 Book 1 Chapter 7 of Cecilia. Several days passed on in nearly the same manner. The mornings were all spent in gossiping, shopping, and dressing, and the evenings were regularly appropriated to public places or large parties of company. Meanwhile, Mr. Arnott lived almost entirely in Portman Square. He slept indeed in his own lodgings, but he boarded wholly with Mr. Harrell, whose house he never for a moment quitted till night, except to attend Cecilia and his sister in their visitings and rambles. Mr. Arnott was a man of unexceptionable character, and of a disposition mild, serious, and benignant. His principles and blameless conduct obtained the universal esteem of the world, but his manners, which were rather too precise, joined to an uncommon gravity of countenance and demeanor, made his society rather permitted as a duty than sought as a pleasure. The charms of Cecilia had forcibly, suddenly, and deeply penetrated his heart. He only lived in her presence. Away from her he hardly existed. The emotions she excited were rather those of adoration than love, for he gazed upon beauty till he thought her more than human, and hung upon her accents till all speech seemed impertinent to him but her own. Yet so much were his expectations of success, that not even to his own sister did he hint at the situation of his heart. Happy in an easy access to her, he contended himself with seeing, hearing, and watching her, beyond which bounds he formed not any plan, and scarce indulged any hope. Her Robert Flawyer, too, was a frequent visitor in Portman Square, where he dined almost daily. Cecilia was chagrined at seeing so much of him, and provoked to find herself almost constantly the object of his unrestrained examination. She was, however, far more seriously concerned for Mrs. Harrell when she discovered that this favorite friend of her husband was an unprincipled spin-thrift, an extravagant game-ster, for as he was the inseparable companion of Mr. Harrell, she dreaded the consequence both of his influence and his example. She too saw, with an amazement that daily increased, the fatigue yet fascination of a life of pleasure. Mr. Harrell seemed to consider his own house merely as a hotel, where at any hour of the night he might disturb the family to claim admittance, where letters and messages might be left for him, where he dined when no other dinner was offered him, and where, when he made an appointment, he was to be met with. His lady, too, though more at home, was not therefore more solitary. Her acquaintance were numerous, expensive, and idle, and every moment not actually spent in company was scrupulously devoted to making arrangements for that purpose. In a short time Cecilia, who every day had hoped that the next would afford her greater satisfaction, but who every day found the present no better than the former, began to grow weary of eternally running the same ground, and to sicken at the irksome repetition of unremitting yet uninteresting dissipation. She saw nobody she wished to see, as she had met with nobody for whom she could care. For though sometimes those with whom she mixed appeared to be amiable, she knew that their manners, like their persons, were in their best array, and therefore she had too much understanding to judge decisively of their characters. But what chiefly dampened her hopes of forming a friendship with any of the new acquaintance to whom she was introduced was the observation she herself made how ill the coldness of their hearts accorded with the warmth of their professions. Every one every first meeting the civilities which were shown her flattered her into believing she had excited a partiality that very little time would ripen into affection. The next meeting commonly confirmed the expectation, but the third and every future one regularly destroyed it. She found that time added nothing to their fondness nor intimacy to their sincerity, but the interest in her welfare which appeared to be taken at first sight seldom with whatever reason increased, and often without any abated, that the distinction she at first met with was no effusion of kindness but of curiosity, which is scarcely sooner gratified than satisfied, and that those who lived always the life into which she had only lately been initiated were as much harassed with it as herself, though less spirited to relinquish and more helpless to better it, and that they coveted nothing but which was new because they had experienced the insufficiency of whatever was familiar. She began now to regret the loss she sustained in quitting the neighborhood and being deprived of the conversation of Mr. Moncton, and yet more earnestly to miss the affection and sigh for the society of Mrs. Charlton, the lady with whom she had long and happily resided in Burry, for she was soon compelled to give up all expectation of renewing the felicity of her earlier years by being restored to the friendship of Mrs. Harrell, in whom she had mistaken the kindness of childish intimacy for the sincerity of chosen affection. Though she saw her credulous error with mortification and displeasure, she regretted it with tenderness in sorrow. What at last, cried she, is human felicity. Who has tasted, and where is it to be found? If I, who to others, seem marked out for even a partial possession of it, distinguished by fortune, caressed by the world, brought into the circle of high life and surrounded with slender, seek without finding it, yet losing, scarce know how I miss it. Ashamed upon reflection to believe that she was considered an object of envy by others, while repining and discontented herself, she determined not longer to be the only one insensible to the blessings within her reach, but by projecting and adopting some plan of conduct better suited to her taste and feelings than the frivolous incipity of her present life, to make at once a more spirited and more worthy use of the affluence, freedom and power which she possessed. A scheme of happiness at once rational and refined soon presented itself to her imagination. She proposed, for the basis of her plan, to become mistress of her own time, and with this view, to drop all idle and uninteresting acquaintance, who, while they contribute neither to use nor pleasure, make so large a part of the community that they may properly be called the underminers of existence. She could then show some taste and discernment in her choice of friends, and she resolved to select such only as by their piety could alleviate her mind, by their knowledge improve her understanding, and by their accomplishments and manners delight her affections. This regulation, if strictly adhered to, would soon relieve her from the fatigue of receiving many visitors, and therefore she might have all the leisure she could desire for the pursuit of her favorite studies, music, and reading. Having thus, from her own estimation of human perfection, called whatever was noblest for her society, and from her own ideas of sedentary enjoyment, arranged the occupation of her hours of solitude. She felt fully satisfied with the portion of happiness which her scheme promised to herself, and began next to consider what was due from her to the world. And not without trembling did she then look forward to the claims which the splendid income she was soon to possess would call upon her to discharge. A strong sense of duty, a fervent desire to act right, were the ruling characteristics of her mind. Her affluence she therefore considered as a debt contracted with the poor, and her independence as a tie upon her liberality to pay it with interest. Many and various then, soothing to her spirit and grateful to her sensibility, were the scenes which her fancy delineated. Now she supported an orphan, now softened the sorrows of a widow, now snatched from iniquity the feeble trembler at poverty, and now rescued from shame the proud struggleer with disgrace. The prospect at once exalted her hopes, and enraptured her imagination. She regarded herself as an agent of charity, and already in idea anticipated the rewards of a good and faithful delegate. So animating are the designs in disinterested benevolence. So pure is the bliss of intellectual philanthropy. Not immediately, however, could this plan be put into execution. The society she meant to form could not be selected in the house of another, where, though to some she might show a preference, there were none she could reject. Nor had she the power to indulge according to the munificence of her wishes, the extensive generosity she projected. This preface demanded a house of her own, and the unlimited disposal of her fortune, neither of which she could claim until she became of age. That period, however, was only eight months distant, and she pleased herself with the intention of mediating her plan in the meantime, and preparing to put it in practice. But though in common with all the race of still expecting man, she looked for that happiness in the time to come, which the present failed to afford, she had yet the spirit in good sense to determine upon making every effort in her power to render her immediate way of life more useful and contented. Her first wish, therefore, now was to quit the house of Mr. Harrell, where she neither met with entertainment nor instruction, but was perpetually mortified by seeing the total indifference of the friend in whose society she had hoped for nothing but affection. The will of her uncle, though it obliged her while underage to live with one of her guardians, left her at liberty to change amongst them according to her wishes or convenience. She determined, therefore, to make a visit herself to each of them, to observe their manners in way of life, and then, to the best of her judgment, decide with which of them she could be most contented. Meaning, however, not to hint at her intention till it was ripe for execution, and then honestly to confess the reasons of her retreat. She had acquainted them both of her journey to town the morning after her arrival. She was almost an entire stranger to each of them, as she had not seen Mr. Briggs since she was nine years old, nor Mr. Delville within the time she could remember. The very morning that she had settled her proceedings for the arrangement on this new plan, she intended to request the use of Mrs. Harrell's carriage, and to make without delay the visits preparatory to her removal. But when she entered the parlor upon a summons to breakfast, her eagerness to quit that house gave way for the present to the pleasure she felt at the sight of Mr. Moncton, who was just arrived from Suffolk. She expressed her satisfaction in the most lively terms, and scrupled not to tell him she had not once been so much pleased since her journey to town except at her first meeting with Mrs. Harrell. Mr. Moncton, whose delight was infinitely superior to her own, and whose joy in seeing her was redoubled by the affectionate frankness of her reception, stifled his emotions to which her sight gave rise, and denying himself the solace of expressing his feelings, seemed much less charmed than herself at the meeting, and suffered no word nor look to escape him beyond what could be authorized by friendly civility. He then renewed with Mrs. Harrell an acquaintance which had been formed before her marriage, but which she had dropped when her distance from Cecilia, upon whose account alone he had thought it worth cultivation, made it no longer of use to him. She afterwards introduced her brother to him, and a conversation very interesting to both ladies took place concerning several families with which they had been formally connected, as well as the neighborhood at large in which they had lately dwelt. Very little was the share taken by Mr. Arnaud in these accounts and inquiries. The unaffected joy with which Cecilia had received Mr. Moncton had struck him with a sensation of envy as involuntary as it was painful. She did not indeed suspect that the gentleman's secret views, no reason for suspicion, was obvious, and his penetration sunk no deeper than appearances. He knew, too, that he was married, and therefore no jealousy occurred to him, but still she