“I would have all men,” replied Belfield, “whether philosophers or ideots, act for themselves. Every one would then appear what he is; enterprize would be encouraged, and imitation abolished; genius would feel its superiority, and folly its insignificance; and then, and then only, should we cease to be surfeited with that eternal sameness of manner and appearance which at present runs through all ranks of men.”
“Petrifying dull work this, mon ami!” said the Captain, in a whisper to Morrice, “de grace, start some new game.”
“With all my heart,” answered he; and then, suddenly jumping up, exclaimed, “A hare! a hare!”
“Where? — where? — which way?” and all the gentlemen arose, and ran to different windows, except the master of the house, the object of whose pursuit was already near him.
Morrice, with much pretended earnestness, flew from window to window, to trace footsteps upon the turf which he knew had not printed it: yet, never inattentive to his own interest, when he perceived in the midst of the combustion he had raised, that Lady Margaret was incensed at the noise it produced, he artfully gave over his search, and seating himself in a chair next to her, eagerly offered to assist her with cakes, chocolate, or whatever the table afforded.
He had, however, effectually broken up the conversation; and breakfast being over, Mr Harrel ordered his chaise, and Cecilia arose to take leave.
And now not without some difficulty could Mr Monckton disguise the uneasy fears which her departure occasioned him. Taking her hand, “I suppose,” he said, “you will not permit an old friend to visit you in town, lest the sight of him should prove a disagreeable memorial of the time you will soon regret having wasted in the country?”
“Why will you say this, Mr Monckton?” cried Cecilia; “I am sure you cannot think it.”
“These profound studiers of mankind, madam,” said Belfield, “are mighty sorry champions for constancy or friendship. They wage war with all expectations but of depravity, and grant no quarter even to the purest designs, where they think there will be any temptation to deviate from them.”
“Temptation,” said Mr Monckton, “is very easy of resistance in theory; but if you reflect upon the great change of situation Miss Beverley will experience, upon the new scenes she will see, the new acquaintance she must make, and the new connections she may form, you will not wonder at the anxiety of a friend for her welfare.”
“But I presume,” cried Belfield, with a laugh, “Miss Beverley does not mean to convey her person to town, and leave her understanding locked up, with other natural curiosities, in the country? Why, therefore, may not the same discernment regulate her adoption of new acquaintance, and choice of new connections, that guided her selection of old ones? Do you suppose that because she is to take leave of you, she is to take leave of herself?”
“Where fortune smiles upon youth and beauty,” answered Mr Monckton, “do you think it nothing that their fair possessor should make a sudden transition of situation from the quietness of a retired life in the country, to the gaiety of a splendid town residence?”
“Where fortune frowns upon youth and beauty,” returned Belfield, “they may not irrationally excite commiseration; but where nature and chance unite their forces to bless the same object, what room there may be for alarm or lamentation I confess I cannot divine.”
“What!” cried Mr Monckton, with some emotion, “are there not sharpers, fortune-hunters, sycophants, wretches of all sorts and denominations, who watch the approach of the rich and unwary, feed upon their inexperience, and prey upon their property?”
“Come, come,” cried Mr Harrel, “it is time I should hasten my fair ward away, if this is your method of describing the place she is going to live in.”
“Is it possible,” cried the Captain, advancing to Cecilia, “that this lady has never yet tried the town?” and then, lowering his voice, and smiling languishingly in her face, he added, “Can anything so divinely handsome have been immured in the country? Ah! quelle honte! do you make it a principle to be so cruel?”
Cecilia, thinking such a compliment merited not any other notice than a slight bow, turned to Lady Margaret, and said, “Should your ladyship be in town this winter, may I expect the honour of hearing where I may wait upon you?”
“I don’t know whether I shall go or not,” answered the old lady, with her usual ungraciousness.
Cecilia would now have hastened away, but Mr Monckton, stopping her, again expressed his fears of the consequences of her journey; “Be upon your guard,” he cried, “with all new acquaintance; judge nobody from appearances; form no friendship rashly; take time to look about you, and remember you can make no alteration in your way of life, without greater probability of faring worse, than chance of faring better. Keep therefore as you are, and the more you see of others, the more you will rejoice that you neither resemble nor are connected with them.”
“This from you, Mr Monckton!” cried Belfield, “what is become of your conformity system? I thought all the world was to be alike, or only so much the worse for any variation?”
“I spoke,” said Mr Monckton, “of the world in general, not of this lady in particular; and who that knows, who that sees her, would not wish it were possible she might continue in every respect exactly and unalterably what she is at present?”
“I find,” said Cecilia, “you are determined that flattery at least, should I meet with it, shall owe no pernicious effects to its novelty.”
“Well, Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, “will you now venture to accompany me to town? Or has Mr Monckton frightened you from proceeding any farther?”
“If,” replied Cecilia, “I felt no more sorrow in quitting my friends, than I feel terror in venturing to London, with how light a heart should I make the journey!”
“Brava!” cried Belfield, “I am happy to find the discourse of Mr Monckton has not intimidated you, nor prevailed upon you to deplore your condition in having the accumulated misery of being young, fair and affluent.”
