The scene which this enquiry presented to her, was by no means calculated to strengthen Mr Monckton’s doctrine, for the prosperity in which she found this little family, amply rewarded the liberality she had shewn to it, and proved an irresistible encouragement to similar actions. Mrs Hill wept for joy in recounting how well she succeeded, and Cecilia, delighted by the power of giving such pleasure, forgot all cautions and promises in the generosity which she displayed. She paid Mrs Roberts the arrears that were due to her, she discharged all that was owing for the children who had been put to school, desired they might still be sent to it solely at her expense, and gave the mother a sum of money to be laid out in presents for them all.
To perform her promise with the Pew Opener was however more difficult; her ill health, and the extreme youth of her children making her utterly helpless: but these were not considerations for Cecilia to desert her, but rather motives for regarding her as more peculiarly an object of charity. She found she had once been a clear starcher, and was a tolerable plain work-woman; she resolved, therefore, to send her into the country, where she hoped to be able to get her some business, and knew that at least, she could help her, if unsuccessful, and see that her children were brought up to useful employments. The woman herself was enchanted at the plan, and firmly persuaded the country air would restore her health. Cecilia told her only to wait till she was well enough to travel, and promised, in the mean time, to look out some little habitation for her. She then gave her money to pay her bills, and for her journey, and writing a full direction where she would hear of her at Bury, took leave of her till that time.
These magnificent donations and designs, being communicated to Albany, seemed a renovation to him of youth, spirit, and joy! while their effect upon Mr Monckton resembled an annihilation of all three! to see money thus sported away, which he had long considered as his own, to behold those sums which he had destined for his pleasures, thus lavishly bestowed upon beggars, excited a rage he could with difficulty conceal, and an uneasiness he could hardly endure; and he languished, he sickened for the time, when he might put a period to such romantic proceedings.
Such were the only occupations which interrupted the solitude of Cecilia, except those which were given to her by actual business; and the moment her affairs were in so much forwardness that they could be managed by letters, she prepared for returning into the country. She acquainted Lady Margaret and Mr Monckton with her design, and gave orders to her servants to be ready to set off the next day.
Mr Monckton made not any opposition, and refused himself the satisfaction of accompanying her: and Lady Margaret, whose purpose was now answered, and who wished to be in the country herself, determined to follow her.
CHAPTER VI. — A DISTURBANCE.
This matter being settled at breakfast, Cecilia, having but one day more to spend in London, knew not how to let it pass without taking leave of Henrietta, though she chose not again to expose herself to the forward insinuations of her mother; she sent her, therefore, a short note, begging to see her at Lady Margaret’s, and acquainting her that the next day she was going out of town.
Henrietta returned the following answer.
To Miss Beverley.
Madam, — My mother is gone to market, and I must not go out without her leave; I have run to the door at every knock this whole week in hopes you were coming, and my heart has jumpt at every coach that has gone through the street. Dearest lady, why did you tell me you would come? I should not have thought of such a great honour if you had not put it in my head. And now I have got the use of a room where I can often be alone for two or three hours together. And so I shall this morning, if it was possible my dear Miss Beverley could come. But I don’t mean to be teasing, and I would not be impertinent or encroaching for the world; but only the thing is I have a great deal to say to you, and if you was not so rich a lady, and so much above me, I am sure I should love you better than any body in the whole world, almost; and now I dare say I shan’t see you at all; for it rains very hard, and my mother, I know, will be sadly angry if I ask to go in a coach. O dear! I don’t know what I can do! for it will half break my heart, if my dear Miss Beverley should go out of town, and I not see her! — I am, Madam, with the greatest respectfulness, your most humble servant,
HENRIETTA BELFIELD.
This artless remonstrance, joined to the intelligence that she could see her alone, made Cecilia instantly order a chair, and go herself to Portland-street: for she found by this letter there was much doubt if she could otherwise see her, and the earnestness of Henrietta made her now not endure to disappoint her. “She has much,” cried she, “to say to me, and I will no longer refuse to hear her; she shall unbosom to me her gentle heart, for we have now nothing to fear from each other. She promises herself pleasure from the communication, and doubtless it must be some relief to her. Oh were there any friendly bosom, in which I might myself confide! — happier Henrietta! less fearful of thy pride, less tenacious of thy dignity! thy sorrows at least seek the consolation of sympathy, — mine, alas! fettered by prudence, must fly it!”
She was shewn into the parlour, which she had the pleasure to find empty; and, in an instant, the warm-hearted Henrietta was in her arms. “This is sweet of you indeed,” cried she, “for I did not know how to ask it, though it rains so hard I could not have walked to you, and I don’t know what I should have done, if you had gone away and quite forgot me.”
She then took her into the back parlour, which she said they had lately hired, and, as it was made but little use of, she had it almost entirely to herself.
