The evening was already far advanced, and before she arrived at the end
of her little journey it was quite dark. When they came within a mile
of Mr Arnott’s house, the postilion, in turning too suddenly from the
turnpike to the cross-road, overset the carriage. The accident,
however, occasioned no other mischief than delaying their proceeding,
and Cecilia and her maid were helped out of the chaise unhurt. The
servants, assisted by a man who was walking upon the road, began
lifting it up; and Cecilia, too busy within to be attentive to what
passed without, disregarded what went forward, till she heard her
footman call for help. She then hastily advanced to enquire what was
the matter, and found that the passenger who had lent his aid, had, by
working in the dark, unfortunately slipped his foot under one of the
wheels, and so much hurt it, that without great pain he could not put
it to the ground.
Cecilia immediately desired that the sufferer might be carried to his
own home in the chaise, while she and the maid walked on to Mr
Arnott’s, attended by her servant on horseback.
This little incident proved of singular service to her upon first
entering the house; Mrs Harrel was at supper with her brother, and
hearing the voice of Cecilia in the hall, hastened with the extremest
surprise to enquire what had occasioned so late a visit; followed by Mr
Arnott, whose amazement was accompanied with a thousand other
sensations too powerful for speech. Cecilia, unprepared with any
excuse, instantly related the adventure she had met with on the road,
which quieted their curiosity, by turning their attention to her
personal safety. They ordered a room to be prepared for her, entreated
her to go to rest with all speed, and postpone any further account till
the next day. With this request she most gladly complied, happy to be
spared the embarrassment of enquiry, and rejoiced to be relieved from
the fatigue of conversation. Her night was restless and miserable: to
know how Delvile would bear her flight was never a moment from her
thoughts, and to hear whether he would obey or oppose his mother was
her incessant wish. She was fixt, however, to be faithful in refusing
to see him, and at least to suffer nothing new from her own enterprize
or fault.
Early in the morning Mrs Harrel came to see her. She was eager to learn
why, after invitations repeatedly refused, she was thus suddenly
arrived without any; and she was still more eager to talk of herself,
and relate the weary life she led thus shut up in the country, and
confined to the society of her brother.
Cecilia evaded giving any immediate answer to her questions, and Mrs
Harrel, happy in an opportunity to rehearse her own complaints, soon
forgot that she had asked any, and, in a very short time, was
perfectly, though imperceptibly, contented to be herself the only
subject upon which they conversed.
But not such was the selfishness of Mr Arnott; and Cecilia, when she
went down to breakfast, perceived with the utmost concern that he had
passed a night as sleepless as her own. A visit so sudden, so
unexpected, and so unaccountable, from an object that no discouragement
could make him think of with indifference, had been a subject to him of
conjecture and wonder that had revived all the hopes and the fears
which had lately, though still unextinguished, lain dormant. The
enquiries, however, which his sister had given up, he ventured not to
renew, and thought himself but too happy in her presence, whatever
might be the cause of her visit.
He perceived, however, immediately, the sadness that hung upon her
mind, and his own was redoubled by the sight: Mrs Harrel, also, saw
that she looked ill, but attributed it to the fatigue and fright of the
preceding evening, well knowing that a similar accident would have made
her ill herself, or fancy that she was so.
During breakfast, Cecilia sent for the postilion, to enquire of him how
the man had fared, whose good-natured assistance in their distress had
been so unfortunate to himself. He answered that he had turned out to
be a day labourer, who lived about half a mile off. And then, partly to
gratify her own humanity, and partly to find any other employment for
herself and friends than uninteresting conversation, she proposed that
they should all walk to the poor man’s habitation, and offer him some
amends for the injury he had received. This was readily assented to,
and the postilion directed them whither to go. The place was a cottage,
situated upon a common; they entered it without ceremony, and found a
clean looking woman at work.
Cecilia enquired for her husband, and was told that he was gone out to
day-labour.
“I am very glad to hear it,” returned she; “I hope then he has got the
better of the accident he met with last night?”
“It was not him, madam,” said the woman, “met with the accident, it was
John;—there he is, working in the garden.”
To the garden then they all went, and saw him upon the ground, weeding.
The moment they approached he arose, and, without speaking, began to
limp, for he could hardly walk; away.
“I am sorry, master,” said Cecilia, “that you are so much hurt. Have
you had anything put to your foot?”