had smiled upon him, and he felt that to purchase for himself a smile of so much sweetness, he would have sacrificed almost all else that was valuable to him upon earth, with an attention infinitely more accurate. Mr. Moncton had returned his observations. The uneasiness of his mind was apparent, and the anxious watchfulness of his eyes plainly manifested whence it arose. From the situation, indeed, which permitted an intercourse the most constant and unrestrained with such an object as Cecilia, nothing less could be expected, and therefore he considered his admiration as inevitable. All that remained to be discovered was the reception it had met from his fair and slaver. Nor was he long in doubt. He soon saw that she was not merely free from all passion herself, but had so little watched Mr. Arnaud as to be unconscious she had inspired any. Yet was his own sincerity, though apparently unmoved, little less disturbed in secret than that of his rival. He did not thank him a formidable candidate, but he dreaded the effects of intimacy, fearing she might grow accustomed to his attentions, and then become pleased with them. He apprehended also that the influence of his sister and of Mr. Harrell in his favour, and though he had no difficulty to persuade himself that any offer he might now make would be rejected without hesitation, he knew too well the insidious properties of perseverance to see him without inquietude situated so aventaciously. The morning was far advanced before he took leave, yet he found no opportunity of discoursing with Cecilia, though he impatiently desired to examine into the state of her mind and to discover whether her London journey had added any fresh difficulties to the success of his long concerted scheme. But as Mrs. Harrell invited him to dinner, he hoped the afternoon would be more propitious to his wishes. Cecilia, too, was eager to communicate to him her favourite project and to receive his advice with respect to its execution. She had long been used to his counsel, and she was now more than ever solicitous to obtain it, because she considered him as the only person in London who was interested in her welfare. He saw, however, no promise of better success when he made his appearance at dinner time, for not only Mr. Arnaud was already arrived but Sir Robert Flawyer, and he found Cecilia so much the object of their mutual attention that he had still less chance than in the morning of speaking to her unheard. Yet was he not idle? The sight of Sir Robert gave abundant employment to his penetration, which was immediately at work, to discover the motive of his visit. But this, with all sagacity, was not easily decided. For though the constant direction of his eyes towards Cecilia proved at least that he was not insensible of her beauty, his carelessness whether or not she was hurt by his examination, the little pains he took to converse with her in the invariable insurances and negligence of his manners seemed strongly to demonstrate an indifference to the sentiments he inspired, totally incompatible with the solicitude of affection. In Cecilia he had nothing to observe but what his knowledge of her character prepared him to expect, a shame no less indignant than modest at the freedom with which she saw herself surveyed. Very little, therefore, was the satisfaction which this visit procured him, for soon after dinner the ladies retired, and as they had an early engagement for the evening the gentleman received no summons to their tea-table. But he contrived before they quitted the room to make an appointment for attending them the next morning to a rehearsal of a new serious opera. He stayed not after their departure longer than decency required, for too much in earnest was his present pursuit, to fit him for such conversation as the house in Cecilia's absence could afford him. CHAPTER VIII. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Missy, Guangzhou, China. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Eris by Frances Burney. Volume I, Chapter VIII. An Opera Rehearsal. The next day, between eleven and twelve o'clock, Mr. Monkton was again in Portman Square. He found, as he expected, both the ladies, and he found, as he feared, Mr. Arnaud, prepared to be of their party. He had, however, but little time to repine at this intrusion before he was disturbed by another. For in a few minutes they were joined by Sir Robert Flawyer, who also declared his intention of accompanying them to the hay market. Mr. Monkton, to disguise his chagrin, pretended he was in great haste to set off, lest they should be too late for the overture. They were therefore quitting the breakfast-room when they were stopped by the appearance of Mr. Morris. The surprise which the sight of him gave to Mr. Monkton was extreme. He knew that he was unacquainted with Mr. Harrell, for he remembered they were strangers to each other when they lately met at his house. He concluded therefore that Cecilia was the object of his visit, but he could frame no conjecture under what pretense. The easy terms upon which he seemed with all the family, by no means diminished his amazement. For when Mrs. Harrell expressed some concern that she was obliged to go out, he gaily begged her not to mind him, assuring her he could not have stayed two minutes, and promising unasked to call again the next day. And when she added, we would not hurry away so, only we are going to a rehearsal of an opera. He exclaimed with quickness, A rehearsal? Are you really? I have a great mind to go to. Then perceiving Mr. Monkton, he bowed to him with great respect, and inquired with no little solemnity, how he had left Lady Margaret, hoped she was perfectly recovered from her late indisposition, and asked sundry questions with regard to her plan for the winter. This discourse was ill-constructed for rendering his presence desirable to Mr. Monkton. He answered him very dryly, and again pressed their departure. Oh! cried Morris, there's no occasion for such haste. The rehearsal does not begin till one. You are mistaken, though, said Mr. Monkton, it is to begin at twelve o'clock. Oh! I, very true, return Morris, I had forgot the dances, and I suppose they are to be rehearsed first. A premise verbally, did you ever see any dancers rehearsed? Well, no, sir. You will be excessively entertained, then, I assure you. It's the most comical thing in the world to see those senores and senoras cutting capers in a morning. And the figurante will divert you beyond measure. You never saw such a shabbish set in your life. But the most amusing thing is to look in their faces, for all the time they are jumping and skipping about the stage as if they could not stand still for joy, they look as sedate and as dismal as if there were so many undertakers men. Not a word against dancing, cried Sir Robert, it's the only thing carries one to the opera, and I am sure it's the only thing one minds at it. The two ladies were then handed into Mrs. Harrell's vis-à-vis, and the gentlemen, joined without further ceremony by Mr. Morris, followed them to the hay market. The rehearsal was not begun, and Mrs. Harrell and Cecilia secured themselves a box upon the stage, from which the gentlemen of their party took care not to be very distant. They were soon perceived by Mr. Gospert, who instantly entered into conversation with Cecilia. Miss LaRolles, who with some other ladies came soon after into the next box, looked out to curtsy and nod with her usual readiness at Mrs. Harrell, but took not any notice of Cecilia, though she made the first advances. What's the matter now? cried Mr. Gospert. Have you affronted your little prattling friend? Not with my own knowledge, answered Cecilia. Perhaps she does not recollect me. Just then Miss LaRolles, tapping at the door, came in from the next box to speak to Mrs. Harrell, with whom she stood chatting and laughing some minutes, without seeming to perceive that Cecilia was of her party. Why, what have you done to the poor girl, whispered Mr. Gospert? Did you talk more than herself when you saw her last? Would that have been possible? cried Cecilia. However, I still fancy she does not know me. She then stood up, which making Miss LaRolles involuntarily turned towards her, she again curtsied, a civility which that young lady scarce stained to return, before, bridling with an air of resentment, she hastily looked another way, and then, nodding good-humoredly at Mrs. Harrell, hurried back to her party. Cecilia, much amazed, said to Mr. Gospert, See now how great was our presumption in supposing this young lady's locacity always at our devotion. Ah, madam, cried he, laughing, there is no permanency, no consistency in the world, no not even in the tongue of a voluble, and if that fails upon what may be depend. But seriously, said Cecilia, I am sorry I have offended her, and the more because I so little know how that I can offer her no apology. Will you appoint me your envoy? Shall I demand the cause of these hostilities? She thanked him, and he followed Miss LaRolles, who was now addressing herself with great earnestness to Mr. Meadows, the gentleman with whom she was conversing when Cecilia first saw her in Portman Square. He stopped a moment to let her finish her speech, which, with no little spirit she did in these words, I never knew anything like it in my life, but I shan't put up with such as I assure her. Mr. Meadows made not any other return to her harangue, but stretching himself with a languid smile and yawning. Mr. Gaspert, therefore, seizing the moment of cessation, said, Miss LaRolles, I hear a strange report about you. Do you, returned she with quickness, pray what is it? Something monstrous and pertinent, I dare say, however I assure you it ain't true. Your assurance, cried he, carries conviction indisputable, for the report was that you had left off talking. Oh, was that all? cried she, disappointed. I thought it had been something about Mr. Sawyer, for I declare I have been plagued so about him, I am quite sick of his name. And for my part I never heard it, so fear nothing from me upon his account. Lord, Mr. Gaspert, how can you say so? I am sure you must know about the Festino that night, for it was all over the town in a moment. What Festino? Well, only conceive, how provoking, why, I know nothing else was talked of for a month. You are most formidable stout this morning. It is not two minutes since I saw you fling the gauntlet at Miss Beverly, and yet you are already prepared for another antagonist. Oh, as to Miss Beverly, I must really beg you not to mention her. She has behaved so impertently that I don't intend ever to speak to her again. Why, what has she done? Oh, she's been so rude, you've no notion. I'll tell you how it was. You must know I met her at Mrs. Burrell's the day she came to town, and the very next morning I waited on her myself, for I would not send a ticket, because I really wished to be civil to her. Well, the day after she never came near me, though I called upon her again. However, I did not take any notice of that. But when the third day came, and I found she had not even sent me a ticket, I thought it monstrous ill-bred indeed. And now there has passed more than a week, and yet she has never called. So I suppose she don't like me. So I shall drop her acquaintance. Sir Gaspard, satisfied now, with the subject of her complaint, returned to Cecilia, and informed her of the heavy charge which was brought against her. I am glad at least to know my crime, said she, for otherwise I should certainly have sinned on in ignorance. As I must confess I never thought of returning her visits, but even if I had, I should not have supposed I had yet lost much time. I beg your pardon there, said Mrs. Harrell, a first visit ought to be returned always by the third day. Then have I an unanswerable excuse, said Cecilia, for I remember that on the third day I saw her at your house. Oh, that's nothing at all to the purpose. You should have waited upon her, or sent her a ticket, just the same as if you had not seen her. The overture was now begun, and Cecilia declined any further conversation. This was the first opera she had