A subscription was to be raised amongst all the ladies of any fashion, or consequence, in or near Brighthelmstone, who, whether as mothers, aunts, guardians, or friends, had the care of any young ladies possessing musical talents. Lady Kendover had consented that her name should be placed at the head of the list, as soon as any other lady, of sufficient distinction to be named immediately after her ladyship, should come forward. The concert was to be held, alternately, at the houses of the principal subscribers, whose apartments, and inclinations, should best be suited to the purpose. The young ladies were to perform, by rotation or selection, according as the lady directress of the night, aided by Miss Arbe’s counsel, should settle. A small band was to be engaged, that the concert might be opened with the dignity of an overture; that the concertos might be accompanied; and that the whole might conclude with the eclat of a full piece. Ellis, for whose advancement, and in whose name, the money was to be raised, that was to pay herself, the other artists, and all the concomitant expences, was to play upon the harp, and to sing an air, in the course of every act.
This plan was far less painful to her feelings than that which had preceded it, since the concert was to be held in private houses, and young ladies of fashion were themselves to be performers; but, though her thanks were grateful and sincere, her determination was immoveable. ‘It is not,’ she said, ‘believe me, Madam, from false notions of pride, that, because I, alone, am to be paid, I decline so honourable a method of extricating myself from my present difficulties: my pride, on the contrary, urges me to every exertion that may lead to self-dependence: but who is permitted to act by the sole guidance of their own perceptions and notions? who is so free, — I might better, perhaps, say so desolate, — as to consider themselves clear of all responsibility to the opinions of others?’
‘Of others? Why do you belong, then, really, to any body, Mrs Ellis?’ cried Miss Bydel.
‘They must be pretty extraordinary people,’ said Miss Arbe, contemptuously dropping her eyes, ‘if they can disapprove a scheme that will shew your talents to so much advantage; besides bringing you into the notice of so many people of distinction.’ Then, rising, she would forbear, she said, to trouble her any more; inform Lady Kendover of her refusal; and let Lady Aurora know that her farther interference would be unacceptable.
At the name of Lady Aurora, Ellis entreated some explanation; but Miss Arbe, without deigning to make any, hurried to her carriage.
Miss Bydel, pouring forth a volley of interrogatories upon the intentions of Ellis, her expectations, and her means, would have remained; but she reaped so little satisfaction that, tired, at length, herself, she retreated; though not till she had fully caught the attention of Ellis, by the following words: ‘I have been very ready, Mrs Ellis, to serve you in your distress; but I hope you won’t forget that I always intended to be disbursed by your music teaching: so, if you don’t do that any more, I can’t see why you won’t do this; that you may pay me.’
She then took leave.
Ellis was far more grieved than offended by this reprimand, which, however gross, did not seem unjust. To judge me, she cried, by my present appearance, my resisting this offer must be attributed to impertinence, ingratitude, or folly. And how can I expect to be judged but by what is seen, what is known? Who is willing to be so generous, who is capable to be so noble, as to believe, or even to conceive, that lonely distress, like mine, may call for respect and forbearance, as well as for pity and assistance? — Oh Lady Aurora! — sole charm, sole softener of my sufferings! — Oh liberal, high-minded Harleigh! — why are there so few to resemble you? And why must your virtues and your kindness, for me, be null? Why am I doomed to seek — so hardly — the support that flies me, — yet to fly the consolation that offers?
CHAPTER XXXI
The sole hope of Ellis for extrication from these difficulties hung now upon Mr Giles Arbe; whom she had begun to apprehend had forgotten his promise, when, to her great relief, he appeared.
Nothing could be less exhilarating than his air and manner. He looked vexed and disconcerted; sat down without answering the civilities of her reception; sucked, for some minutes, the head of his stick; and then began talking to himself; from time to time ejaculating little broken phrases aloud, such as: ‘It i’n’t right! — It can’t be right! — I wish they would not do such things. — Fair young creatures, too, some of them — Fie! fie! — They’ve no thought; — that’s it! — they’ve no thought. — Mighty good hearts, — and very pretty faces, too, some of ‘em; — but sad little empty heads, — except for their own pleasures; — no want of flappers there! — Fie! fie!’
