Mr Monckton, the next day, as soon as breakfast was over, went out, to
avoid showing, even to Cecilia, the anxiety he felt concerning the
regulation of her fortune, and arrangement of her affairs. He strongly,
however, advised her not to mention her large debt, which, though
contracted in the innocence of the purest benevolence, would incur
nothing but reproof and disapprobation, from all who only heard of it,
when they heard of its inutility.
At eleven o’clock, though an hour before the time appointed, while
Cecilia was sitting in Lady Margaret’s dressing room, “with sad
civility and an aching head,” she was summoned to Mr Briggs in the
parlour.
He immediately began reproaching her with having eloped from him, in
the summer, and with the various expences she had caused him from
useless purchases and spoilt provisions. He then complained of Mr
Delvile, whom he charged with defrauding him of his dues; but observing
in the midst of his railing her dejection of countenance, he suddenly
broke off, and looking at her with some concern, said, “what’s the
matter, Ducky? a’n’t well? look as if you could not help it.”
“O yes,” cried Cecilia, “I thank you, Sir, I am very well.”
“What do you look so blank for, then?” said he, “bay? what are fretting
for?—crossed in love?—lost your sweetheart?”
“No, no, no,” cried she, with quickness.
“Never mind, my chick, never mind,” said he, pinching her cheek, with
resumed good humour, “more to be had; if one won’t snap, another will;
put me in a passion by going off from me with that old grandee, or
would have got one long ago. Hate that old Don; used me very ill; wish
I could trounce him. Thinks more of a fusty old parchment than the
price of stocks. Fit for nothing but to be stuck upon an old monument
for a Death’s head.”
He then told her that her accounts were all made out, and he was ready
at any time to produce them; he approved much of her finishing wholly
with the old Don, who had been a mere cypher in the executorship; but
he advised her not to think of taking her money into her own hands, as
he was willing to keep the charge of it himself till she was married.
Cecilia, thanking him for the offer, said she meant now to make her
acknowledgments for all the trouble he had already taken, but by no
means purposed to give him any more.
He debated the matter with her warmly, told her she had no chance to
save herself from knaves and cheats, but by trusting to nobody but
himself, and informing her what interest he had already made of her
money, enquired how she would set about getting more?
Cecilia, though prejudiced against him by Mr Monckton, knew not how to
combat his arguments; yet conscious that scarce any part of the money
to which he alluded was in fact her own, she could not yield to them.
He was, however, so stubborn and so difficult to deal with, that she at
length let him talk without troubling herself to answer, and privately
determined to beg Mr Monckton would fight her battle.
She was not, therefore, displeased by his interruption, though very
much surprised by the sight of his person, when, in the midst of Mr
Briggs’s oratory, Mr Hobson entered the parlour.
“I ask pardon, ma’am,” cried he, “if I intrude; but I made free to call
upon the account of two ladies that are acquaintances of yours, that
are quite, as one may say, at their wit’s ends.”
“What is the matter with them, Sir?”
“Why, ma’am, no great matter, but mothers are soon frightened, and when
once they are upon the fret, one may as well talk to the boards! they
know no more of reasoning and arguing, than they do of a shop ledger!
however, my maxim is this; every body in their way; one has no more
right to expect courageousness from a lady in them cases, than one has
from a child in arms; for what I say is, they have not the proper use
of their heads, which makes it very excusable.”
“But what has occasioned any alarm? nothing, I hope, is the matter with
Miss Belfield?”
“No, ma’am; thank God, the young lady enjoys her health very well: but
she is taking on just in the same way as her mamma, as what can be more
natural? Example, ma’am, is apt to be catching, and one lady’s crying
makes another think she must do the same, for a little thing serves for
a lady’s tears, being they can cry at any time: but a man is quite of
another nature, let him but have a good conscience, and be clear of the
world, and I’ll engage he’ll not wash his face without soap! that’s
what I say!”
“Will, will!” cried Mr Briggs, “do it myself! never use soap; nothing
but waste; take a little sand; does as well.”
“Let every man have his own proposal;” answered Hobson; “for my part, I
take every morning a large bowl of water, and souse my whole head in
it; and then when I’ve rubbed it dry, on goes my wig, and I am quite
fresh and agreeable: and then I take a walk in Tottenham Court Road as
far as the Tabernacle, or thereabouts, and snuff in a little fresh
country air, and then I come back, with a good wholesome appetite, and
in a fine breathing heat, asking the young lady’s pardon; and I enjoy
my pot of fresh tea, and my round of hot toast and butter, with as good
a relish as if I was a Prince.”