The man made no answer, but still turned away from her; a glance,
however, of his eye, which the next instant he fixed upon the ground,
startled her; she moved round to look at him again,—and perceived Mr
Belfield!
“Good God!” she exclaimed; but seeing him still retreat, she
recollected in a moment how little he would be obliged to her for
betraying him, and suffering him to go on, turned back to her party,
and led the way again into the house.
As soon as the first emotion of her surprise was over, she enquired how
long John had belonged to this cottage, and what was his way of life.
The woman answered he had only been with them a week, and that he went
out to day-labour with her husband.
Cecilia then, finding their stay kept him from his employment, and
willing to save him the distress of being seen by Mr Arnott or Mrs
Harrel, proposed their returning home. She grieved most sincerely at
beholding in so melancholy an occupation a young man of such talents
and abilities; she wished much to assist him, and began considering by
what means it might be done, when, as they were walking from the
cottage, a voice at some distance called out “Madam! Miss Beverley!”
and, looking round, to her utter amazement she saw Belfield
endeavouring to follow her.
She instantly stopt, and he advanced, his hat in his hand, and his
whole air indicating he sought not to be disguised.
Surprised at this sudden change of behaviour, she then stept forward to
meet him, accompanied by her friends: but when they came up to each
other, she checked her desire of speaking, to leave him fully at
liberty to make himself known, or keep concealed.
He bowed with a look of assumed gaiety and ease, but the deep scarlet
that tinged his whole face manifested his internal confusion; and in a
voice that attempted to sound lively, though its tremulous accents
betrayed uneasiness and distress, he exclaimed, with a forced smile,
“Is it possible Miss Beverley can deign to notice a poor miserable day-labourer such as I am? how will she be justified in the beau monde,
when even the sight of such a wretch ought to fill her with horror?
Henceforth let hysterics be blown to the winds, and let nerves be
discarded from the female vocabulary, since a lady so young and fair
can stand this shock without hartshorn or fainting!”
“I am happy,” answered Cecilia, “to find your spirits so good; yet my
own, I must confess, are not raised by seeing you in this strange
situation.”
“My spirits!” cried he, with an air of defiance, “never were they
better, never so good as at this moment. Strange as seems my situation,
it is all that I wish; I have found out, at last, the true secret of
happiness! that secret which so long I pursued in vain, but which
always eluded my grasp, till the instant of despair arrived, when,
slackening my pace, I gave it up as a phantom. Go from me, I cried, I
will be cheated no more! thou airy bubble! thou fleeting shadow! I will
live no longer in thy sight, since thy beams dazzle without warming me!
Mankind seems only composed as matter for thy experiments, and I will
quit the whole race, that thy delusions may be presented to me no
more!”
This romantic flight, which startled even Cecilia, though acquainted
with his character, gave to Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott the utmost
surprize; his appearance, and the account they had just heard of him,
having by no means prepared them for such sentiments or such language.
“Is then this great secret of happiness,” said Cecilia, “nothing, at
last, but total seclusion from the world?”
“No, madam,” answered he, “it is Labour with Independence.”
Cecilia now wished much to ask some explanation of his affairs, but was
doubtful whether he would gratify her before Mrs Harrel and Mr Arnott,
and hurt to keep him standing, though he leant upon a stick; she told
him, therefore, she would at present detain him no longer, but
endeavour again to see him before she quitted her friends.
Mr Arnott then interfered, and desired his sister would entreat Miss
Beverley to invite whom she pleased to his house.
Cecilia thanked him, and instantly asked Belfield to call upon her in
the afternoon.
“No, madam, no,” cried he, “I have done with visits and society! I will
not so soon break through a system with much difficulty formed, when
all my future tranquility depends upon adhering to it. The
worthlessness of mankind has disgusted me with the world, and my
resolution in quitting it shall be immoveable as its baseness.”
“I must not venture then,” said Cecilia, “to enquire—”
“Enquire, madam,” interrupted he, with quickness, “what you please:
there is nothing I will not answer to you,—to this lady, to this
gentleman, to any and to every body. What can I wish to conceal, where
I have nothing to gain or to lose? When first, indeed, I saw you, I
involuntarily shrunk; a weak shame for a moment seized me, I felt
fallen and debased, and I wished to avoid you: but a little
recollection brought me back to my senses, And where, cried I, is the
disgrace of exercising for my subsistence the strength with which I am
endued? and why should I blush to lead the life which uncorrupted
Nature first prescribed to man?”
