgarity of the sanguine mother, their opinions might long
have remained concealed. Her benevolence towards them, notwithstanding
its purity, must now therefore cease to be exerted: nor could she even
visit Miss Belfield, since prudence, and a regard for her own
character, seemed immediately to prohibit all commerce with the
family.
“And thus difficult,” cried she, “is the blameless use of riches,
though: all who want them, think nothing so easy as their disposal!
This family I have so much wished to serve, I may at last only have
injured, since the disappointment of their higher expectations, may
render all smaller benefits contemptible. And thus this unfortunate
misconstruction of my good offices, robs them of a useful assistant,
and deprives me at the same time of an amiable companion.”
As soon as she returned home, she had a letter put into her hand which
came from Mr Marriot, whose servant had twice called for an answer in
the short time she had been absent.
This letter contained a most passionate avowal of the impression she
had made on his heart the preceding evening, and an angry complaint
that Mr Harrel had refused to hear his proposals. He entreated her
permission to wait upon her for only five minutes, and concluded with
the most fervent professions of respect and admiration.
The precipitancy of this declaration served merely to confirm the
opinion she had already conceived of the weakness of his
understanding: but the obstinacy of Mr Harrel irritated and distressed
her, though weary of expostulating with so hopeless a subject, whom
neither reason nor gratitude could turn from his own purposes, she was
obliged to submit to his management, and was well content, in the
present instance, to affirm his decree. She therefore wrote a concise
answer to her new admirer, in the usual form of civil rejection.
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