ever heard, yet she was not wholly a stranger to Italian compositions, having assiduously studied music from a natural love of the art, attended all the best concerts her neighborhood afforded, and regularly received from London the works of the best masters. But the little skill she had thus gained served rather to increase than to lessen the surprise with which she heard the present performance, a surprise of which the discovery of her own ignorance made not the least part. Unconscious from the little she had acquired how much was to be learned, she was astonished to find the inadequate power of written music to convey any idea of vocal abilities, with just knowledge enough, therefore, to understand something of the difficulties and feel much of the merit, she gave to the whole opera an avidity of attention almost painful from its own eagerness. But both the surprise and the pleasure which she received from the performance in general were faint, cold, and languid compared to the strength of those emotions, when excited by Signore Pattirotti in particular. And though not half the excellencies of that superior singer were necessary either to amaze or charm her unaccustomed ears, though the refinement of his taste and masterly originality of his genius to be praised as they deserved called for the judgment and knowledge of professors, yet a natural love of music in some measure supplied the place of cultivation, and what she could neither explain nor understand she could feel and enjoy. The opera was Arda Cersei, and the pleasure she received from the music was much augmented by her previous acquaintance with that interesting drama. Yet as to all novitiates in science, whatever is least complicated is most pleasing. She found herself by nothing so deeply impressed as by the plaintive and beautiful simplicity with which Pattirotti uttered the effecting repetition of sonno innocente. His voice, always either sweet or impassioned, delivered those words in a tone of softness, pathos, and sensibility that struck her with a sensation not more new than delightful. But though she was perhaps the only person thus astonished, she was by no means the only one enraptured. For notwithstanding she was too earnestly engaged to remark the company in general, she could not avoid taking notice of an old gentleman who stood by one of the side scenes, against which he lent his head in a manner that concealed his face. With an evident design to be wholly absorbed in listening, and during the songs of Pattirotti he sighed so deeply that Cecilia, struck by his uncommon sensibility to the power of music, involuntarily watched him whenever her mind was sufficiently at liberty to attend to any emotions but its own. As soon as the rehearsal was over, the gentleman of Mrs. Harrell's party crowded before her box, and Cecilia then perceived that the person whose musical enthusiasm had excited her curiosity was the same old gentleman whose extraordinary behavior had so much surprised her at the house of Mr. Moncton. Her desire to obtain some information concerning him again reviving, she was beginning to make fresh inquiries when she was interrupted by the approach of Captain Aresby. That gentleman advancing to her with a smile of the extremist self-complacency, after hoping in a low voice he had the honor of seeing her well, exclaimed, How wretchedly empty is the town, petrifying to a degree. I believe you do not find yourself at present obscene by too much company. At present I believe the contrary, cried Mr. Gospert. Really, said the Captain, unsuspicious of his sneer, I protest I have hardly seen a soul. Have you tried the pantheon yet, ma'am? No, sir. Nor I. I don't know whether people go there this year. It is not a favorite spectacle with me. That sitting to hear the music is a horrid war. Have you done the festino the honor to look in there yet? No, sir. Permit me, then, to have the honor to beg you will try it. Oh, I true, cried Mrs. Harrell. I have really used you very ill about that. I should have got you in for a subscriber, but, Lord, I have done nothing for you yet, and you never put me in mind. There's the ancient music and Abel's concert. As to the opera we may have a box between us, but there's the ladies' concert we must try for, and there's, oh, Lord, fifty other places we must think of. Oh, times of folly and dissipation, exclaimed a voice at some distance. Oh, minions of idleness and luxury! What next will you invent for the perdition of your time? How yet further will you proceed in the annihilation of virtue? Everybody stared. But Mrs. Harrell coolly said, Dear, it's only the man-hater. The man-hater? repeated Cecilia, who found that the speech was made by the object of her former curiosity. Is that the name by which she is known? He is known by fifty names, said Mr. Moncton. His friends call him the moralist, the young lady's the crazy man, the macaroni's the bore, in short he is called by any and every name but his own. He is the most petrifying wretch, I assure you, said the captain. I am obscured by him, part two. If I had known he had been so near, I should certainly have said nothing. That you have done so well, cried Mr. Gaspard, that if you had known the whole time you could have done it no better. The captain who had not heard this speech, which was rather made at him than to him, continued his address to Cecilia. Give me leave to have the honour of hoping you intend to honour our select masquerade at the Pantheon with your presence. We shall have but five hundred tickets, and the subscription will only be three guineas and a half. Oh, objects of penury and want! Again exclaimed the incognito. Oh, vassals of famine and distress! Come and listen to this wantonness of wealth! Come naked and breadless as you are, and learn how that money is consumed which to you might bring raiment and food. That strange wretch, said the captain, ought really to be confined. I have had the honour to be d'égote by him so often that I think him quite obnoxious. I make it quite a principle to seal up my lips the moment I perceive him. Where is it, then, said Cecilia, that you have so often met him? Oh! answered the captain, partude! There is no greater bore about town. But the time I found him most petrifying was once when I happened to have the honour of dancing with a very young lady, who was but just come from a boarding school, and whose friends had done me the honour to fix upon me upon the principle of first bringing her out. And while I was doing more possible for killing the time, he came up and in his particular manner told her I had no meaning in anything I said. I must own, I never felt more tempted to be enrolgé with a person in years in my life. Mr. Arnott now brought the lady's word that their carriage was ready, and they quitted their box. But as Cecilia had never before seen the interior parts of the theatre, Mr. Monk Newton, hoping while they loitered to have an opportunity of talking with her, asked Morris why he did not shoe the lions. Morris, always happy in being employed, declared it was just the thing he liked best, and begged permission to do the honours to Mrs. Harrell, who, ever eager in search of amusement, willingly accepted his offer. They all therefore marched upon the stage, their own party now being the only one that remained. We shall make a triumphal entry here, cried Sir Robert Flyer. The very tread of the stage half tempts me to turn actor. You are a rare man, said Mr. Gaspard, if at your time of life that is a turn not already taken. My time of life, repeated he, what do you mean by that? Do you take me for an old man? No, sir, but I take you to be past childhood, and consequently to have served your apprenticeship to the actors you have mixed with on the great stage of the world, and for some years at least, to have set up for yourself. Come, cried Morris, let's have a little spouting, to make us warm. Yes, said Sir Robert, if we spout to an animating object, if Miss Beverly will be Juliet, I am Romeo at her service. At this moment the incognito, quitting the corner in which he had planted himself, came suddenly forward, and standing before the whole group, cast upon Cecilia a look of much compassion and called out, Poor simple victim, hast thou already so many pursuers? Yet seeest not that thou art marked for sacrifice? Yet knowest not that thou art destined for prey?" Cecilia, extremely struck by this extraordinary address, stopped short and looked much disturbed. Which when he perceived he added, Let the danger not the warning affect you, discard the sycophants that surround you, seek the virtuous, relieve the poor, and save yourself from the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity. Having uttered these words with vehemence and authority, he sternly passed them and disappeared. Cecilia, too much astonished for speech, stood for some time immovable, revolving in her mind various conjectures upon the meaning of an exhortation so strange and so urgent. Nor was the rest of the company much less discomposed. Sir Robert, Mr. Monkton, and Mr. Arnett, each conscious of their own particular plans, were each apprehensive that the warning pointed at himself. Mr. Gospert was offended at being included in the general appellation of sycophants. Mrs. Harrell was provoked at being interrupted in her ramble, and Captain Ayersby, sickening at the very sight of him, retreated the moment he came forth. For heaven's sake! cried Cecilia, when somewhat recovered from her consternation, who can this be and what can he mean? You, Mr. Monkton, must surely know something of him, it was at your house they first saw him. Indeed, answered Mr. Monkton, I knew almost nothing of him then, and am but little better informed now. Belfield picked him up somewhere and desired to bring him to my house. He called him by the name of Albany. I found him a most extraordinary character, and Belfield, who was a worshipper of originality, was very fond of him. He's a devilish-crabbed old fellow, cried Sir Robert, and if he goes on much longer at this confounded rate he stands a very fair chance of getting his ears cropped. He is a man of the most singular conduct I have ever met with, said Mr. Gaspard. He seems to hold mankind in abhorrence, yet he is never a moment alone, and at the same time that he intrudes himself into all parties he associates with none. He is commonly a stern and silent observer of all that passes, or when he speaks it is but to utter some sentence of rigid morality, or some bitterness of indignant reproof. The carriage was now again announced, and Mr. Moncton taking Cecilia's hand, while Mr. Morris secured to himself the honor of Mrs. Harrell's, Sir Robert and Mr. Gaspard made their bows and departed. But though they had now quitted the stage and arrived at the head of a small staircase by which they were to descend out of the theatre, Mr. Moncton, finding all his tormentors retired, except Mr. Arnett, whom he hoped to elude, could not resist making one more attempt for a few moments' conversation with Cecilia, and therefore again applying to Morris, he called out, I don't think you have shunned the ladies any of the contrivances behind the scenes. True! cried Morris. No more I have. Suppose we go back? I shall like it vastly, said Mrs. Harrell, and back they returned. Mr. Moncton now soon found an opportunity to say to Cecilia, Miss Beverly, what I foresaw has exactly come to pass. You are surrounded by selfish designers, by interested double-minded people who have nothing at heart but your fortune, and whose mercenary views, if you are not guarded against them. Here a loud scream from Mrs. Harrell interrupted his speech. Cecilia, much alarmed, turned from him to inquire the cause, and Mr. Moncton was obliged to follow her example. But his mortification was almost intolerable, when he saw that lady in a violent fit of laughter, and found her scream was only occasioned by seeing Mr. Morris, in his diligence to do the honors, pull upon his own head one of the side scenes. There was now no possibility of proposing any further delay. But Mr. Moncton, in attending the ladies to their carriage, was