“Well, then,” said Cecilia, more and more interested to hear him, “if
you will not visit us, will you at least permit us to return with you
to some place where you can be seated?”
“I will with pleasure,” cried he, “go to any place where you may be
seated yourselves; but for me, I have ceased to regard accommodation or
inconvenience.”
They then all went back to the cottage, which was now empty, the woman
being out at work.
“Will you then, Sir,” said Cecilia, “give me leave to enquire whether
Lord Vannelt is acquainted with your retirement, and if it will not
much surprize and disappoint him?”
“Lord Vannelt,” cried he, haughtily, “has no right to be surprised. I
would have quitted his house, if no other, not even this cottage, had
a roof to afford me shelter!”
“I am sorry, indeed, to hear it,” said Cecilia; “I had hoped he would
have known your value, and merited your regard.”
“Ill-usage,” answered he, “is as hard to relate as to be endured. There
is commonly something pitiful in a complaint; and though oppression in
a general sense provokes the wrath of mankind, the investigation of its
minuter circumstances excites nothing but derision. Those who give the
offence, by the worthy few may be hated; but those who receive it, by
the world at large will be despised. Conscious of this, I disdained
making any appeal; myself the only sufferer, I had a right to be the
only judge, and, shaking off the base trammels of interest and
subjection, I quitted the house in silent indignation, not chusing to
remonstrate, where I desired not to be reconciled.”
“And was there no mode of life,” said Cecilia, “to adopt, but living
with Lord Vannelt, or giving up the whole world?”
“I weighed every thing maturely,” answered he, “before I made my
determination, and I found it so much, the most eligible, that I am
certain I can never repent it. I had friends who would with pleasure
have presented me to some other nobleman; but my whole heart revolted
against leading that kind of life, and I would not, therefore, idly
rove from one great man to another, adding ill-will to disgrace, and
pursuing hope in defiance of common sense; no; when I quitted Lord
Vannelt, I resolved to give up patronage for ever.
“I retired to private lodgings to deliberate what next could be done. I
had lived in many ways, I had been unfortunate or imprudent in all. The
law I had tried, but its rudiments were tedious and disgusting; the
army, too, but there found my mind more fatigued with indolence, than
my body with action; general dissipation had then its turn, but the
expence to which it led was ruinous, and self-reproach baffled pleasure
while I pursued it; I have even—yes, there are few things I have left
untried,—I have even,—for why now disguise it?—”
He stopt and coloured, but in a quicker voice presently proceeded.
“Trade, also, has had its share in my experiments; for that, in truth,
I was originally destined,—but my education had ill suited me to such
a destination, and the trader’s first maxim I reversed, in lavishing
when I ought to have accumulated.
“What, then, remained for me? to run over again the same irksome round
I had not patience, and to attempt any thing new I was unqualified:
money I had none; my friends I could bear to burthen no longer; a
fortnight I lingered in wretched irresolution,—a simple accident at
the end of it happily settled me; I was walking, one morning, in Hyde
Park, forming a thousand plans for my future life, but quarrelling with
them all; when a gentleman met me on horseback, from whom, at my Lord
Vannelt’s, I had received particular civilities; I looked another way
not to be seen by him, and the change in my dress since I left his
Lordship’s made me easily pass unnoticed. He had rode on, however, but
a few yards, before, by some accident or mismanagement, he had a fall
from his horse. Forgetting all my caution, I flew instantly to his
assistance; he was bruised, but not otherwise hurt; I helpt him up, and
he leant ‘pon my arm; in my haste of enquiring how he had fared, I
called him by his name. He knew me, but looked surprised at my
appearance; he was speaking to me, however, with kindness, when seeing
some gentlemen of his acquaintance gallopping up to him, he hastily
disengaged himself from me, and instantly beginning to recount to them
what had happened, he sedulously looked another way, and joining his
new companions, walked off without taking further notice of me. For a
moment I was almost tempted to trouble him to come back; but a little
recollection told me how ill he deserved my resentment, and bid me
transfer it for the future from the pitiful individual to the worthless
community.
“Here finished my deliberation; the disgust to the world which I had
already conceived, this little incident confirmed; I saw it was only
made for the great and the rich;—poor, therefore, and low, what had I
to do in it? I determined to quit it for ever, and to end every
disappointment, by crushing every hope.