There had passed a sad scene, she told her, at the meeting with her brother, though now they were a little more comfortable; yet, her mother, she was sure, would never be at rest till he got into some higher way of life; “And, indeed, I have some hopes,” she continued, “that we shall be able by and bye to do something better for him; for he has got one friend in the world, yet; thank God, and such a noble friend! — indeed I believe he can do whatever he pleases for him, — that is I mean I believe if he was to ask any thing for him, there’s nobody would deny him. And this is what I wanted to talk to you about.” —
Cecilia, who doubted not but she meant Delvile, scarce knew how to press the subject, though she came with no other view: Henrietta, however, too eager to want solicitation, went on.
“But the question is whether we shall be able to prevail upon my brother to accept any thing, for he grows more and more unwilling to be obliged, and the reason is, that being poor, he is afraid, I believe, people should think he wants to beg of them: though if they knew him as well as I do, they would not long think that, for I am sure he would a great deal rather be starved to death. But indeed, to say the truth, I am afraid he has been sadly to blame in this affair, and quarrelled when there was no need to be affronted; for I have seen a gentleman who knows a great deal better than my brother what people should do, and he says he took every thing wrong that was done, all the time he was at Lord Vannelt’s.”
“And how does this gentleman know it?”
“O because he went himself to enquire about it; for he knows Lord Vannelt very well, and it was by his means my brother came acquainted with him. And this gentleman would not have wished my brother to be used ill any more than I should myself, so I am sure I may believe what he says. But my poor brother, not being a lord himself, thought every body meant to be rude to him, and because he knew he was poor, he suspected they all behaved disrespectfully to him. But this gentleman gave me his word that every body liked him and esteemed him, and if he would not have been so suspicious, they would all have done any thing for him in the world.”
“You know this gentleman very well, then?”
“O no, madam!” she answered hastily, “I don’t know him at all! he only comes here to see my brother; it would be very impertinent for me to call him an acquaintance of mine.”
“Was it before your brother, then, he held this conversation with you?”
�
��O no, my brother would have been affronted with him, too, if he had! but he called here to enquire for him at the time when he was lost to us, and my mother quite went down upon her knees to him to beg him to go to Lord Vannelt’s, and make excuses for him, if he had not behaved properly: but if my brother was to know this, he would hardly speak to her again! so when this gentleman came next, I begged him not to mention it, for my mother happened to be out, and so I saw him alone.”
“And did he stay with you long?”
“No, ma’am, a very short time indeed; but I asked him questions all the while, and kept him as long as I could, that I might hear all he had to say about my brother.”
“Have you never seen him since?”
“No, ma’am, not once! I suppose he does not know my brother is come back to us. Perhaps when he does, he will call.”
“Do you wish him to call?”
“Me?” cried she, blushing, “a little; — sometimes I do; — for my brother’s sake.”
“For your brother’s sake! Ah my dear Henrietta! but tell me, — or don’t tell me if you had rather not, — did I not once see you kissing a letter? perhaps it was from this same noble friend?”
“It was not a letter, madam,” said she, looking down, “it was only the cover of one to my brother.”
“The cover of a letter only! — and that to your brother! — is it possible you could so much value it?”
“Ah madam! You, who are always used to the good and the wise, who see no other sort of people but those in high life, you can have no notion how they strike those that they are new to! — but I who see them seldom, and who live with people so very unlike them — Oh you cannot guess how sweet to me is every thing that belongs to them! whatever has but once been touched by their hands, I should like to lock up, and keep for ever! though if I was used to them, as you are, perhaps I might think less of them.”
Alas! thought Cecilia, who by them knew she only meant him, little indeed would further intimacy protect you!
“We are all over-ready,” continued Henrietta, “to blame others, and that is the way I have been doing all this time myself; but I don’t blame my poor brother now for living so with the great as I used to do, for now I have seen a little more of the world, I don’t wonder any longer at his behaviour: for I know how it is, and I see that those who have had good educations, and kept great company, and mixed with the world, — O it is another thing! — they seem quite a different species! — they are so gentle, so soft-mannered! nothing comes from them but what is meant to oblige! they seem as if they only lived to give pleasure to other people, and as if they never thought at all of themselves!”
“Ah Henrietta!” said Cecilia, shaking her head, “you have caught the enthusiasm of your brother, though you so long condemned it! Oh have a care lest, like him also, you find it as pernicious as it is alluring!”
“There, is no danger for me, madam,” answered she, “for the people I so much admire are quite out of my reach. I hardly ever even see them; and perhaps it may so happen I may see them no more!”
“The people?” said Cecilia, smiling, “are there, then, many you so much distinguish?”
“Oh no indeed!” cried she, eagerly, “there is only one! there can be — I mean there are only a few—” she checked herself, and stopt.
“Whoever you admire,” cried Cecilia, “your admiration cannot but honour: yet indulge it not too far, lest it should wander from your heart to your peace, and make you wretched for life.”
“Ah madam! — I see you know who is the particular person I was thinking of! but indeed you are quite mistaken if you suppose any thing bad of me!”
“Bad of you!” cried Cecilia, embracing her, “I scarce think so well of any one!”
“But I mean, madam, if you think I forget he is so much above me. But indeed I never do; for I only admire him for his goodness to my brother, and never think of him at all, but just by way of comparing him, sometimes, to the other people that I see, because he makes me hate them so, that I wish I was never to see them again.”