obliged to have recourse to his utmost discretion and forbearance in order to check his desire of reprimanding Morris for his blundering of viciousness. Dressing, dining with company at home, and then going out with company abroad, filled up, as usual, the rest of the day. End of Chapter 8 of Volume 1. Volume 1, Chapter 9 of Cecilia. Memoirs of an Eris by Francis Burney. Volume 1, Chapter 9. A Supplication The next morning Cecilia, at the repeated remonstrances of Mrs. Harrell, consented to call upon Miss LaRolle's. She felt the impractability of beginning at present the alteration in her way of life she had projected, and therefore thought it most expedient to assume no singularity till her independency should enable her to support it with consistency. Yet greater than ever was her internal agreness to better satisfy her inclination and her conscience in the disposition of her time and the distribution of her well, since she had heard the emphatic charge of her unknown mentor. Mrs. Harrell declined accompanying her in this visit because she had appointed a surveyor to bring a plan for the inspection of Mr. Harrell and herself of a small temporary building to be erected at Violet Bank for the purpose of performing plays in private the ensuing Easter. When the street door was opened for her to get into the carriage, she was struck with the appearance of an elderly woman who was standing at some distance and seemed shivering with cold, and who, as she descended the steps, joined her hands in an active supplication and advanced nearer to the carriage. Cecilia stopped to look at her. Her dress, though parsimonious, was too neat for a beggar, and she considered a moment what she could offer her. The poor woman continued to move forward, but with a slowness of pace that indicated extreme weakness, and as she approached and raised her head she exhibited a countenance so wretched and a complexion so sickly that Cecilia was impressed with horror at the sight. With her hands still joined and a voice that seemed fearful of its own sound. Oh, madam, she cried, that you would but hear me. Hear you, repeated Cecilia, hastily feeling for her purse, most certainly, and tell me how I shall assist you. Heaven bless you for speaking so kindly, madam, cried the woman with a voice more assured. I was sadly afraid you would be angry, but I saw the carriage at the door and I thought I would try, for I could be no worse and distress, madam, makes very bold. Angry, said Cecilia, taking a crown from her purse, no indeed, who could see such wretchedness and feel anything but pity. Oh, madam, returned the poor woman, I could almost cry to hear you talk so, though I never thought to cry again since I left it off for my poor Billy. Have you then lost a son? Yes, madam, but he was a great deal too good to live, so I have quite left off grieving for him now. Come in, good woman, said Cecilia. It is too cold to stand here, and you seem half-staffed already. Come in and let me have some talk with you. She then gave orders that the carriage should be driven round the square till she was ready, and making the woman follow her into a parlor, desired to know what she should do for her, changing while she spoke from a movement of increasing compassion, the crown which she held in her hand, for double that thumb. You can do everything, madam, she answered. If you will but plead for us to his honour. He little thinks of our distress because he has been afflicted with none himself, and I would not be so troublesome to him, but, indeed, indeed, madam, we are quite pinched for want." Cecilia, struck with the words, he little thinks of our distress because he has been afflicted with none himself, felt again ashamed of the smallness of her intended donation, and taking from her purse another half-ginny said, Will this assist you? Will a guinea be sufficient to you for the present? I humbly thank you, madam, said the woman, curtsying low, shall I give you a receipt?" A receipt! cried Cecilia, with emotion, for what? Alas! our accounts are by no means balanced, but I shall do more for you if I find you as deserving an object as you seem to be. You are very good, madam, but I only meant a receipt in part of payment. Payment for what? I don't understand you. Did His Honor never tell you, madam, of our account? What account? Our bill, madam, for work done to the new temple at Violet Bank. It was the last great work my poor husband was able to do, for it was where he met with his misfortune. What bill? What misfortune? cried Cecilia. What had your husband to do at Violet Bank? He was the carpenter, madam. I thought you might have seen poor Hill the carpenter there. No, I never was there myself. Perhaps you mistake me for Mrs. Harrell. Why, sure, madam, you is an honest lady. No, but tell me, what is this bill? It is a bill, madam, for very hard work—for work, madam, which I am sure will cost my husband his life, and though I have been after his honor night and day to get to it, and send him letters and petitions within account of our misfortunes, I have never received so much as a shilling, and now the servants won't even let me wait in the hall to speak to him. Oh, madam, you who seem so good, plead to his honor in our behalf. Tell him my poor husband cannot live, tell him my children are starving, and tell him my poor Billy, that used to help to keep us, is dead, and that all the work I can do by myself is not enough to maintain us. Good heaven! cried Cecilia, extremely moved. Is it then your own money, for which you soothe us humbly? Yes, madam, for my own just and honest money, as his honor knows, and will tell you himself. Impossible! cried Cecilia, he cannot know it, but I will take care he shall soon be informed of it. How much is the bill? Two and twenty pounds, madam. What, no more? Oh, madam, you gentle folks little think how much there is to poor people. A hard-working family like mine, madam, with the help of twenty pounds, will go on for a long while quite in paradise. Poor worthy woman! cried Cecilia, whose eyes were filled with tears of compassion. If twenty pounds will place you in paradise, and that twenty pounds only you're just right, it is hard indeed that you should be kept without it, especially when your debtors are too affluent to miss it. Stay here a few moments, and I will bring you the money immediately. Away she flew, and returned to the breakfast-room, but found there only Mr. Arnett, who told her that Mr. Harrell was in the library, with his sister and some gentlemen. Cecilia briefly related her business, and begged he would inform Mr. Harrell she wished to speak to him directly. Mr. Arnett shook his head, but obeyed. They returned together, and immediately. Miss Beverly! cried Mr. Harrell, gaily, I am glad you are not gone, for we want much to consult with you. Will you come upstairs? Presently, answered she, but first I must speak to you about a poor woman with whom I have accidentally been talking, who has begged me to intercede with you to pay a little debt that she thinks you have forgotten, but that probably you have never heard mentioned. A debt, cried he, with an immediate change of countenance, to whom? Her name, I think, is Hill. She is wife to the carpenter you employed about a new temple at Violet Bank. Oh, what—what that woman! Well, well, I'll see she shall be paid. Come, let us go to the library. What, with my commission so ill-executed, I promised to petition for her to have the money directly. For who there is no such hurry? I don't know what I have done with her bill. I'll run and get another. Oh, upon no account, she may send another in two or three days. She deserves to wait a twelve-month for her impertinence in troubling you at all about it. Well, that was entirely accidental, but indeed you must give me leave to perform my promise and plead for her. It must be almost the same to you whether you pay such a trifle as twenty pounds now or a month hence, and to this poor woman the difference seems a little short of life or death, for she tells me her husband is dying, and her children are half-famished, and though she looks an object of the cruelest wanton to stress herself, she appears to be their only support. Oh! cried Mr. Harrell, laughing. What a dismal tale has she been telling you! No doubt she saw you afresh from the country, but if you give credit to all the ferragos of these trumpery impostors, you will never have a moment to yourself nor a guinea in your purse. This woman, and said Cecilia, cannot be an impostor, she carries marks but too evident and too dreadful in her countenance of the sufferings which she relates. Oh! returned he, when you know the town better you will soon see through tricks of this sort. A sick husband and five small children are complained so stale now that they serve no other purpose in the world but to make a joke. Those, however, who can laugh at them must have notions of merriment very different to mine. And this poor woman, whose cause I ventured to undertake, had she no family at all, must still and indisputably be an object of pity herself, for she is so weak she can hardly crawl, and so pallid that she seems already half-dead. All imposition depend upon it. The moment she is out of your sight her complaints will vanish. Nay, sir! cried Cecilia, a little impatiently. There is no reason to suspect such deceit, since she does not come here as a beggar, however well the state of beggary may accord with her poverty, she only solicits the payment of a bill, and if in that there is any fraud, nothing can be so easy as detection. Mr. Harrell bit his lips at this speech, and for some instance looked much disturbed, but soon recovering himself he negligently said, Pray, how did she get at you? I met her at the street door, but tell me, is not her bill a just one? I cannot say, I have never had time to look at it. But you know who the woman is, and that her husband worked for you, and therefore that in all probability it is right. Do you not? Yes, yes, I know who the woman is well enough. She has taken care of that, for she has pested me every day these nine months. Cecilia was struck dumb by this speech. Hitherto she had supposed that the dissipation of his life kept him ignorant of his own injustice. But when she found he was so well informed of it, yet with such total indifference could suffer a poor woman to claim a just debt every day for nine months together, she was shocked and astonished beyond measure. They were both sometimes silent, and then Mr. Harrell, yawning and stretching out his arms, indolently asked, Pray, why does not the man come himself? Did I not tell you, answered Cecilia, staring at so absent a question, that he was very ill and unable even to work? Well, when he is better, added he, moving towards the door, he may call, and I will talk to him. Cecilia, all amazement at this unfeeling behaviour, turned involuntarily to Mr. Arnett, with accountants that appealed for his assistance. But Mr. Arnett hung his head, ashamed to meet her eyes, and abruptly left the room. Meantime, Mr. Harrell, half turning back, though without looking Cecilia in the face, carelessly said, Well, won't you come? No, sir, answered she coldly. He then returned to the library, leaving her equally displeased, surprised and disconcerted at the conversation which had just passed between them. Good heaven! cried she to herself. What strange! what cruel insensibility! To suffer a wretched family, to starve, from an obstinate determination, to assert that they can live! To distress the poor by retaining the recompense for which alone they labour, and which at last they must have merely from indolence, forgetfulness, or insolence! Oh! how little did my uncle know! how little did I imagine to what a guardian I was entrusted! She now felt ashamed even to return to the poor woman, though she resolved to do all in her power to soften her disappointment and relieve her distress. But before she had quitted the room one of the servants came to tell her that his master begged the honour of her company upstairs. Perhaps he relents, thought she, and pleased with the hope readily obeyed the summon. She