“Pot of fresh tea,” cried Briggs, “bring a man to ruin; toast and
butter! never suffer it in my house. Breakfast on water-gruel, sooner
done; fills one up in a second. Give it my servants; can’t eat much of
it. Bob ’em there!” nodding significantly.
“Water-gruel!” exclaimed Mr Hobson, “why I could not get it down if I
might have the world for it! it would make me quite sick, asking the
young lady’s pardon, by reason I should always think I was preparing
for the small-pox. My notion is quite of another nature; the first
thing I do is to have a good fire; for what I say is this, if a man is
cold in his fingers, it’s odds if ever he gets warm in his purse! ha!
ha! warm, you take me, Sir? I mean a pun. Though I ought to ask pardon,
for I suppose the young lady don’t know what I am a saying.”
“I should indeed be better pleased, Sir,” said Cecilia, “to hear what
you have to say about Miss Belfield.”
“Why, ma’am, the thing is this; we have been expecting the young
‘Squire, as I call him, all the morning, and he has never come; so Mrs
Belfield, not knowing where to send after him, was of opinion he might
be here, knowing your kindness to him, and that.”
“You make the enquiry at the wrong place, Sir,” said Cecilia, much
provoked by the implication it conveyed; “if Mr Belfield is in this
house, you must seek him with Mr Monckton.”
“You take no offence, I hope, ma’am, at my just asking of the question?
for Mrs Belfield crying, and being in that dilemma, I thought I could
do no less than oblige her by coming to see if the young gentleman was
here.”
“What’s this? what’s this?” cried Mr Briggs eagerly; “who are talking
of? hay?—who do mean? is this the sweet heart? eh, Duck?”
“No, no, Sir,” cried Cecilia.
“No tricks! won’t be bit! who is it? will know; tell me, I say!”
“I’ll tell Sir,” cried Mr Hobson; “it’s a very handsome young
gentleman, with as fine a person, and as genteel a way of behaviour,
and withal, as pretty a manner of dressing himself, and that, as any
lady need desire. He has no great head for business, as I am told, but
the ladies don’t stand much upon that topic, being they know nothing of
it themselves.”
“Has got the ready?” cried Mr Briggs, impatiently; “can cast an
account? that’s the point; can come down handsomely? eh?”
“Why as to that, Sir, I’m not bound to speak to a gentleman’s private
affairs. What’s my own, is my own, and what is another person’s, is
another person’s; that’s my way of arguing, and that’s what I call
talking to the purpose.”
“Dare say he’s a rogue! don’t have him, chick. Bet a wager i’n’t worth
two shillings; and that will go for powder and pomatum; hate a
plaistered pate; commonly a numscull: love a good bob-jerom.”
“Why this is talking quite wide of the mark,” said Mr Hobson, “to
suppose a young lady of fortunes would marry a man with a bob-jerom.
What I say is, let every body follow their nature; that’s the way to be
comfortable; and then if they pay every one his own, who’s a right to
call ’em to account, whether they wear a bob-jerom, or a pig-tail down
to the calves of their legs?”
“Ay, ay,” cried Briggs, sneeringly, “or whether they stuff their
gullets with hot rounds of toast and butter.”
“And what if they do, Sir?” returned Hobson, a little angrily; “when a
man’s got above the world, where’s the harm of living a little genteel?
as to a round of toast and butter, and a few oysters, fresh opened, by
way of a damper before dinner, no man need be ashamed of them, provided
he pays as he goes: and as to living upon water-gruel, and scrubbing
one’s flesh with sand, one might as well be a galley-slave at once.
You don’t understand life, Sir, I see that.”
“Do! do!” cried Briggs, speaking through his shut teeth; “you’re out
there! oysters!—come to ruin, tell you! bring you to jail!”
“To jail, Sir?” exclaimed Hobson, “this is talking quite ungenteel! let
every man be civil; that’s what I say, for that’s the way to make every
thing agreeable but as to telling a man he’ll go to jail, and that,
it’s tantamount to affronting him.”
A rap at the street-door gave now a new relief to Cecilia, who began to
grow very apprehensive lest the delight of spending money, thus warmly
contested with that of hoarding it, should give rise to a quarrel,
which, between two such sturdy champions for their own opinions, might
lead to a conclusion rather more rough and violent than she desired to
witness: but when the parlour-door opened, instead of Mr Delvile, whom
she now fully expected, Mr Albany made his entrance.
This was rather distressing, as her real business with her guardians
made it proper her conference with them should be undisturbed: and
Albany was not a man with whom a hint that she was engaged could be
risked: but she had made no preparation to guard against interruption,
as her little acquaintance in London had prevented her expecting any
visitors.