Then letting fall two guineas and a half upon the table, ‘There, my dear,’ he cried, in a tone of chagrin, ‘there’s all I have been able to gather amongst all your scholars put together! What they do with their money I don’t know; but they are all very poor, they tell me: except Lady Arramede; and she’s so rich, that she can’t possibly attend, she says, to such pitiful claims: though I said to her, If the sum, Ma’am, is too small for your ladyship’s notice, the best way to shew your magnificence, is to make it greater; which will also be very acceptable to this young person. But she did not mind me. She only said that you might apply to her steward at Christmas, which was the time, she believed, when he settled her affairs; but as to herself, she never meddled with such insignificant matters.’
‘Christmas?’ repeated Ellis; ‘and ’tis now but the beginning of April!’
‘I went next to the Miss Crawleys; but they only fell a laughing. All I could say, and all I could do, and all I could represent, only set ’em a laughing. I never knew what at. Nor they, neither. But they did not laugh the less for that. One of them stretched her mouth so wide, that I was afraid she would have cut her cheeks through to her ears: and t’other frightened me still more, for she giggled herself so black in the face, that I thought she must have expired in a fit. And not one among us knew what it was all for! But the more I stared at them, the louder they laughed. They never stopt till they were so weak that they could not stand; and then they held their sides, and were quiet enough; till I happened to ask them, if they had done? and that set them off again. They are merry little souls; not very heavy, I believe, in the head: I don’t suppose they have a thought above once in a twelve-month.’
He had then applied to their brother. Sir Marmaduke professed himself extremely shocked, at the circumstances which had prevented his sisters from profiting longer by the instructions of so fine a virtuosa as The Ellis; but he hoped that something might yet be adjusted for the future, as he was utterly ashamed to offer such a trifle as this account, to so accomplished a young person as The Ellis. ‘I told him, then,’ continued Mr Giles, ‘that it was no trifle to you, for you were so very poor that you could not pay for your clothes; but I could never obtain any other answer from him, than that he had too much consideration for you, to think of offering you a sum so unworthy your merit.’
‘This, indeed, is rather singular,’ cried Ellis, half smiling, ‘that the smallness of my demands should make one person decline paying me from contempt, and another, from respect!’
Next, he related, he went to Miss Brinville, who, with great displeasure, denied, at first, having ever been a scholar of Miss Ellis. The young woman had been with her, indeed, she said, to chose her a harp, or tune it, or something of that sort; but she had found her so entirely unequal to giving any lessons; and the professor, her present master, had so completely convinced her of the poor young woman’s ignorance, that it was quite ridiculous to suppose having seen any body, once or twice, for an odd hour or two, was sufficient for being considered as their scholar. ‘Upon this,’ continued Mr Giles, ‘I told her that if she were not amongst your pupils, she must be amongst your friends; and, in that case, I doubted not, from your great good nature, you would dispense with her payment.’
‘Well, Sir?’ cried Ellis laughing, ‘and what said my friend?’