“I wrote to Lord Vannelt to send my trunks to my mother; I wrote to my
mother that I was well, and would soon let her hear more: I then paid
off my lodgings, and ‘shaking the dust from my feet,’ bid a long adieu
to London; and, committing my route to chance, strole on into the
country, without knowing or caring which way.
“My first thought was simply to seek retirement, and to depend for my
future repose upon nothing but a total seclusion from society: but my
slow method of travelling gave me time for reflection, and reflection
soon showed me the error of this notion.
“Guilt, cried I, may, indeed, be avoided by solitude; but will misery?
will regret? will deep dejection of mind? no, they will follow more
assiduously than ever; for what is there to oppose them, where neither
business occupies the time, nor hope the imagination? where the past
has left nothing but resentment, and the future opens only to a dismal,
uninteresting void? No stranger to life, I knew human nature could not
exist on such terms; still less a stranger to books, I respected the
voice of wisdom and experience in the first of moralists, and most
enlightened of men,[1] and reading the letter of
Cowley, I saw the vanity and absurdity of panting after solitude.
[2]
“I sought not, therefore, a cell; but, since I purposed to live for
myself, I determined for myself also to think. Servility of imitation
has ever been as much my scorn as servility of dependence; I resolved,
therefore, to strike out something new, and no more to retire as every
other man had retired, than to linger in the world as every other man
had lingered.
“The result of all you now see. I found out this cottage, and took up
my abode in it. I am here out of the way of all society, yet avoid the
great evil of retreat, having nothing to do. I am constantly, not
capriciously employed, and the exercise which benefits my health,
imperceptibly raises my spirits in despight of adversity. I am removed
from all temptation, I have scarce even the power to do wrong; I have
no object for ambition, for repining I have no time:—I have, found
out, I repeat, the true secret of happiness, Labour with Independence.”
He stopt; and Cecilia, who had listened to this narrative with a
mixture of compassion, admiration and censure, was too much struck with
its singularity to be readily able to answer it. Her curiosity to hear
him had sprung wholly from her desire to assist him, and she had
expected from his story to gather some hint upon which her services
might be offered. But none had occurred; he professed himself fully
satisfied with his situation; and though reason and probability
contradicted the profession, she could not venture to dispute it with
any delicacy or prudence.
She thanked him, therefore, for his relation, with many apologies for
the trouble she had given him, and added, “I must not express my
concern for misfortunes which you seem to regard as conducive to your
contentment, nor remonstrate at the step you have taken, since you have
been led to it by choice, not necessity: but yet, you must pardon me if
I cannot help hoping I shall some time see you happier, according to
the common, however vulgar ideas of the rest of the world.”
“No, never, never! I am sick of mankind, not from theory, but
experience; and the precautions I have taken against mental fatigue,
will secure me from repentance, or any desire of change; for it is not
the active, but the indolent who weary; it is not the temperate, but
the pampered who are capricious.”
“Is your sister, Sir, acquainted with this change in your fortune and
opinions?”
“Poor girl, no! She and her unhappy mother have borne but too long with
my enterprizes and misfortunes. Even yet they would sacrifice whatever
they possess to enable me to play once more the game so often lost; but
I will not abuse their affection, nor suffer them again to be slaves to
my caprices, nor dupes to their own delusive expectations. I have sent
them word I am happy; I have not yet told them how or where. I fear
much the affliction of their disappointment, and, for a while, shall
conceal from them my situation, which they would fancy was disgraceful,
and grieve at as cruel.”
“And is it not cruel?” said Cecilia, “is labour indeed so sweet? and
can you seriously derive happiness from what all others consider as
misery?”
“Not sweet,” answered he, “in itself; but sweet, most sweet and
salutary in its effects. When I work, I forget all the world; my
projects for the future, my disappointments from the past. Mental
fatigue is overpowered by personal; I toil till I require rest, and
that rest which nature, not luxury demands, leads not to idle
meditation, but to sound, heavy, necessary sleep. I awake the next
morning to the same thought-exiling business, work again till my powers
are exhausted, and am relieved again at night by the same health-recruiting insensibility.”
“And if this,” cried Cecilia, “is the life of happiness, why have we so
many complaints of the sufferings of the poor, and why so eternally do
we hear of their hardships and distress?”