“Alas! poor thing!” exclaimed the old gentleman who sat in the corner, fixing his eyes upon Cecilia with an expression of mingled grief and pity.
Cecilia started, but no one else paid him any attention.
The usual ceremonies of leave-taking now followed, and the Captain, with most obsequious reverence, advanced to conduct Cecilia to the carriage; but in the midst of the dumb eloquence of his bows and smiles, Mr Morrice, affecting not to perceive his design, skipped gaily between them, and, without any previous formality, seized the hand of Cecilia himself; failing not, however, to temper the freedom of his action by a look of respect the most profound.
The Captain shrugged and retired. But Mr Monckton, enraged at his assurance, and determined it should nothing avail him, exclaimed, “Why how now, Morrice, do you take away the privilege of my house?”
“True, true;” answered Morrice, “you members of parliament have an undoubted right to be tenacious of your privileges.” Then, bowing with a look of veneration to Cecilia, he resigned her hand with an air of as much happiness as he had taken it.
Mr Monckton, in leading her to the chaise, again begged permission to wait upon her in town: Mr Harrel took the hint, and entreated him to consider his house as his own; and Cecilia, gratefully thanking him for his solicitude in her welfare, added, “And I hope, sir, you will honour me with your counsel and admonitions with respect to my future conduct, whenever you have the goodness to let me see you.”
This was precisely his wish. He begged, in return, that she would treat him with confidence, and then suffered the chaise to drive off.
CHAPTER III. — AN ARRIVAL.
As soon as they lost sight of the house, Cecilia expressed her surprise at the behaviour of the old gentleman who sat in the corner, whose general silence, seclusion from the company, and absence of mind, had strongly excited her curiosity.
Mr Harrel could give her very little satisfaction: he told her that he had twice or thrice met him in public places,
where everybody remarked the singularity of his manners and appearance, but that he had never discoursed with anyone to whom he seemed known; and that he was as much surprised as herself in seeing so strange a character at the house of Mr Monckton.
The conversation then turned upon the family they had just quitted, and Cecilia warmly declared the good opinion she had of Mr Monckton, the obligations she owed to him for the interest which, from her childhood, he had always taken in her affairs; and her hopes of reaping much instruction from the friendship of a man who had so extensive a knowledge of the world.
Mr Harrel professed himself well satisfied that she should have such a counsellor; for though but little acquainted with him, he knew he was a man of fortune and fashion, and well esteemed in the world. They mutually compassionated his unhappy situation in domestic life, and Cecilia innocently expressed her concern at the dislike Lady Margaret seemed to have taken to her; a dislike which Mr Harrel naturally enough imputed to her youth and beauty, yet without suspecting any cause more cogent than a general jealousy of attractions of which she had herself so long outlived the possession.
As their journey drew near to its conclusion, all the uneasy and disagreeable sensations which in the bosom of Cecilia had accompanied its commencement, gave way to the expectation of quick approaching happiness in again meeting her favourite young friend.
Mrs Harrel had in childhood been her playmate, and in youth her school-fellow; a similarity of disposition with respect to sweetness of temper, had early rendered them dear to each other, though the resemblance extended no farther, Mrs Harrel having no pretensions to the wit or understanding of her friend; but she was amiable and obliging, and therefore sufficiently deserving affection, though neither blazing with attractions which laid claim to admiration, nor endowed with those superior qualities which mingle respect in the love they inspire.
From the time of her marriage, which was near three years, she had entirely quitted Suffolk, and had had no intercourse with Cecilia but by letter. She was now just returned from Violet Bank, the name given by Mr Harrel to a villa about twelve miles from London, where with a large party of company she had spent the Christmas holidays.
Their meeting was tender and affectionate; the sensibility of Cecilia’s heart flowed from her eyes, and the gladness of Mrs Harrel’s dimpled her cheeks.
As soon as their mutual salutations, expressions of kindness, and general inquiries had been made, Mrs Harrel begged to lead her to the drawing-room, “where,” she added, “you will see some of my friends, who are impatient to be presented to you.”
“I could have wished,” said Cecilia, “after so long an absence, to have passed this first evening alone with you.”
“They are all people who particularly desired to see you,” she answered, “and I had them by way of entertaining you, as I was afraid you would be out of spirits at leaving Bury.”
Cecilia, finding the kindness of her intentions, forbore any further expostulation, and quietly followed her to the drawing-room. But as the door was opened, she was struck with amazement upon finding that the apartment, which was spacious, lighted with brilliancy, and decorated with magnificence, was more than half filled with company, every one of which was dressed with gaiety and profusion.
Cecilia, who from the word friends, expected to have seen a small and private party, selected for the purpose of social converse, started involuntarily at the sight before her, and had hardly courage to proceed.
Mrs Harrel, however, took her hand and introduced her to the whole company, who were all severally named to her; a ceremonial which though not merely agreeable but even necessary to those who live in the gay world, in order to obviate distressing mistakes, or unfortunate implications in discourse, would by Cecilia have been willingly dispensed with, since to her their names were as new as their persons, and since knowing nothing of their histories, parties or connections, she could to nothing allude: it therefore served but to heighten her colour and increase her embarrassment.