He advanced with a solemn air to Cecilia, and, looking as if hardly
determined whether to speak with severity or gentleness, said, “once
more I come to prove thy sincerity; now wilt thou go with me where
sorrow calls thee? sorrow thy charity can mitigate?”
“I am very much concerned,” she answered, “but indeed at present it is
utterly impossible.”
“Again,” cried he, with a look at once stern and disappointed, “again
thou failest me? what wanton trifling! why shouldst thou thus elate a
worn-out mind, only to make it feel its lingering credulity? or why,
teaching me to think I had found an angel, so unkindly undeceive me?”
“Indeed,” said Cecilia, much affected by this reproof, “if you knew how
heavy a loss I had personally suffered—”
“I do know it,” cried he, “and I grieved for thee when I heard it. Thou
hast lost a faithful old friend, a loss which with every setting sun
thou mayst mourn, for the rising sun will never repair it! but was that
a reason for shunning the duties of humanity? was the sight of death a
motive for neglecting the claims of benevolence? ought it not rather to
have hastened your fulfilling them? and should not your own suffering
experience of the brevity of life, have taught you the vanity of all
things but preparing for its end?”
“Perhaps so, but my grief at that time made me think only of myself.”
“And of what else dost thou think now?”
“Most probably of the same person still!” said she, half smiling, “but
yet believe me, I have real business to transact.”
“Frivolous, unmeaning, ever-ready excuses! what business is so
important as the relief of a fellow-creature?”
“I shall not, I hope, there,” answered she, with alacrity, “be
backward; but at least for this morning I must beg to make you my
Almoner.”
She then took out her purse.
Mr Briggs and Mr Hobson, whose quarrel had been suspended by the
appearance of a third person, and who had stood during this short
dialogue in silent amazement, having first lost their anger in their
mutual consternation, now lost their consternation in their mutual
displeasure Mr. Hobson felt offended to hear business spoken of
slightly, and Mr Briggs felt enraged at the sight of Cecilia’s ready
purse. Neither of them, however, knew which way to interfere, the stem
gravity of Albany, joined to a language too lofty for their
comprehension, intimidating them both. They took, however, the relief
of communing with one another, and Mr Hobson said in a whisper “This,
you must know, is, I am told, a very particular old gentleman; quite
what I call a genius. He comes often to my house, to see my lodger Miss
Henny Belfield, though I never happen to light upon him myself, except
once in the passage: but what I hear of him is this; he makes a
practice, as one may say, of going about into people’s houses, to do
nothing but find fault.”
“Shan’t get into mine!” returned Briggs, “promise him that! don’t half
like him; be bound he’s an old sharper.”
Cecilia, mean time, enquired what he desired to have.
“Half a guinea,” he answered.
“Will that do?”
“For those who have nothing,” said he, “it is much. Hereafter, you may
assist them again. Go but and see their distresses, and you will wish
to give them every thing.”
Mr Briggs now, when actually between her fingers he saw the half
guinea, could contain no longer; he twitched the sleeve of her gown,
and pinching her arm, with a look of painful eagerness, said in a
whisper “Don’t give it! don’t let him have it! chouse him, chouse him!
nothing but an old bite!”
“Pardon me, Sir,” said Cecilia, in a low voice, “his character is very
well known to me.” And then, disengaging her arm from him, she
presented her little offering.
At this sight, Mr Briggs was almost outrageous, and losing in his
wrath, all fear of the stranger, he burst forth with fury into the
following outcries, “Be ruined! see it plainly; be fleeced! be stript!
be robbed! won’t have a gown to your back! won’t have a shoe to your
foot! won’t have a rag in the world! be a beggar in the street! come to
the parish! rot in a jail!—half a guinea at a time!—enough to break
the Great Mogul!”
“Inhuman spirit of selfish parsimony!” exclaimed Albany, “repinest thou
at this loan, given from thousands to those who have worse than
nothing? who pay to-day in hunger for bread they borrowed yesterday
from pity? who to save themselves from the deadly pangs of famine,
solicit but what the rich know not when they possess, and miss not when
they give?”
“Anan!” cried Briggs, recovering his temper from the perplexity of his
understanding, at a discourse to which his ears were wholly
unaccustomed, “what d’ye say?”
“If to thyself distress may cry in vain,” continued Albany, “if thy own
heart resists the suppliant’s prayer, callous to entreaty, and hardened
in the world, suffer, at least, a creature yet untainted, who melts at
sorrow, and who glows with charity, to pay from her vast wealth a
generous tax of thankfulness, that fate has not reversed her doom, and
those whom she relieves, relieve not her!”
“Anan!” was again all the wondering Mr Briggs could say.
“Pray, ma’am,” said Mr Hobson, to Cecilia, “if it’s no offence, was the
Gentleman ever a player?”