“They have known no other life. They are strangers, therefore, to the
felicity of their lot. Had they mingled in the world, fed high their
fancy with hope, and looked forward with expectation of enjoyment; had
they been courted by the great, and offered with profusion adulation
for their abilities, yet, even when starving, been offered nothing
else!—had they seen an attentive circle wait all its entertainment
from their powers, yet found themselves forgotten as soon as out of
sight, and perceived themselves avoided when no longer buffoons!—Oh
had they known and felt provocations such as these, how gladly would
their resentful spirits turn from the whole unfeeling race, and how
would they respect that noble and manly labour, which at once
disentangles them from such subjugating snares, and enables them to fly
the ingratitude they abhor! Without the contrast of vice, virtue
unloved may be lovely; without the experience of misery, happiness is
simply a dull privation of evil.”
“And are you so content,” cried Cecilia, “with your present situation,
as even to think it offers you reparation for your past sufferings?”
“Content!” repeated he with energy, “O more than content, I am proud of
my present situation! I glory in chewing to the world, glory still more
in shewing to myself, that those whom I cannot but despise I will not
scruple to defy, and that where I have been treated unworthily, I will
scorn to be obliged.”
“But will you pardon me,” said Cecilia, “should I ask again, why in
quitting Lord Vannelt, you concluded no one else worthy a trial?”
“Because it was less my Lord Vannelt, madam, than my own situation,
that disgusted me: for though I liked not his behaviour, I found him a
man too generally esteemed to flatter myself better usage would await
me in merely changing my abode, while my station was the same. I
believe, indeed, he never meant to offend me; but I was offended the
more that he should think me an object to receive indignity without
knowing it. To have had this pointed out to him, would have been at
once mortifying and vain; for delicacy, like taste, can only partially
be taught, and will always be superficial and erring where it is not
innate. Those wrongs, which though too trifling to resent, are too
humiliating to be borne, speech can convey no idea of; the soul must
feel, or the understanding can never comprehend them.”
“But surely,” said Cecilia, “though people of refinement are rare, they
yet exist; why, then, remove yourself from the possibility of meeting
with them?”
“Must I run about the nation,” cried he, “proclaiming my distress, and
describing my temper? telling the world that though dependent I demand
respect as well as assistance; and publishing to mankind, that though
poor I will accept no gifts if offered with contumely? Who will listen
to such an account? who will care for my misfortunes, but as they may
humble me to his service? Who will hear my mortifications, but to say I
deserve them? what has the world to do with my feelings and
peculiarities? I know it too well to think calamity will soften it; I
need no new lessons to instruct me that to conquer affliction is more
wise than to relate it.”
“Unfortunate as you have been,” said Cecilia, “I cannot wonder at your
asperity; but yet, it is surely no more than justice to acknowledge,
that hard-heartedness to distress is by no means the fault of the
present times: on the contrary, it is scarce sooner made known, than
every one is ready to contribute to its relief.”
“And how contribute?” cried he, “by a paltry donation of money? Yes,
the man whose only want is a few guineas, may, indeed, obtain them; but
he who asks kindness and protection, whose oppressed spirit calls for
consolation even more than his ruined fortune for repair, how is his
struggling soul, if superior to his fate, to brook the ostentation of
patronage, and the insolence of condescension? Yes, yes, the world will
save the poor beggar who is starving; but the fallen wretch, who will
not cringe for his support, may consume in his own wretchedness without
pity and without help!”
Cecilia now saw that the wound his sensibility had received was too
painful for argument, and too recent immediately to be healed. She
forbore, therefore, to detain him any longer, but expressing her best
wishes, without venturing to hint at her services, she arose, and they
all took their leave;—Belfield hastening, as they went, to return to
the garden, where, looking over the hedge as they passed, they saw him
employed again in weeding, with the eagerness of a man who pursues his
favourite occupation.
Cecilia half forgot her own anxieties and sadness, in the concern which
she felt for this unfortunate and extraordinary young man. She wished
much to devise some means for drawing him from a life of such hardship
and obscurity; but what to a man thus “jealous in honour,” thus
scrupulous in delicacy, could she propose, without more risk of
offence, than probability of obliging? His account had, indeed,
convinced her how much he stood in need of assistance, but it had shewn
her no less how fastidious he would be in receiving it.
Nor was she wholly without fear that an earnest solicitude to serve
him, his youth, talents, and striking manners considered, might
occasion even in himself a misconstruction of her motives, such as she
already had given birth to in his forward and partial mother.
The present, therefore, all circumstances weighed, seemed no season for
her liberality, which she yet resolved to exert the first moment it was
unopposed by propriety.
Footnotes
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