A native dignity of mind, however, which had early taught her to distinguish modesty from bashfulness, enabled her in a short time to conquer her surprise, and recover her composure. She entreated Mrs Harrel to apologise for her appearance, and being seated between two young ladies, endeavoured to seem reconciled to it herself.
Nor was this very difficult; for while her dress, which she had not changed since her journey, joined to the novelty of her face, attracted general observation, the report of her fortune, which had preceded her entrance, secured to her general respect. She soon found, too, that a company was not necessarily formidable because full dressed, that familiarity could be united with magnificence, and that though to her, every one seemed attired to walk in a procession, or to grace a drawing-room, no formality was assumed, and no solemnity was affected: every one was without restraint, even rank obtained but little distinction; ease was the general plan, and entertainment the general pursuit.
Cecilia, though new to London, which city the ill-health of her uncle had hitherto prevented her seeing, was yet no stranger to company; she had passed her time in retirement, but not in obscurity, since for some years past she had presided at the table of the Dean, who was visited by the first people of the county in which he lived: and notwithstanding his parties, which were frequent though small, and elegant though private, had not prepared her for the splendour or the diversity of a London assembly, they yet, by initiating her in the practical rules of good breeding, had taught her to subdue the timid fears of total inexperience, and to repress the bashful feelings of shamefaced awkwardness; fears and feelings which rather call for compassion than admiration, and which, except in extreme youth, serve but to degrade the modesty they indicate.
She regarded, therefore, the two young ladies between whom she was seated, rather with a wish of addressing, than a shyness of being attacked by them; but the elder, Miss Larolles, was earnestly engaged in discourse with a gentleman, and the younger, Miss Leeson, totally discouraged her, by the invariable silence and gravity with which from time to time she met her eyes.
Uninterrupted, therefore, except by occasional speeches from Mr and Mrs Harrel, she spent the first part of the evening merely in surveying the company.
Nor was the company dilatory in returning her notice, since from the time of her entrance into the room, she had been the object of general regard.
The ladies took an exact inventory of her dress, and internally settled how differently they would have been attired if blessed with equal affluence.
The men disputed among themselves whether or not she was painted; and one of them asserting boldly that she rouged well, a debate ensued, which ended in a bet, and the decision was mutually agreed to depend upon the colour of her cheeks by the beginning of April, when, if unfaded by bad hours and continual dissipation, they wore the same bright bloom with which they were now glowing, her champion acknowledged that his wager would be lost.
In about half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss Larolles had been talking, left the room, and then that young lady, turning suddenly to Cecilia, exclaimed, “How odd Mr Meadows is! Do you know, he says he shan’t be well enough to go to Lady Nyland’s assembly! How ridiculous! as if that could hurt him.”
Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, lent her a civil, but silent attention.
“You shall be there, shan’t you?” she added.
“No, ma’am, I have not the honour of being at all known to her ladyship.”
“Oh, there’s nothing in that,” returned she, “for Mrs Harrel can acquaint her you are here, and then, you know, she’ll send you a ticket, and then you can go.”
“A ticket?” repeated Cecilia, “does Lady Nyland only admit her company with tickets?”
“Oh, lord!” cried Miss Larolles, laughing immoderately, “don’t you know what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card, with a name upon it; but we all call them tickets now.”
Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then
Miss Larolles enquired how many miles she had travelled since morning?
“Seventy-three,” answered Cecilia, “which I hope will plead my apology for being so little dressed.”
“Oh, you’re vastly well,” returned the other, “and for my part, I never think about dress. But only conceive what happened to me last year! Do you know I came to town the twentieth of March! was not that horrid provoking?”
“Perhaps so,” said Cecilia, “but I am sure I cannot tell why.”
“Not tell why?” repeated Miss Larolles, “why, don’t you know it was the very night of the grand private masquerade at Lord Darien’s? I would not have missed it for the whole universe. I never travelled in such an agony in my life: we did not get to town till monstrous late, and then do you know I had neither a ticket nor a habit! Only conceive what a distress! well, I sent to every creature I knew for a ticket, but they all said there was not one to be had; so I was just like a mad creature — but about ten or eleven o’clock, a young lady of my particular acquaintance, by the greatest good luck in the world happened to be taken suddenly ill; so she sent me her ticket, — was not that delightful?”
“For her, extremely!” said Cecilia, laughing.
“Well,” she continued, “then I was almost out of my wits with joy; and I went about, and got one of the sweetest dresses you ever saw. If you’ll call upon me some morning, I’ll shew it you.”
Cecilia, not prepared for an invitation so abrupt, bowed without speaking, and Miss Larolles, too happy in talking herself to be offended at the silence of another, continued her narration.
“Well, but now comes the vilest part of the business; do you know, when everything else was ready, I could not get my hair-dresser! I sent all over the town, — he was nowhere to be found; I thought I should have died with vexation; I assure you I cried so that if I had not gone in a mask, I should have been ashamed to be seen. And so, after all this monstrous fatigue, I was forced to have my hair dressed by my own maid, quite in a common way; was not it cruelly mortifying?”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 50