“I fancy not, indeed!”
“I ask pardon, then, ma’am; I mean no harm; but my notion was the
gentleman might be speaking something by heart.”
“Is it but on the stage, humanity exists?” cried Albany, indignantly;
“Oh thither hasten, then, ye monopolizers of plenty! ye selfish,
unfeeling engrossers of wealth, which ye dissipate without enjoying,
and of abundance, which ye waste while ye refuse to distribute!
thither, thither haste, if there humanity exists!”
“As to engrossing,” said Mr Hobson, happy to hear at last a word with
which he was familiar, “it’s what I never approved myself. My maxim is
this; if a man makes a fair penny, without any underhand dealings, why
he has as much a title to enjoy his pleasure as the Chief Justice, or
the Lord Chancellor: and it’s odds but he’s as happy as a greater man.
Though what I hold to be best of all, is a clear conscience, with a
neat income of 2 or 3000 a year. That’s my notion; and I don’t think
it’s a bad one.”
“Weak policy of short-sighted ignorance!” cried Albany, “to wish for
what, if used, brings care, and if neglected, remorse! have you not now
beyond what nature craves? why then still sigh for more?”
“Why?” cried Mr Briggs, who by dint of deep attention began now better
to comprehend him, “why to buy in, to be sure! ever hear of stocks, eh?
know any thing of money?”
“Still to make more and more,” cried Albany, “and wherefore? to spend
in vice and idleness, or hoard in chearless misery! not to give succour
to the wretched, not to support the falling; all is for self, however
little wanted, all goes to added stores, or added luxury; no fellow-creature served, nor even one beggar relieved!”
“Glad of it!” cried Briggs, “glad of it; would not have ’em relieved;
don’t like ’em; hate a beggar; ought to be all whipt; live upon
spunging.”
“Why as to a beggar, I must needs say,” cried Mr Hobson, “I am by no
means an approver of that mode of proceeding; being I take ’em all for
cheats: for what I say is this, what a man earns, he earns, and it’s no
man’s business to enquire what he spends, for a free-born Englishman is
his own master by the nature of the law, and as to his being a subject,
why a duke is no more, nor a judge, nor the Lord High Chancellor, and
the like of those; which makes it tantamount to nothing, being he is
answerable to nobody by the right of Magna Charta: except in cases of
treason, felony, and that. But as to a beggar, it’s quite another
thing; he comes and asks me for money; but what has he to shew for it?
what does he bring me in exchange? why a long story that he i’n’t worth
a penny! what’s that to me? nothing at all. Let every man have his own;
that’s my way of arguing.”
“Ungentle mortals!” cried Albany, “in wealth exulting; even in
inhumanity! think you these wretched outcasts have less sensibility
than yourselves? think you, in cold and hunger, they lose those
feelings which even in voluptuous prosperity from time to time disturb
you? you say they are all cheats? ’tis but the niggard cant of avarice,
to lure away remorse from obduracy. Think you the naked wanderer begs
from choice? give him your wealth and try.”
“Give him a whip!” cried Briggs, “sha’n’t have a souse! send him to
Bridewell! nothing but a pauper; hate ’em; hate ’em all! full of
tricks; break their own legs, put out their arms, cut off their
fingers, snap their own ancles,—all for what? to get at the chink! to
chouse us of cash! ought to be well flogged; have ’em all sent to the
Thames; worse than the Convicts.”
“Poor subterfuge of callous cruelty! you cheat yourselves, to shun the
fraud of others! and yet, how better do you use the wealth so guarded?
what nobler purpose can it answer to you, than even a chance to snatch
some wretch from sinking? think less how much ye save, and more for
what; and then consider how thy full coffers may hereafter make
reparation, for the empty catalogue of thy virtues.”
“Anan!” said Mr Briggs, again lost in perplexity and wonder.
“Oh yet,” continued Albany, turning towards Cecilia, “preach not here
the hardness which ye practice; rather amend yourselves than corrupt
her; and give with liberality what ye ought to receive with gratitude!”
“This is not my doctrine,” cried Hobson; “I am not a near man, neither,
but as to giving at that rate, it’s quite out of character. I have as
good a right to my own savings, as to my own gettings; and what I say
is this, who’ll give to me? let me see that, and it’s quite another
thing: and begin who will, I’ll be bound to go on with him, pound for
pound, or pence for pence. But as to giving to them beggars, it’s what
I don’t approve; I pay the poor’s rate, and that’s what I call charity
enough for any man. But for the matter of living well, and spending
one’s money handsomely, and having one’s comforts about one, why it’s a
thing of another nature, and I can say this for myself, and that is, I
never grudged myself any thing in my life. I always made myself
agreeable, and lived on the best. That’s my way.”