‘Good me! all was changed in a minute! sh
e had never, she said, had such a thought as receiving you but as her music-mistress. So then, again, I demanded the money; for if she is not your friend, said I, you can’t expect her to teach you for nothing. But she told me she was just quitting Brighthelmstone, and could not pay you till she got to London. I really can’t find out what makes them all so poor; but they are prodigiously out of cash. Those operas and gauzes, I believe, ruin them. They dress themselves so prettily, and go to hear those tunes so often, that they have not a shilling left for other expences. It i’n’t right! It can’t be right! And so I told her. I gave her some advice. “There’s a great concert to-night, Miss Brinville,” said I; “if you take my counsel, you won’t go to it; nor to ever another for a week or two to come: and then you can pay this young lady what you owe her, without putting yourself to any difficulty.” But she made me no reply. She only eyed me askance, as if she would have liked prodigiously to order me out of the room. I thought I never saw her nose look so thick! I never took so much notice of it before: but it spoils her beauty sadly. After this, I went to Miss Sycamore, and I surprized her playing upon her harp. “This is lucky enough,” said I, “Miss Sycamore! I find you in the act of reaping advantage from the very person who wants to reap advantage from you.” So then I demanded your money. But she told me that she had none to spare, and that she could not pay you yet. “Why then,” said I, “Miss Sycamore, you must give her back her instructions!” I thought this would have piqued her; but she won’t easily be put out of her way. So she threw her arms round her harp, with the prettiest languishment you can imagine, making herself look just like a picture; and then she played me a whole set of airs and graces; quite ravishing, I protest. And when she had done, “There!” she cried, “there, Mr Arbe, those were her instructions: carry them back!” — I declare I don’t know how I could be angry with her, she did it with such an elegant toss! But it was not right; it could not be right; so I was angry enough, after the first moment. “Pray, Miss Sycamore,” said I, “what have you done for this young lady, to expect that she should do all this for you? Have you got her any place? — Have you procured her any emolument? — Have you given her any pleasure? — Have you done her any honour?’ — She had not a word to answer: so she twirled her fingers upon her harp, and sung and played till I was almost ravished again. But I would not give way; so I said, “Miss Sycamore, if she owes you neither place, nor profit; neither pleasure, nor honour, I should be glad to know upon what pretence you lay claim to her Time, her Trouble, her Talents, and her Patience?”’
‘O could such a question,’ cried Ellis, ‘be put more at large for all the harassed industrious, to all the unfeeling indolent! — what reflections might it not excite! what injustice might it not obviate!’
‘Why I’ll say it any where, my dear, if you think it will do any good. I always give my opinion; for I never see what a man has one for, if he must not utter it. However, I could make nothing of Miss Sycamore. Those young ladies who play and sing in public, at those private rooms, of four or five hundred people, have their poor little heads so taken up, between the compliments of the company when they are in the world, and their own when they are by themselves, that there i’n’t a moment left them for a little thought.’
His next visit was to Lady Kendover; by whom he was received, he said, with such politeness, and by whom Ellis was mentioned with so much consideration, that he thought he should quite oblige her ladyship, by giving her an opportunity to serve a young person of whom she spoke with so much civility. ‘Upon which,’ continued he, ‘I told her about your debts, and how much you would thank her to be as quick as possible in helping you to pay them. But then she put on quite a new face. She was surprised, she said, that you should begin your new career by running into debt; and much more at my supposing that she should sanctify such imprudence, by her name and encouragement. Still, however, she talked about her concern, and her admiration, in such elegant sentences, that, thinking she was coming round, “Madam,” said I, “as your ladyship honours this young lady with so generous a regard, I hold it but my duty to tell you how you may shew it the most to her benefit. Send for all her creditors, and let them know your ladyship’s good opinion of her; and then, I don’t doubt, they’ll wait her own convenience for being paid.” Well! All at once her face turned of a deep brick red, as if I had offered her an affront in only naming such a thing! So then I grew very angry indeed; for, as she is neither young nor pretty, there is no one thing to excuse her. If she had been young, one might have hoped she would mend; and if she were pretty, one might suppose she was only thinking of her looking-glass. But her ladyship is plain enough, as well as old; so I felt no scruple to reprimand her. But I gained no ground; for just as I was beginning to cry down the uselessness of that complimentary language, if it meant nothing; she said that she was very sorry to have the honour to leave me, but that she must go and dress for dinner. But then, just as I was coming away, and upon the point of being in a passion, I was stopt by little Lady Barbara; that sweet fine child; who asked me a hundred kind questions about you, without paying any regard to the winking or blinking of her aunt Kendover. She is a mighty agreeable little soul. I have taken a great kindness to her. She let out all their secrets to me; and I should like nothing better than to tell them all to you; only Lady Kendover charged me to hold my tongue. The ladies are very fond of giving that recommendation to us men! I don’t know (smiling) whether they are as fond of giving the example! In particular, she enjoined me not to mention Lady Aurora’s being your banker.’