found him, his lady, Sir Robert Fleuer, and two other gentlemen, all earnestly engaged in an argument over a large table, which was covered with plans and elevations of small buildings. Mr. Harrell immediately addressed her with an air of vivacity, and said, You are very good for coming. We can settle nothing without your advice. Pray look at these different plans for our theatre, and tell us which is the best. Cecilia advanced not a step. The sight of plans for new edifices when the workmen were yet unpaid for old ones. The cruel wantonness of raising fresh fabrics of expensive luxury, while those so lately built had brought their neglected labourers to ruin, excited in indignation she scarce thought right to repress. While the easy sprightliness of the director of these revels, to whom but the moment before she had represented the oppression of which they made him guilty, filled her with aversion and disgust. And recollecting the charge given her by the stranger at the opera rehearsal, she resolved to speed her departure to another house, internally repeating, Yes, I will save myself from the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity. Mrs. Harrell, surprised at her silence at extreme gravity, inquired if she was not well, and why she had put off her visit to Miss LaRolle's. And Sir Robert Fleuer, turning suddenly to look at her, said, Do you begin to feel the London air already? Cecilia endeavoured to recover her serenity and answer these questions in her usual manner, but she persisted in declining to give any opinion at all about the plan, and after slightly looking at them left the room. Mr. Harrell, who knew better how to account for her behaviour than he thought proper to declare, saw with concern that she was more seriously displeased than he had believed in occurrence which he had regarded as wholly unimportant could have made her, and therefore desirous that she should be appeased, he followed her out of the library and said, Miss Beverly, will tomorrow be soon enough for your protégé? Oh, yes, no doubt, answered she, most agreeably surprised by the question. Well, then, will you take the trouble to bid her come to me in the morning? Delighted at this unexpected commission, she thanked him with smiles for the office, and as she hastened downstairs to cheer the poor expectant with the welcome intelligence, she framed a thousand excuses for the part he had hitherto acted, and without any difficulty persuaded herself he began to see the faults of his conduct, and to meditate a reformation. She was received by the poor creatures she so warmly wished to serve, with accountinance already so much enlivened, that she fancied Mr. Harrell had himself anticipated her intended information. This, however, she found was not the case, for as soon as she heard his message she shook her head and said, Ah, madam, his honour always says to-morrow, but I can better bear to be disappointed now, so I'll grumble no more, for indeed, madam, I have been blessed enough to-day to comfort me for everything in the world, if I could but keep from thinking of poor Billy. I could bear all the rest, madam, but whenever my other troubles go off that comes back to me so much the harder. There indeed I can afford you no relief, said Cecilia, but you must try to think less of him and more of your husband and children who are now alive. Tomorrow you will receive your money, and that I hope will raise your spirits, and pray let your husband have a physician to tell you how to nurse and manage him. I will give you one fee for him now, and if he should want further advice, don't fear to let me know. Cecilia had again taken out her purse, but Mrs. Hill, clasping her hands, called out, Oh, madam, no! I don't come here to flee such goodness, but blessed be the hour that brought me here to-day, and if my poor Billy was alive he should help me to thank you. She then told her that she was now quite rich, for while she was gone a gentleman had come into the room who had given her five guineas. Cecilia, by her descriptions, soon found this gentleman was Mr. Arnett, and a charity so sympathetic with her own failed not to raise him greatly in her favour. But as her benevolence was a stranger to that parade which is only liberal from emulation, when she found more money not immediately wanted, she put up her purse, and charging Mrs. Hill to inquire for her the next morning when she came to be paid, bid her hasting back to her sick husband. And then, again ordering the carriage to the door, she set off upon her visit to Miss LaRolls, with a heart happy in the good already done, and happier still in the hope of doing more. Miss LaRolls was out, and she returned home, for she was too sanguine in her expectations for Mr. Harrell to have any desire of seeking her other guardians. The rest of the day she was more than usually civil to him, with a view to mark her approbation of his good intentions. Well, Mr. Arnett, gratified by meeting the smiles he so much valued, thought his five guineas amply repaid, independently of the real pleasure which he took in doing good. End of Chapter 9. Volume 1, Chapter 10 of Cecilia. A provocation. The next morning, when breakfast was over, Cecilia waited with much impatience to hear some tidings of the poor carpenter's wife. But though Mr. Harrell, who had always that meal in his own room, came into his ladies at his usual hour to see what was going forward, he did not mention her name. She therefore went into the hall herself to inquire among the servants if Mrs. Hill was yet come. Yes, they answered, and had seen their master, and was gone. She then returned to the breakfast room where her eagerness to procure some information detained her, though the entrance of Sir Robert Floyder made her wish to retire. But she was wholly at a loss, whether to impute to general forgetfulness, or to the failure of performing his promise, the silence of Mr. Harrell upon the subject of her petition. In a few minutes they were visited by Mr. Morris, who said he called to acquaint the ladies, that the next morning there was to be a rehearsal of a very grand new dance at the opera house, where, though admission was difficult, if it was agreeable to them to go, he would undertake to introduce them. Mrs. Harrell happened to be engaged, and therefore declined the offer. He then turned to Cecilia and said, Well, ma'am, when did you see our friend Moncton? Not since the rehearsal, sir. He is a mighty agreeable fellow, he continued, and his house in the country is charming. One is as easy at it as at home. Were you over there, Sir Robert? Not I, truly, replied Sir Robert, what should I go for, to see an old woman with never a tooth in her head sitting at the top of the table? Faith, I'd go a hundred miles a day for a month never to see such a sight again. Oh, but you don't know how well she does the honours, said Morris, and for my part, except just at mealtime, I always contrive to keep out of her way. I wonder when she intends to die, said Mr. Harrell. She's been a long time about it, cried Sir Robert, but those tough old cats last forever. We all thought she was going when Moncton married her. However, if he had not managed like a driveler, he might have broke her heart nine years ago. I am sure I wish he had, cried Mrs. Harrell, for she's an odious creature and used always to make me afraid of her. But an old woman, answered Sir Robert, is a person who has no sense of decency, if, once she takes to living, the devil himself can't get rid of her. I daresay, cried Morris, she'll pop off before long in one of those fits of the asthma. I assure you, sometimes you may hear her wheeze a mile off. She'll never go that sooner for that, said Sir Robert, for I have got an old aunt of my own who has been puffing and blowing as if she was at her last gasp, ever since I can remember. And for all that, only yesterday, when I asked her doctor when she'd give up the ghost, he told me she might live these dozen years. Cecilia was by no means sorry to have this brutal conversation interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a letter for her. She was immediately retiring to read it, but upon the petition of Mr. Moncton, who just then came into the room, she only went to a window. The letter was as follows. To miss at his honour-squire heralds. These. Honoured Madam, this with my humble duty, his honour has given me nothing, but I would not be troublesome having wherewithal to wait. So conclude, honoured Madam, your dutiful servant to command, till death. M. Hill. The vexation with which Cecilia read this letter was visible to the whole company, and while Mr. Arnott looked at her with a wish of inquiry he did not dare express, and Mr. Moncton, under an appearance of inattention, concealed the most anxious curiosity, Mr. Morris alone had courage to interrogate her, and pertly advancing said, He is a happy man who writ that letter, Madam, for I am sure you have not read it with indifference. Were I the writer, said Mr. Arnott tenderly, I am sure I should reckon myself far otherwise, for Miss Beverly seems to have read it with uneasiness. However, I have read it, answered she, I assure you it is not from any man. O pray, Miss Beverly, cried Sir Robert, coming forward, are you any better today? No, sir, for I have not been ill. A little vapoured, I thought yesterday, perhaps he want exercise. I wish the ladies would put themselves under my care, cried Morris, and take a turn round the park. I don't doubt you, sir, said Mr. Moncton contemptuously, and but for the check of modesty, probably there is not a man here who would not wish the same. I could propose a much better scheme than that, said Sir Robert. What if you all walk to Harley Street and give me your notions of a house I am about there? What say you, Mrs. Harrell? Oh, I shall like it vastly. Done, cried Mr. Harrell, tis an excellent emotion. Come, then, said Sir Robert, let's be off. Miss Beverly, I hope you have a good warm cloak. I must beg you to excuse my attending you, sir. Mr. Moncton, who had heard this proposal with the utmost dread of its success, revived at the calm steadiness with which it was declined. Mr. and Mrs. Harrell both teased Cecilia to consent, but the hearty baronette, evidently more offended than hurt by her refusal, pressed the matter no further, either with her or the rest of the party, and the scheme was dropped entirely. Mr. Moncton failed not to remark this circumstance, which confirmed his suspicions, that though the proposal seemed made by chance, its design was nothing else than to obtain Cecilia's opinion concerning his house. But while this somewhat alarmed him, the unabated insolence of his carriage and the confident defiance of his pride still more surprised him. And notwithstanding all he observed of Cecilia seemed to promise nothing but dislike, he could draw no other inference from his behaviour than that if he admired he also concluded himself sure of her. This was not a pleasant conjecture, however little weight he allowed to it, and he resolved by outstaying all the company to have a few minutes' private discourse with her upon the subject. In about half an hour Sir Robert and Mr. Harrell went out together. Mr. Moncton still persevered in keeping his ground, and tried, though already weary, to keep up a general conversation. But what moved at once his wonder and his indignation was the assurance of Morris, who seemed not only bent upon staying as long as himself, but determined by rattling away to make his own entertainment. At length a servant came in to tell Mrs. Harrell that a stranger, who was waiting in the housekeeper's room, begged to speak with her upon very particular business. Oh, I know, cried she, to that odious John Groot. Do pray, brother, try to get rid of him for me, for he comes to tease me about his bill, and I never know what to say to him. Mr. Arnett went immediately, and Mr. Moncton could scarce refrain from going to that he might entreat John Groot by no means to be satisfied without seeing Mrs. Harrell herself. John Groot, however, wanted not his entreaties, as the servant soon returned to summons his lady to