“Bad way too,” cried Briggs, “never get on with it, never see beyond
your nose; won’t be worth a plum while your head wags!” then, taking
Cecilia apart, “hark’ee, my duck,” he added, pointing to Albany, “who
is that Mr Bounce, eh? what is he?”
“I have known him but a short time, Sir; but I think of him very
highly.”
“Is he a good man? that’s the point, is he a good man?”
“Indeed he appears to me uncommonly benevolent and charitable.”
“But that i’n’t the thing; is he warm? that’s the point, is he
warm?”
“If you mean passionate,” said Cecilia, “I believe the energy of his
manner is merely to enforce what he says.”
“Don’t take me, don’t take me,” cried he, impatiently; “can come down
with the ready, that’s the matter; can chink the little gold boys? eh?”
“Why I rather fear not by his appearance; but I know nothing of his
affairs.”
“What does come for? eh? come a courting?”
“Mercy on me, no!”
“What for then? only a spunging?”
“No, indeed. He seems to have no wish but to assist and plead for
others.”
“All fudge! think he i’n’t touched? ay, ay; nothing but a trick! only
to get at the chink: see he’s as poor as a rat, talks of nothing but
giving money; a bad sign! if he’d got any, would not do it. Wanted to
make us come down; warrant thought to bam us all! out there! a’n’t so
soon gulled.”
A knock at the street door gave now a new interruption, and Mr Delvile
at length appeared.
Cecilia, whom his sight could not fail to disconcert, felt doubly
distressed by the unnecessary presence of Albany and Hobson; she
regretted the absence of Mr Monckton, who could easily have taken them
away; for though without scruple she could herself have acquainted Mr
Hobson she had business, she dreaded offending Albany, whose esteem she
was ambitious of obtaining.
Mr Delvile entered the room with an air stately and erect; he took off
his hat, but deigned not to make the smallest inclination of his head,
nor offered any excuse to Mr Briggs for being past the hour of his
appointment: but having advanced a few paces, without looking either to
the right or left, said, “as I have never acted, my coming may not,
perhaps, be essential; but as my name is in the Dean’s Will, and I have
once or twice met the other executors mentioned in it, I think it a
duty I owe to my own heirs to prevent any possible future enquiry or
trouble to them.”
This speech was directly addressed to no one, though meant to be
attended to by every one, and seemed proudly uttered as a mere apology
to himself for not having declined the meeting.
Cecilia, though she recovered from her confusion by the help of her
aversion to this self-sufficiency, made not any answer. Albany retired
to a corner of the room; Mr Hobson began to believe it was time for him
to depart; and Mr Briggs thinking only of the quarrel in which he had
separated with Mr Delvile in the summer, stood swelling with venom,
which he longed for an opportunity to spit out.
Mr Delvile, who regarded this silence as the effect of his awe-inspiring presence, became rather more complacent; but casting his eyes
round the room, and perceiving the two strangers, he was visibly
surprised, and looking at Cecilia for some explanation, seemed to stand
suspended from the purpose of his visit till he heard one.
Cecilia, earnest to have the business concluded, turned to Mr Briggs,
and said, “Sir, here is pen and ink: are you to write, or am I? or what
is to be done?”
“No, no,” said he, with a sneer, “give it t’other; all in our turn;
don’t come before his Grace the Right Honourable Mr Vampus.”
“Before whom, Sir?” said Mr Delvile, reddening.
“Before my Lord Don Pedigree,” answered Briggs, with a spiteful grin,
“know him? eh? ever hear of such a person?”
Mr Delvile coloured still deeper, but turning contemptuously from him,
disdained making any reply.
Mr Briggs, who now regarded him as a defeated man, said exultingly to
Mr Hobson, “what do stand here for?—hay?—fall o’ your marrowbones;
don’t see ‘Squire High and Mighty?”
“As to falling on my marrowbones,” answered Mr Hobson, “it’s what I
shall do to no man, except he was the King himself, or the like of
that, and going to make me Chancellor of the Exchequer, or Commissioner
of Excise. Not that I mean the gentleman any offence; but a man’s a
man, and for one man to worship another is quite out of law.”
“Must, must!” cried Briggs, “tell all his old grand-dads else: keeps
’em in a roll; locks ’em in a closet; says his prayers to ’em; can’t
live without ’em: likes ’em better than cash!—wish had ’em here! pop
’em all in the sink!”
“If your intention, Sir,” cried Mr Delvile, fiercely, “is only to
insult me, I am prepared for what measures I shall take. I declined
seeing you in my own house, that I might not be under the same
restraint as when it was my unfortunate lot to meet you last.”