‘Lady Aurora?’
‘Yes, because my cousin would be quite affronted; for she arranges things, Lady Kendover says, so extremely well, that she deserves to have her own way. She likes to have it too, I believe, very well.’
‘Lady Aurora my banker?’
‘Yes; they wrote to Lady Aurora about it, and she sent them word that, if the scheme were agreeable to you, she begged to be considered as responsible for any expences that you might incur in its preparation.’
‘Lady Aurora, then, approves the plan?’ cried Ellis in much disturbance.
‘Yes, mightily, I believe; though I am not quite sure, for she desired you might not be pressed, nor hurried; for “if,” says she, in a letter to Lady Barbara, “it is not her own desire, don’t let any body be so cruel as to urge her. We know not her history, and cannot judge her objections; but she is so gently mannered, so sweetly well bred, so inexpressibly amiable, that it is impossible she should not do every thing that is right.”’
‘Sweet-trusting-generous Lady Aurora!’ cried Ellis, while tears gushed fast into her eyes, with strong, but delighted emotion: ‘Mr Giles, I see, now, what path I may pursue; and you, who are so benevolent, will aid me on my way.’
She then entreated him, through the medium of Lady Barbara, to supplicate that the beneficence of Lady Aurora might be exerted in the payment of the debts already contracted; not in obviating new ones, which she felt no disposition to incur.
‘I’ll undertake that with all my heart, my dear; and you’ll be sure to have the money for what you like best, because it’s a man who is to be your paymaster.’
‘A man?’
‘Yes; for Lady Aurora says, that though she shall pay the whole herself ultimately, the draft upon the banker, for the present, must be in the name of her brother.’
Ellis changed colour, and, with far deeper emotion, now walked about her room, now seated herself, now hid her face with her hands, and now ejaculated, ‘How — how shall I decide!’
She then enquired from whom Mr Giles had received the two guineas and the half guinea which he had put upon the table.
From Mr Tedman.
Mr Tedman, she said, was the only person of the whole set who owed her nothing; but to whom, on the contrary, she was herself indebted; not having yet had an opportunity to clear what he had advanced.
‘So he told me,’ cried Mr Giles; ‘for I don’t believe he forgets things of that sort. But he said he had such
a regard for you, that he would stand to trusting you with as much again, put in case you would give him your receipt for paying it off in lessons to his daughter. And for this much, in the mean while, as you were not by, he consented to take mine.’
‘You are very kind, Sir,’ said Ellis; ‘and Mr Tedman himself, notwithstanding his deficiency in education and language, is, I believe, really good: nevertheless, I am too uncertain of my power to continue my musical project, to risk a new bankruptcy of this nature.’ She then begged him to take back the money; with a promise that she would speedily settle what yet remained undischarged of the former account.
He blamed her warmly. ‘Mr Tedman,’ he said, ‘is rich and good natured, you are poor and helpless: he ought to give; it’s only being just: you ought to accept, or you are only very foolish.’
‘Do not be hasty to blame me, my good Mr Giles. There are certain points in which every one must judge for himself. With regard to me, I must resist all pecuniary obligations.’
‘Except to poor trades-people!’ cried he, nodding a little reproachfully; ‘and those you will let work and toil for you gratis!’
Ellis, shocked, and struck to the quick, looked deeply distressed. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I may be wrong! Justice, certainly, should take place of whatever is personal, however dear or near its interest!—’
She paused, ruminated, irresolute, and dissatisfied; and then said, ‘Were I to consult only myself, my own feelings, whatever they may be, should surely and even instantly, give way, to what is due to others; but I must not imagine that I shall be doomed for ever to this deplorable condition; and those to whom I may yet belong, may blame — may resent any measures that may give publicity to my situation. Will not this objection have some weight, Sir, to lessen your censure of my seeming insensibility, to claims of which I acknowledge the right?’
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 292