the conference. But though Mr. Moncton now seemed near the completion of his purpose, Morris still remained. His vexation at this circumstance soon grew intolerable. To see himself upon the point of receiving the recompense of his perseverance, by the fortunate removal of all the obstacles in its way, and then to have it held from him by a young fellow he so much despised, and who had no entrance into the house but through his own boldness, and no inducement to stay in it but from his own impertinence, mortified him so insufferably that it was with difficulty he even forbore from affronting him. Nor would he have scrupled a moment desiring him to leave the room had he not prudently determined to guard with the utmost sedulity against raising any suspicions of his passion for Cecilia. He arose, however, and was moving towards her with the intention to occupy a part of the sofa on which she was seated, when Morris, who was standing at the back of it, with a sudden spring which made the whole room shake, jumped over and sunk plump into the vacant place himself, calling out at the same time, Come, come, what have you married men to do with young ladies? I shall seize this post for myself. The rage of Mr. Moncton at this feet, and still more at the words, married men, almost exceeded endurance. He stopped short and, looking at him with a fierceness that overpowered his discretion, was bursting out with, Sir, you are an impudent fellow, but checking himself when he got halfway concluded with, A very facetious gentleman. Morris, who wished nothing so little as disobliging Mr. Moncton, and whose behaviour was merely the result of levity and a want of early education, no sooner perceived his displeasure than rising with yet more agility than he had seated himself, he resumed the obsequiousness of which an uncommon flow of spirits had robbed him, and, guessing no other subject for his anger than the disturbance he had made, he bowed almost to the ground, first to him, and afterwards to Cecilia, most respectfully begging pardon of them both for his frolic, and protesting he had no notion he should have made such a noise. Mrs. Harrell and Mr. Arnett now hastening back inquired what had been the matter. Morris, ashamed of his exploit and frightened by the looks of Mr. Moncton, made an apology with the utmost humility and hurried away, and Mr. Moncton, hopeless of any better fortune, soon did the same, gnawn with a cruel discontent which he did not dare avow, and longing to revenge himself upon Morris, even by personal chastisement. 10. Volume 1, Chapter 11 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Missy, Guangzhou, China. Cecilia, Memoirs of an Heiress, by Francis Burney. Volume 1, Chapter 11. A Narration The moment Cecilia was at liberty, she sent her own servant to examine into the real situation of the carpenter and his family, and to desire his wife would call upon her as soon as she was at leisure. The account which he brought back increased her concern for the injuries of these poor people, and determined her not to rest satisfied till she saw them redressed. He informed her that they lived in a small lodging up two pairs of stairs, that there were five children, all girls, the three eldest of whom were hard at work with their mother in matting chair bottoms, and the fourth, though a mere child, was nursing the youngest, while the poor carpenter himself was confined to his bed, in consequence of a fall from a ladder while working at Violet Bank, by which he was covered with wounds and contusions and an object of misery and pain. As soon as Mrs. Hill came, Cecilia sent for her into her own room, where she received her with the most compassionate tenderness, and desired to know when Mr. Harrell talked of paying her. "'Tomorrow, madam,' she answered, shaking her head, "'that is always his honor's speech, but I shall bear it while I can. However, though I dare not tell his honor, something bad will come of it if I am not paid soon.' "'Do you mean, then, to apply to the law?' "'I must not tell you, madam, but to be sure we have thought of it many a sad time and often. But still, while we could rub on, we thought it best not to make enemies. But indeed, madam, his honor was so hard-hearted this morning, that if I was not afraid you would be angry, I could not tell how to bear it, for when I told him I had no help now, for I had lost my billy, he had the heart to say, "'So much the better, there's one the less of you.'" "'But what!' cried Cecilia, extremely shocked by this unfeeling speech, is the reason he gives for disappointing you so often. He says, madam, that none of the other workmen are paid yet, and that, to be sure, is very true, but then they can all better afford to wait than we can, for we were the poorest of all, madam, and have been misfortunate from the beginning, and his honor would never have employed us, only he had run up such a bill with Mr. Wright, that he would not undertake anything more till he was paid. We were told from the first we should not get our money, but we were willing to opt for the best, for we had nothing to do, and were hard-run, and had never had the offer of so good a job before, and we had a great family to keep, and many losses and so much illness, oh, madam, if you did but know what the poor go through." This speech opened to Cecilia a new view of life, that a young man could appear so gay and happy, yet be guilty of such injustice and inhumanity, that he could take pride in works which not even money had made his own, and live with undiminished splendor when his credit itself began to fail, seemed to her incongruity so irrational that hitherto she had supposed them impossible. She then inquired if her husband had yet had any physician. Yes, madam, I humbly thank your goodness, she answered, but I am not the poorer for that, for the gentleman was so kind he would take nothing. And does he give you any hopes, what does he say? He says he must die, madam, but I knew that before. Poor woman, and what will you do then? The same madam as I did when I lost my billy, work on the harder. Good heaven, how severe a lot! But tell me, why is it that you seem to love your billy so much better than the rest of your children? Because, madam, he was the only boy that ever I had. He was seventeen years old, madam, and as tall and as pretty a lad, and so good that he never cost me a wet eye till I lost him. He worked with his father, and all the folks used to say he was the better workman of the two. And what was the occasion of his death? A consumption, madam, that wasted him quite to nothing, and he was ill a long time, and cost us a deal of money, for we spared neither for wine nor anything that we thought wouldn't but comfort him, and we loved him so we never grudged it. But he died, madam, and if it had not been for very hard work the last of him would quite have broke my heart. Try, however, to think less of him, said Cecilia, and depend upon my speaking again for you to Mr. Harrell. You shall certainly have your money. Take care, therefore, of your own health, and go home and give comfort to your sick husband. Oh, madam, cried the poor woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, you don't know how touching it is to hear gentle folks talk so kindly, and I've been used to nothing but roughness from his honour. But what I most fear, madam, is that when my husband is gone he will be harder to deal with than ever, for a widow, madam, is always hard to be righted, and I don't expect to hold out long myself, for sickness and sorrow wear fast, and then when we are both gone, who's to help our poor children? I will, cried the generous Cecilia, I am able, and I am willing, you shall not find all the rich hard-hearted, and I will try to make you some amends for the unkindness you have suffered. The poor woman, overcome by a promise so unexpected, burst into a passionate fit of tears, and sobbed out her thanks with a violence of emotion that frightened Cecilia almost as much as it melted her. She endeavoured by reiterated assurances of assistance to appease her, and solemnly pledged her own honour that she should certainly be paid the following Saturday which was only three days distant. Mrs. Hill went a little calmer, dried her eyes, and humbly begging her to forgive a transport which she could not restrain, most gratefully thanked her for the engagement into which she had entered, protesting that she would not be troublesome to her goodness as long as she could help it. And I believe, she continued, that if his honour will but pay me time enough for the burial, then I can make shift with what I have till then. But when my poor Billy died, we were sadly off indeed, for we could not bear but bury him prettily, because it was the last we could do for him, but we could hardly scrape up enough for it, and yet we all went without our dinners to help forward, except the little one of all. But that did not much matter, for we had no great heart for reading. I cannot bear this, cried Cecilia. You must tell me no more of your Billy, but go home, and cheer your spirits, and do everything in your power to save your husband. I will, madam, answered the woman, and his dying prayers shall bless you, and all my children shall bless you, and every night they shall pray for you, and oh, again bursting into tears, that Billy was but alive to pray for you too. Cecilia kindly endeavoured to soothe her, but the poor creature no longer able to suppress the violence of her wake and sorrows. Cried out, I must go, madam, and pray for you at home, for now I have once begun crying again, I don't know how to have done, and hurried away. Cecilia determined to make once more an effort with Mr. Harrell for the payment of the bill, and if that in two days did not succeed to take up money for the discharge of it herself, and rest all her security for reimbursement upon the shame with which such a proceeding must overwhelm him. Offended, however, by the repulse she had already received from him, and disgusted by all she had heard of his unfeeling negligence, she knew not how to address him, and resolved upon applying again to Mr. Arnett, who was already acquainted with the affair, for advice and assistance. Mr. Arnett, though extremely gratified that she consulted him, betrayed by his looks a hopelessness of success that damped all her expectations. He promised, however, to speak to Mr. Harrell upon the subject, but the promise was evidently given to oblige the fair media tricks without any hope of advantage to the cause. The next morning Mrs. Hill again came, and again without payment was dismissed. Mr. Arnett then, at the request of Cecilia, followed Mr. Harrell into his room to inquire into the reason of this breach of promise. They continued some time together, and when he returned to Cecilia, he told her that his brother had assured him he would give orders to Davison, his gentleman, to let her have the money the next day. The pleasure with which she would have heard this intelligence was much checked by the grave and cold manner in which it was communicated. She waited, therefore, with more impatience than confidence for the result of this fresh assurance. The next morning, however, was the same as the last. Mrs. Hill came, saw Davison, and was sent away. Cecilia, to whom she related her grievances, then flew to Mr. Arnett, and entreated him to inquire at least of Davison why the woman had again been disappointed. Mr. Arnett obeyed her, and brought for answer that Davison had received no orders from his master. I entreat you, then, cried she, with mingled eagerness and vexation, to go for the last time to Mr. Harrell. I am sorry to impose upon you an office so disagreeable, but I am sure you compassionate these poor people, and will serve them now with your interest, as you have already done with your purse. I only wish to know if there has been any mistake, or if these delays are merely to sicken me of petitioning. Mr. Arnett, with a repugnance to the request which he could as ill conceal as his admiration of the zealous requester, again forced himself to follow Mr. Harrell. His stay was not long, and