“Who cares?” cried Briggs, with an air of defiance, “what can do, eh?
poke me into a family vault? bind me o’ top of an old monument? tie me
to a stinking carcase? make a corpse of me, and call it one of your
famous cousins?—”
“For heaven’s sake, Mr Briggs,” interrupted Cecilia, who saw that Mr
Delvile, trembling with passion, scarce refrained lifting up his stick,
“be appeased, and let us finish our business!”
Albany now, hearing in Cecilia’s voice the alarm with which she was
seized, came forward and exclaimed, “Whence this unmeaning dissension?
to what purpose this irritating abuse? Oh vain and foolish! live ye so
happily, last ye so long, that time and peace may thus be trifled
with?”
“There, there!” cried Briggs, holding up his finger at Mr Delvile,
“have it now! got old Mr Bounce upon you! give you enough of it;
promise you that!”
“Restrain,” continued Albany, “this idle wrath; and if ye have ardent
passions, employ them to nobler uses; let them stimulate acts of
virtue, let them animate deeds of beneficence! Oh waste not spirits
that may urge you to good, lead you to honour, warm you to charity, in
poor and angry words, in unfriendly, unmanly debate!”
Mr Delvile, who from the approach of Albany, had given him his whole
attention, was struck with astonishment at this address, and almost
petrified with wonder at his language and exhortations.
“Why I must own,” said Mr Hobson, “as to this matter I am much of the
same mind myself; for quarreling’s a thing I don’t uphold; being it
advances one no way; for what I say is this, if a man gets the better,
he’s only where he was before, and if he gets worsted, why it’s odds
but the laugh’s against him: so, if I may make bold to give my verdict,
I would have one of these gentlemen take the other by the hand, and so
put an end to bad words. That’s my maxim, and that’s what I call being
agreeable.”
Mr Delvile, at the words one of these gentlemen take the other by the
hand, looked scornfully upon Mr Hobson, with a frown that expressed
his highest indignation, at being thus familiarly coupled with Mr
Briggs. And then, turning from him to Cecilia, haughtily said, “Are
these two persons,” pointing towards Albany and Hobson, “waiting here
to be witnesses to any transaction?”
“No, Sir, no,” cried Hobson, “I don’t mean to intrude, I am going
directly. So you can give me no insight, ma’am,” addressing Cecilia,
“as to where I might light upon Mr Belfield?”
“Me? no!” cried she, much provoked by observing that Mr Delvile
suddenly looked at her.
“Well, ma’am, well, I mean no harm: only I hold it that the right way
to hear of a young gentleman, is to ask for him of a young lady: that’s
my maxim. Come, Sir,” to Mr Briggs, “you and I had like to have fallen
out, but what I say is this; let no man bear malice; that’s my way: so
I hope we part without ill blood?”
“Ay, ay;” said Mr Briggs, giving him a nod.
“Well, then,” added Hobson, “I hope the good-will may go round, and
that not only you and I, but these two good old gentlemen will also
lend a hand.”
Mr Delvile now was at a loss which way to turn for very rage; but after
looking at every one with a face flaming with ire, he said to Cecilia,
“If you have collected together these persons for the purpose of
affronting me, I must beg you to remember I am not one to be affronted
with impunity!”
Cecilia, half frightened, was beginning an answer that disclaimed any
such intention, when Albany, with the most indignant energy, called
out, “Oh pride of heart, with littleness of soul! check this vile
arrogance, too vain for man, and spare to others some part of that
lenity thou nourishest for thyself, or justly bestow on thyself that
contempt thou nourishest for others!”
And with these words he sternly left the house.
The thunderstruck Mr Delvile began now to fancy that all the demons of
torment were designedly let loose upon him, and his surprise and
resentment operated so powerfully that it was only in broken sentences
he could express either. “Very extraordinary!—a new method of
conduct!—liberties to which I am not much used!—impertinences I shall
not hastily forget,—treatment that would scarce be pardonable to a
person wholly unknown!—”
“Why indeed, Sir,” said Hobson, “I can’t but say it was rather a cut
up; but the old gentleman is what one may call a genius, which makes it
a little excusable; for he does things all his own way, and I am told
it’s the same thing who he speaks to, so he can but find fault, and
that.”
“Sir,” interrupted the still more highly offended Mr Delvile, “what
you may be told is extremely immaterial to me; and I must take the
liberty to hint to you, a conversation of this easy kind is not what I
am much in practice in hearing.”
“Sir, I ask pardon,” said Hobson, “I meant nothing but what was
agreeable; however, I have done, and I wish you good day. Your humble
servant, ma’am, and I hope, Sir,” to Mr Briggs, “you won’t begin bad
words again?”