“His acquaintance, then,” said Cecilia, “has done you but an ill office, and happy it would be for you could you forget you had ever made it.”
“O, I shall never do that! for the more I think of him, the more I am out of humour with every body else! O Miss Beverley! we have a sad acquaintance indeed! I’m sure I don’t wonder my brother was so ashamed of them. They are all so rude, and so free, and put one so out of countenance, — O how different is this person you are thinking of! he would not distress anybody, or make one ashamed for all the world! You only are like him! always gentle, always obliging! — sometimes I think you must be his sister — once, too, I heard — but that was contradicted.”
A deep sigh escaped Cecilia at this speech; she guessed too well what she might have heard, and she knew too well how it might be contradicted.
“Surely, you cannot be unhappy, Miss Beverley!” said Henrietta, with a look of mingled surprise and concern.
“I have much, I own,” cried Cecilia, assuming more chearfulness, “to be thankful for, and I endeavour not to forget it.”
“O how often do I think,” cried Henrietta, “that you, madam, are the happiest person in the world! with every thing at your own disposal, — with every body in love with you, with all the money that you can wish for, and so much sweetness that nobody can envy you it! with power to keep just what company you please, and every body proud to be one of the number! — Oh if I could chuse who I would be, I should sooner say Miss Beverley than any princess in the world!”
Ah, thought Cecilia, if such is my situation, — how cruel that by one dreadful blow all its happiness should be thrown away!
“Were I a rich lady, like you,” continued Henrietta, “and quite in my own power, then, indeed, I might soon think of nothing but those people that I admire! and that makes me often wonder that you, madam, who are just such another as himself — but then, indeed, you may see so many of the same sort, that just this one may not so much strike you: and for that reason I hope with all my heart that he will never be married as long as he lives, for as he must take some lady in just such high life as his own, I should always be afraid that she would never love him as she ought to do!”
He need not now be single, thought Cecilia, were that all he had cause to apprehend!
“I often think,” added Henrietta, “that the rich would be as much happier for marrying the poor, as the poor for marrying the rich, for then they would take somebody that would try to deserve their kindness, and now they only take those that know they have a right to it. Often and often have I thought so about this very gentleman! and sometimes when I have been in his company, and seen his civility and his sweetness, I have fancied I was rich and grand myself, and it has quite gone out of my head that I was nothing but poor Henrietta Belfield!”
“Did he, then,” cried Cecilia a little alarmed, “ever seek to ingratiate himself into your favour?”
“No, never! but when treated with so much softness, ’tis hard always to remember one’s meanness! You, madam, have no notion of that task: no more had I myself till lately, for I cared not who was high, nor who was low: but now, indeed, I must own I have some times wished myself richer! yet he assumes so little, that at other times, I have almost forgot all distance between us, and even thought — Oh foolish thought! —
“Tell it, sweet Henrietta, however!”
“I will tell you, madam, every thing! for my heart has been bursting to open itself, and nobody have I dared trust. I have thought, then, I have sometimes thought, — my true affection, my faithful fondness, my glad obedience, — might make him, if he did but know them, happier in me than in a greater lady!”
“Indeed,” cried Cecilia, extremely affected by this plaintive tenderness, “I believe it — and were I him, I could not, I think, hesitate a moment in my choice!”
Henrietta now, hearing her mother coming in, made a sign to her to be silent; but Mrs Belfield had not bee
n an instant in the passage, before a thundering knocking at the street-door occasioned it to be instantly re-opened. A servant then enquired if Mrs Belfield was at home, and being answered by herself in the affirmative, a chair was brought into the house.
But what was the astonishment of Cecilia, when, in another moment, she heard from the next parlour the voice of Mr Delvile senior, saying, “Your servant, ma’am; Mrs Belfield, I presume?”
There was no occasion, now, to make a sign to her of silence, for her own amazement was sufficient to deprive her of speech.
“Yes, Sir,” answered Mrs Belfield; “but I suppose, Sir, you are some gentleman to my son.”
“No, madam,” he returned, “my business is with yourself.”
Cecilia now recovering from her surprise, determined to hasten unnoticed out of the house, well knowing that to be seen in it would be regarded as a confirmation of all that he had asserted. She whispered, therefore, to Henrietta, that she must instantly run away, but, upon softly opening the door leading to the passage, she found Mr Delvile’s chairmen, and a footman there in waiting.
She closed it again, irresolute what to do: but after a little deliberation, she concluded to out-stay him, as she was known to all his servants, who would not fail to mention seeing her; and a retreat so private was worse than any other risk. A chair was also in waiting for herself, but it was a hackney one, and she could not be known by it; and her footman she had fortunately dismissed, as he had business to transact for her journey next day.
Mean-while the thinness of the partition between the two parlours made her hearing every word that was said unavoidable.
“I am sure, Sir, I shall be very willing to oblige you,” Mrs Belfield answered; “but pray, Sir, what’s your name?”
“My name, ma’am,” he replied, in a rather elevated voice, “I am seldom obliged to announce myself; nor is there any present necessity I should make it known. It is sufficient I assure you, you are speaking to no very common person, and probably to one you will have little chance to meet with again.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 131