Cecilia at his return perceived that he was hurt and disconcerted. As soon as they were alone together she begged to know what had passed. Nothing, answered he, that will give you any pleasure. When I entreated my brother to come to the point, he said, it was his intention to pay all his workmen together, for that if he paid any one singly all the rest would be dissatisfied. And why, said Cecilia, should he not pay them at once? There can be no more comparison in the value of the money to him and to them than to speak with truth. There is in his and in their right to it. But, madam, the bills for the new house itself are none of them settled, and he says that the moment he is known to discharge an account for the temple he shall not have any rest for the clamours that will raise among the workmen who were employed about the house. How infinitely strange, exclaimed Cecilia, will he not then pay anybody? Next quarter, he says, he shall pay them all, but at present he has a particular call for his money. Cecilia would not trust herself to make any comments upon such an avowal, but thanking Mr. Arnett for the trouble which he had taken, she determined without any further application to desire Mr. Herald to advance her twenty pounds the next morning and satisfy the carpenter herself, be the risk what it might. The following day, therefore, which was the Saturday when payment was promised, she begged an audience of Mr. Herald, which he immediately granted, but before she could make her demand, he said to her, with an air of the utmost gaiety and good humour, well, Miss Beverly, how fares it with your protégé? I hope at length she is contented, but I must beg you a charger to keep her own counsel, as otherwise she will draw me into a scrape I shall not thank her for. Have you then paid her? cried Cecilia, with much amazement. Yes, I promised you I would, you know. This intelligence equally delighted and astonished her. She repeatedly thanked him for his attention to her petition, and eager to communicate her success to Mr. Arnett, she hastened to find him. Now, cried she, I shall torment you no more with painful commissions. The hills, at last, are paid. From you, madam, answered he gravely, no commissions could be painful. Well, but, said Cecilia, somewhat disappointed, you don't seem glad of this. Yes, answered he with a forth smile, I am very glad to see you so. But how was it brought about? Did Mr. Howard relent, or did you attack him again? The hesitation of his answer convinced her there was some mystery in the transaction. She began to apprehend she had been deceived and hastily quitting the room sent for Mrs. Hill. But the moment the poor woman appeared she was satisfied of the contrary, for almost frantic with joy and gratitude she immediately flung herself upon her knees to thank her benefactress for having seen her righted. Cecilia then gave her some general advice, promised to continue her friend, and offered her assistance in getting her husband into a hospital. But she told her he had already been in one many months, where he had been pronounced incurable, and therefore was desirous to spend his last days in his own lodgings. Well, said Cecilia, make them as easy to him as you can, and come to me next week, and I will try to put you in a better way of living. She then, still greatly perplexed about Mr. Arnett, sought him again, and after various questions and conjectures, at length brought him to confess, he had himself lent his brother the sum with which the hills had been paid. Struck with his generosity she poured forth thanks and praises so grateful to his ears that she soon gave him a recompense which he would have thought cheaply purchased by half his fortune. A man of wealth. The meanness with which Mr. Harrell had assumed the credit, as well as accepted the assistance of Mr. Arnott, increased the disgust he had already excited in Cecilia, and hastened her resolution of quitting his house. And therefore, without waiting any longer for the advice of Mr. Moncton, she resolved to go instantly to her other guardians, and see what better prospects their habitations might offer. For this purpose she borrowed one of the carriages and gave orders to be driven into the city to the house of Mr. Bricks. She told her name, and was shown by a little shabby foot boy into a parlor. Here she waited with tolerable patience for half an hour, but then imagining the boy had forgotten to tell his master she was in the house, she thought it expedient to make some enquiry. No bell, however, could she find, and therefore she went into the passage in search of the foot boy. But as she was proceeding to the head of the kitchen stairs, she was startled by hearing a man's voice from the upper part of the house, exclaiming in a furious passion, dare say you've filched it for old dish-clout. She called out, however, are any of Mr. Bricks' servants below? Pnawn answered the boy, who came to the foot of the stairs with a knife in one hand, and an old shoe upon the sole of which he was sharpening it in the other. Does any one call? Yes, said Cecilia. I do, for I cannot find the bell. Oh, we have no bell in the parlor, returned the boy. Master always knocks with his stick. I am afraid Mr. Bricks is too busy to see me, and if so I will come another time. No, ma'am, said the boy, master's only looking over his things from the wash. Will you tell him, then, that I am waiting? I has, ma'am, but master misses his shaving-rag, and he says he won't come to the mogul till he's found it. And then he went on with sharpening his knife. This little circumstance was at least sufficient to satisfy Cecilia, that if she fixed her abode with Mr. Bricks, she should not have much uneasiness to fear from the sight of extravagance and profusion. She returned to the parlor, and after waiting another half hour, Mr. Bricks made his appearance. Mr. Bricks was a short, thick, sturdy man, with very small keen black eyes, a square face, a dark complexion, and a snub nose. His constant dress, both in winter and summer, was a snuff-colour suit of clothes, blue and white-speckled worsted stockings, a plain shirt, and a bob wig. He was seldom without a stick in his hand, which he usually held to his forehead when not speaking. This bob wig, however, to no small amazement of Cecilia, he now brought into the room upon the forefinger of his left hand, while with his right he was smoothing the curls, and his head, in defiance of the coldness of the weather, was bald and uncovered. Well, cried he as he entered, did you think I should not come? I was very willing, sir, to wait your leisure. I, I knew you had not much to do, been looking for my shaving rag, going out of town, never use such a thing at home, paper does as well. Warrant Master Harrell never heard of such a thing. Ever see him comb his own wig? Warrant, he don't know how, never trust mine out of my hands. The boy would tear off half the hair, all wanton Master Harrell, I suppose. Well, which is the warmer man, that's all. Will he cast an account with me? Cecilia, at a loss what to say to this singular exordium, began an apology for not waiting upon him sooner. Aye, aye, cried he, always gadding, no getting sight of you. Live a fine life, a pretty guardian, Master Harrell. And where's to other? Where's old Don huff about? If you mean Mr. Delphil, sir, I have not yet seen him. Thought so. No matter, as well not. Only tell you he's a German duke or a Spanish Don Ferdinand. Well, you've me. Poorly all fells, a couple of ignoramuses. Don't know when to buy, no when to sell, no doing business with either of them. We met once or twice, all to no purpose. Only heard Don Vampus count his old grand days. How will that get interest for money? Then comes Master Harrell, twenty bows to a word, looks at a watch, about as big as a sixpence. Poor Ron Ninny, a couple of rare guardians. Well, you've me, I say, mind that. Cecilia was wholly unable to devise any answer to these effusions of contempt and anger, and therefore his harangue lasted without interruption, till he had exhausted all his subjects of complaint, and emptied his mind of ill will. And then, settling his wig, he drew a chair near her, and twinkling his little black eyes in her face, his rage subsided into the most perfect good humour. And after peering at her some time with a look of much approbation, he said with an arch-nod, Well, my duck, got ever a sweetheart yet? Cecilia laughed and said, No. Oh, little rogue, don't believe you. Alla, Feb. Better speak out. Come, Feb, I should know. Ain't you my own ward? To be sure, almost of age, but not quite. So what's that to me? She then, more seriously, assured him she had no intelligence of that sort to communicate. Well, when you have, tell, that's all. Wards, box, enough hankering. I'll give you some advice. Take care of sharpers. Don't trust shoe-buckles. Nothing but Bristol Stones. Tricks in all things. A fine gentleman sharp as another man. Never give your heart to a gold-tipped king. Nothing but brass gilded over. Cheats everywhere. Please you in a year. Won't leave you a groat. But one way to be safe. Bring them all to me. Cecilia thanked him for his caution, and promised not to forget his advice. That's the way, he continued. Bring them to me. Won't be bamboozled. Know their tricks. Shoe-arm the odds, aren't it? Ask for the rent-row. See how they look. Still like stuck pigs. Got no such thing. Certainly, sir, that will be an excellent method of trial. I, I, know the way. Soon find if they are all above par. Be sure don't mind gold waist-coats. Nothing but tinsel. I'll show in no substance. Better leave the matter to me. Take care of you myself. No word of fine one will do. She again thanked him. And, being fully satisfied with this specimen of his conversation, and unambitious of any further counsel from him, she arose to depart. Well, repeated he, nodding at her with a look of much kindness. Leave it to me, I say. I'll get you a careful husband. So take no thought about the matter. Cecilia, half- laughing, begged he would not give himself much trouble, and assured him she was not in any haste. Hold the birder, said he. Good girl. No fear for you. Look out myself. Warrant all find one. Not very easy, neither. Hard times. Men scarce. Wars and tumults. Stocks low. Women chargeable. But don't fear. Do our best. Get you off soon. She then returned to her carriage, full of reflection upon the scene in which she had just been engaged, and upon the strangeness of hastening from one house to avoid a vice, the very want of which seemed to render another insupportable. But she now found that though luxury was more baneful in its consequences, it was less disgustful in its progress than avarice. Yet insuperably averse to both, and almost equally desirous to fly from the unjust extravagance of Mr. Harrell as from the comfortless and unnecessary parsimony of Mr. Briggs, she proceeded instantly to St. James Square, convinced that her third guardian, unless exactly resembling one of the others, must inevitably be preferable to both. Volume 2, Chapter 2 of Cecilia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Samantha De Piero. Cecilia, Memoirs of Inears by Frances Burney. Volume 2, Chapter 2, A Man of Family. The house that Mr. Delville was granted in spacious, fitted up not with modern taste, but with the magnificence of former times. The servants were all veterans, gorgeous in their libraries, and profoundly respectful in their manners. Everything had an air of state, but if a state so gloomy that while it inspired awe, it repressed pleasure. Cecilia sent it in her name, and was admitted without difficulty, and was then ushered with great palm through sundry parments and rows of servants before she came into the presence of Mr. Delville. He received her with an air of haughty affability, which, to a great spirit, open and liberal as that of Cecilia, could not fail being extremely offensive. But too much occupied with the care of his own importance to penetrating into the feelings of another, he attributed the uneasiness which his reception occasioned to the overall predominance of superior rank and