“No, no,” said Briggs, “ready to make up; all at end; only don’t much
like Spain, that’s all!” winking significantly, “nor a’n’t over fond
of a skeleton!”
Mr Hobson now retired; and Mr Delvile and Mr Briggs, being both wearied
and both in haste to have done, settled in about five minutes all for
which they met, after passing more than an hour in agreeing what that
was.
Mr Briggs then, saying he had an engagement upon business, declined
settling his own accounts till another time, but promised to see
Cecilia again soon, and added, “be sure take care of that old Mr
Bounce! cracked in the noddle; see that with half an eye! better not
trust him! break out some day: do you a mischief!”
He then went away: but while the parlour-door was still open, to the no
little surprise of Cecilia, the servant announced Mr Belfield. He
hardly entered the room, and his countenance spoke haste and eagerness.
“I have this moment, madam,” he said, “been informed a complaint has
been lodged against me here, and I could not rest till I had the honour
of assuring you, that though I have been rather dilatory, I have not
neglected my appointment, nor has the condescension of your
interference been thrown away.”
He then bowed, shut the door, and ran off Cecilia, though happy to
understand by this speech that he was actually restored to his family,
was sorry at these repeated intrusions in the presence of Mr Delvile,
who was now the only one that remained.
She expected every instant that he would ring for his chair, which he
kept in waiting; but, after a pause of some continuance, to her equal
surprise and disturbance, he made the following speech. “As it is
probable I am now for the last time alone with you, ma’am, and as it is
certain we shall meet no more upon business, I cannot, in justice to my
own character, and to the respect I retain for the memory of the Dean,
your uncle, take a final leave of the office with which he was pleased
to invest me, without first fulfilling my own ideas of the duty it
requires from me, by giving you some counsel relating to your future
establishment.”
This was not a preface much to enliven Cecilia; it prepared her for
such speeches as she was least willing to hear, and gave to her the
mixt and painful sensation of spirits depressed, with ride alarmed.
“My numerous engagements,” he continued, “and the appropriation of my
time, already settled, to their various claims, must make me brief in
what I have to represent, and somewhat, perhaps, abrupt in coming to
the purpose. But that you will excuse.”
Cecilia disdained to humour this arrogance by any compliments or
concessions: she was silent, therefore; and when they were both seated,
he went on.
“You are now at a time of life when it is natural for young women to
wish for some connection: and the largeness of your fortune will remove
from you such difficulties as prove bars to the pretensions, in this
expensive age, of those who possess not such advantages. It would have
been some pleasure to me, while I yet considered you as my Ward, to
have seen you properly disposed of: but as that time is past, I can
only give you some general advice, which you may follow or neglect as
you think fit. By giving it, I shall satisfy myself; for the rest, I am
not responsible.”
He paused; but Cecilia felt less and less inclination to make use of
the opportunity by speaking in her turn.
“Yet though, as I just now hinted, young women of large fortunes may
have little trouble in finding themselves establishments, they ought
not, therefore, to trifle when proper ones are in their power, nor to
suppose themselves equal to any they may chance to desire.”
Cecilia coloured high at this pointed reprehension; but feeling her
disgust every moment encrease, determined to sustain herself with
dignity, and at least not suffer him to perceive the triumph of his
ostentation and rudeness.
“The proposals,” he continued, “of the Earl of Ernolf had always my
approbation; it was certainly an ill-judged thing to neglect such an
opportunity of being honourably settled. The clause of the name was, to
him, immaterial; since his own name half a century ago was unheard
of, and since he is himself only known by his title. He is still,
however, I have authority to acquaint you, perfectly well disposed to
renew his application to you.”
“I am sorry, Sir,” said Cecilia coldly, “to hear it.”
“You have, perhaps, some other better offer in view?”
“No, Sir,” cried she, with spirit, “nor even in desire.”
“Am I, then, to infer that some inferior offer has more chance of your
approbation?”
“There is no reason, Sir, to infer any thing; I am content with my
actual situation, and have, at present, neither prospect nor intention
of changing it.”
“I perceive, but without surprise, your unwillingness to discuss the
subject; nor do I mean to press it: I shall merely offer to your
consideration one caution, and then relieve you from my presence. Young
women of ample fortunes, who are early independent, are sometimes apt
to presume they may do every thing with impunity; but they are
mistaken; they are as liable to censure as those who are wholly
unprovided for.”
“I hope, Sir,” said Cecilia, staring, “this at least is a caution
rather drawn from my situation than my behaviour?”
“I mean not, ma’am, narrowly to go into, or investigate the subject;
what I have said you may make your own use of; I have only to observe
further, that when young women, at your time of life, are at all
negligent of so nice a thing as reputation, they commonly live to
repent it.”
He then arose to go, but Cecilia, not more offended than amazed, said,
“I must beg, Sir, you will explain yourself!”
“Certainly this matter,” he answered, “must be immaterial to me: yet,
as I have once been your guardian by the nomination of the Dean your
uncle, I cannot forbear making an effort towards preventing any
indiscretion: and frequent visits to a young man—”
“Good God! Sir,” interrupted Cecilia, “what is it you mean?”
“It can certainly, as I said before, be nothing to me, though I
should be glad to see you in better hands: but I cannot suppose you
have been led to take such steps without some serious plan; and I would
advise you, without loss of time, to think better of what you are
about.”
“Should I think, Sir, to eternity,” cried Cecilia, “I could never
conjecture what you mean!”
“You may not chuse,” said he, proudly, “to understand me; but I have
done. If it had been in my power to have interfered in your service
with my Lord Derford, notwithstanding my reluctance to being involved
in any fresh employment, I should have made a point of not refusing it:
but this young man is nobody,—a very imprudent connection—”
“What young man, Sir?”
“Nay, I know nothing of him! it is by no means likely I should: but
as I had already been informed of your attention to him, the
corroborating incidents of my servant’s following you to his house, his
friend’s seeking him at yours, and his own waiting upon you this
morning; were not well calculated to make me withdraw my credence to
it.”
“Is it, then, Mr Belfield, Sir, concerning whom you draw these
inferences, from circumstances the most accidental and unmeaning?”
“It is by no means my practice,” cried he, haughtily, and with evident
marks of high displeasure at this speech, “to believe any thing
lightly, or without even unquestionable authority; what once,
therefore, I have credited, I do not often find erroneous. Mistake not,
however, what I have said into supposing I have any objection to your
marrying; on the contrary, it had been for the honour of my family had
you been married a year ago I should not then have suffered the
degradation of seeing a son of the first expectations in the kingdom
upon the point of renouncing his birth, nor a woman of the first
distinction ruined in her health, and broken for ever in her
constitution.”
The emotions of Cecilia at this speech were too powerful for
concealment; her colour varied, now reddening with indignation, now
turning pale with apprehension; she arose, she trembled and sat down,
she arose again, but not knowing what to say or what to do, again sat
down.
Mr Delvile then, making a stiff bow, wished her good morning.
“Go not so, Sir!” cried she, in faltering accents; “let me at least
convince you of the mistake with regard to Mr Belfield—”
“My mistakes, ma’am,” said he, with a contemptuous smile, “are perhaps
not easily convicted: and I may possibly labour under others that would
give you no less trouble: it may therefore be better to avoid any
further disquisition.”
“No, not better,” answered she, again recovering her courage from this
fresh provocation; “I fear no disquisition; on the contrary, it is my
interest to solicit one.”
“This intrepidity in a young woman,” said he, ironically, “is certainly
very commendable; and doubtless, as you are your own mistress, your
having run out great part of your fortune, is nothing beyond what you
have a right to do.”
“Me!” cried Cecilia, astonished, “run out great part of my fortune!”
“Perhaps that is another mistake! I have not often been so
unfortunate; and you are not, then, in debt?”
“In debt, Sir?”
“Nay, I have no intention to inquire into your affairs. Good morning to
you, ma’am.”
“I beg, I entreat, Sir, that you will stop!—make me, at least,
understand what you mean, whether you deign to hear my justification or
not.”
“O, I am mistaken, it seems! misinformed, deceived; and you have
neither spent more than you have received, nor taken up money of Jews?
your minority has been clear of debts? and your fortune, now you are of
age, will be free from incumbrances?”
Cecilia, who now began to understand him, eagerly answered, “do you
mean, Sir, the money which I took up last spring?”
“O no; by no means, I conceive the whole to be a mistake!”
And he went to the door.
“Hear me but a moment, Sir!” cried she hastily, following him; “since
you know of that transaction, do not refuse to listen to its occasion;
I took up the money for Mr Harrel; it was all, and solely for him.”
“For Mr Harrel, was it?” said he, with an air of supercilious
incredulity; “that was rather an unlucky step. Your servant, ma’am.”
And he opened the door.
“You will not hear me, then? you will not credit me?” cried she in the
cruellest agitation.
“Some other time, ma’am; at present my avocations are too numerous to
permit me.”
And again, stiffly bowing, he called to his servants, who were waiting
in the hall, and put himself into his chair.
Nguồn: Wikisource English — Cecilia (Burney)/Book 9/Chapter iv. Văn bản được nhập và định dạng lại; CC BY-SA 4.0, có thể áp dụng điều khoản bổ sung của tác phẩm.