consequence. He ordered a servant to bring her a chair, while he only half froze from his own upon her entering into the room. Then, waving his hand in bowing with emotion that desired her to be seated, he said, I am very happy, Miss Beverly, that you have found me alone. You would really have had the same good fortune. At this time of day, I am generally in a crowd. People of large connections have not much leisure in London, especially if they see a little after their own affairs, and if their estates like mine are dispersed in various parts of the kingdom. However, I am glad it happened so, and I am glad too that you have done me the favor of calling without waiting till I send, which I really would have done as soon as I heard of your arrival, but that the multiplicity of my engagements allowed me no respite. A display of important so-haught sentations made Cecilia already half repent her visit, satisfied that the hope on which she had planned it would be fruitless. Mr. Dalville, still impeding to embarrassment, an inquietude of countenance that proceeded merely from disappointment, imagined her veneration was every moment increasing, and therefore, pitting a timidity which both gratified and softened him, and equally pleased with himself for inspiring, and with her for feeling it, he abated more and more of his greatness till he became at length, so infinitely condescending with intention to give her courage that he totally depressed her with mortification and chagrin. After some general inquiries concerning her way of life, he told her that he had hoped she was contented with her situation at the heralds, adding, if you have anything to complain of, remember to whom you may appeal. Then he asked if she had seen Mr. Briggs. Yes, sir, I am at this moment come from his house. I am sorry for it. His house could not be a proper one for the reception of a young lady. When the dean made application that I would be one of your guardians, I instantly sent him refusal, as it is my custom upon all such occasions, which indeed occurred to me with a frequency extremely important in it. But the dean was a man for whom I had really regard, and therefore, when I found my worth of fusel had affected him, I severed myself to be privileged upon to indulge him, contrary not only to my general rule, but to my inclination. Here he stopped, as if to receive some compliment, but Cecilia, very little disposed of paying him any, went no farther than an inclination of the head. I knew not, however, he continued, at the time I was induced to give my consent, with whom I was to be associated, nor could I have imagined the dean so little conversant with the distinctions of the world as to disgrace me with inferior co-ogitators. At the moment I learned the state of the affair, I insisted upon withdrawing both my name and countenance. Here again he paused, not an exception of an answer from Cecilia, but merely to give her time to marvel in what manner he had at last been melted. The dean, he resumed, was then very ill. My displeasure, I believe, hurt him. I was sorry for it. He was a worthy man, and he had not meant to offend me in the end. I accepted his apology, and was ever persuaded to accept the office. You have a right, therefore, to consider yourself as personally my award, and though you do not think it proper to mix with your other guardians, I shall always be ready to serve in advising, and much pleased to see you. You do me honor, sir, so Cecilia extremely wary of such graciousness, and rising to be gone. Praise it still, he said with a smile. I have not many engagements for this morning. You must give me some account of how you'd pass your time. Are you much out? The heralds I am told live at a great expense. What is their establishment? I don't know exactly, sir. They are a decent sort of people, I believe, are they not? I hope so, sir. And they have taller, briller acquaintance, I believe. I am told so, for I know nothing of them. They have at least a very numerous one, sir. Well, my dear, he said, taking your hand. Now he wants venture to come. Don't be apprehensive of repeating your visits. I must introduce you to Mrs. Delville. I'm sure she'll be happy to show you any kindness. Come. Therefore, when you please him without scruple, I would call upon you myself, but I am fearful of being embarrassed by the people with whom you live. He then rang his bell, and with the same ceremonies which had attended her admittance, she was conducted back to her carriage. And here died away all hope of putting into execution during her minority, the plan of which the formation had given her so much pleasure. She found that her present situation, however wide of her wishes, was by no means the most disagreeable on what she could be placed. She was tired indeed of dissipation, and shocked at the sight of him feeling extravagance. But notwithstanding the houses of each of her other guardians were exempt from this particular vices, she saw not any prospect of happiness with either of them. Vulgarities seemed leaked with avarice to drive her from the mansion of Mr. Briggs, and haughtiness with consultation to exclude her from that of Mr. Delville. She came back there for an apartment square, disappointed in her hopes, and sick both of those whom she had quitted and lost to whom she was returning. But in going to her own apartment, Mrs. Harrell eagerly stopping her, begged she would come to the drawing room, where she promised her a most agreeable surprise. Cecilia for an instant imagined that some old acquaintance had just arrived out of the country, but upon her entrance she saw a woman, Mr. Harrell, on some workman, and found that the agreeable surprise was to proceed from the sight of an elegant awning prepared for one of the inner apartments to be fixed over a long dessert table, which was to be ornamented with various devices of cut glass. Did you ever see anything so beautiful in your life, cried Mrs. Harrell? And when the table is covered with the color, ices, and those sorts of things, it will be beautiful again, and we shall have it ready for Tuesday's night. I understood you were engaged to go to the masquerade. So we shall, only we intend to see masks at home first. I have some thoughts, said Mr. Harrell, leading the way to another small room, of running up a flight of steps and a little light gallery here, and so making a little orchestra. What would such a thing come to Mr. Tomkins? Oh, which frightful answered Mr. Tomkins, a mere nothing. Well then, give orders for it, and let it be done directly. I don't care how slight it is, but pray let it be very elegant, won't it be a great addition, Miss Beverly? Indeed, sir. I don't think it seems to be very necessary, sir, said Cecilia, who wished much to take that moment for reminding him of the debt he had contracted with Mr. Arnold. Lord, Miss Beverly is so great, cried Mrs. Harrell. Nothing of this work gives her any pleasure. She has indeed, answered Cecilia, trying to smile, not much taste for the pleasure of always surrounded by a workman. And as soon as she was able, she retired to her room, feeling both on the part of Mrs. Armett and the hills. A resentment is the injustice of Mr. Harrell, which fixed her into the resolution of breaking through the facility of compliance, which had either to confide her disapprobation to her own breast, and venturing henceforward to mark the opinion, she entertained of his conduct by consulting nothing but reason and principles in her own. Her first effort towards this charge was made immediately, and begging to be excused from accompanying Mr. Harrell to a large car assembly that evening. Mrs. Harrell, extremely surprised, asked thousands of times the reason for refusal, imagining it to proceed from some very extraordinary cause, nor was she, without the most difficulty, persuaded at last that she merely meant to pass one evening by herself. By the next day, when the refusal was repeated, she was still more incredulous. It seemed to her impossible that anyone who had the power to be encircled with company could by choice spend a second afternoon alone, and she was so urgent in her request to be entrusted with a secret that Cecilia found no way left to appease her, but by frankly confessing that she was weary of eternal visiting and sick of living always in a crowd. Suppose then, she cried, I send for Mrs. Harrell's to come to sit with you. Cecilia met without laughing to climb this proposal, assuring her that no such assistance was necessary for her entertainment, yet it was not too long after a contention that she was able to convince her that there would be no cruelty in leaving by herself. The following day, however, her trouble diminished, for Mrs. Harrell ceased to be surprised, thought little more of the matter, and forbore any artistess of solicitation, and from that time she suffered her to follow her own cue with very little opposition. Cecilia was much concerned to find her so removed, and not less disappointed at the indifference of Mr. Harrell, who being seldom of the same parties of this lady, and seeing her too rarely, either to communicate or hear any domestic occurrences far from being struck as she hoped, with the new aim which she passed her time, was scarce, sensible of change, and interfered not upon the subject. Sir Robert Fleuer, who continued to see her when he died in Portman Square, often acquired what she did with herself in the evening, but never was obtaining any satisfactory answers, he concluded her engagements were with people to whom she thought he was a stranger. Poor Mr. Onert thought that the cruelest disappointment at being deprived of the happiness of attending her in the evening's expeditions, one whether he conversed with her or not, he was sure the indulgence of seeing and hearing her. But the great sufferer from this new regulation was Mr. Monkton, who unable to any longer endure the mortifications of which his morning visits to Portman Square had been so productive, determined not to trust his temper with such provocations in the future, but rather to take his chance of meeting her elsewhere, for which purpose he had assiduously frequented all public places and sought acquaintance with every family and every person he believed to be known to the Harrells, but his patience was unrewarded and his diligence unsuccessful. He met with her nowhere and while he continued his search, he fancied every evil power was at work to lead him, whether he was sure or never to find her. Meanwhile Cecilia passed her time greatly to her own satisfaction, her first care was to assist in comfort the hills. She went herself to their lodgings and ordered and paid for whatever the physician prescribed to the sick man, gave clothes to the children and money in various necessities to the wife. She found that the poor carpenter was not likely to languish much longer and therefore for the present only thought of alleviating his efforts by procuring him such indulgences as were authorized by his physician and enabling his family to abate so much of their labor as was requisite for obtaining time to nurse and attend him. But she meant as soon as the last duty should be paid to him to assist his survivors in attempting to follow some better and more profitable business. Her next solitude was to furnish herself with a well-chosen collection of books and the employment, which to a level of literature, young and ardent in its pursuit is perhaps the mind's first luxury, proved a source of entertainment so fertile and delightful that it left her nothing to wish. She confined not her acquisitions to the limits of her present power but as she was laying in stock for futures as well as immediate advantage, she was restrained by no expense from gratifying her taste in her inclination. She now had entered the last year for minority and therefore had no doubt that her guardians would permit her to take up whatever sum she should require for such a purpose. And thus, in the exercise of charity, the search of knowledge, the enjoyment of quiet, serenely and innocent philosophy passed the powers of Cecilia. End of Volume 2, Chapter 2 of Cecilia