From this soothing prospect, Cecilia was presently disturbed by Mrs Harrel's maid, who came to entreat she would hasten to her lady, whom she feared was going into fits.
Cecilia flew to her immediately, and found her in the most violent affliction. She used every kind effort in her power to quiet and console her, but it was not without the utmost difficulty she could sob out the cause of this fresh sorrow, which indeed was not trifling. Mr Harrel, she said, had told her he could not possibly raise money even for his travelling expences, without risking a discovery of his project, and being seized by his creditors; he had therefore charged her, through her brother or her friend, to procure for him £3000, as less would not suffice to maintain them while abroad, and he knew no method by which he could have any remittances without danger. And, when she hesitated in her compliance, he furiously accused her of having brought on all this distress by her negligence and want of management, and declared that if she did not get the money, she would only be served as she merited by starving in a foreign gaol, which he swore would be the fate of them both.
The horror and indignation with which Cecilia heard this account were unspeakable. She saw evidently that she was again to be played upon by terror and distress, and the cautions and opinions of Mr Monckton no longer appeared overstrained; one year's income was already demanded, the annuity and the country house might next be required; she rejoiced, however, that thus wisely forewarned, she was not liable to surprise, and she determined, be their entreaties or representations what they might, to be immovably steady in her purpose of leaving them the next morning.
Yet she could not but grieve at suffering the whole burthen of this clamorous imposition to fall upon the soft-hearted Mr Arnott, whose inability to resist solicitation made him so unequal to sustaining its weight; but when Mrs Harrel was again able to go on with her account, she heard, to her infinite surprise, that all application to her brother had proved fruitless. “He will not hear me,” continued Mrs Harrel, “and he never was deaf to me before! so now I have lost my only and last resource, my brother himself gives me up, and there is no one else upon earth who will assist me!”
“With pleasure, with readiness, with joy,” cried Cecilia, “should you find assistance from me, were it to you alone it were given; but to supply fuel for the very fire that is consuming you—no, no, my whole heart is hardened against gaming and gamesters, and neither now nor ever will I suffer any consideration to soften me in their favour.”
Mrs Harrel only answered by tears and lamentations; and Cecilia, whose justice shut not out compassion, having now declared her purposed firmness, again attempted to sooth her, entreating her not to give way to such immoderate grief, since better prospects might arise from the very gloom now before her, and a short time spent in solitude and oeconomy, might enable her to return to her native land with recovered happiness.
“No, I shall never return!” cried she, weeping, “I shall die, I shall break my heart before I have been banished a month! Oh Miss Beverley, how happy are you! able to stay where you please,—rich,—rolling in wealth which you do not want,—of which had we but one year's income only, all this misery would be over, and we might stay in our dear, dear, country!”
Cecilia, struck by a hint that so nearly bordered upon reproach, and offended by seeing the impossibility of ever doing enough, while anything remained to be done, forbore not without difficulty enquiring what next was expected from her, and whether any part of her fortune might be guarded, without giving room for some censure! but the deep affliction of Mrs Harrel soon removed her resentment, and scarcely thinking her, while in a state of such wretchedness, answerable for what she said, after a little recollection, she mildly replied “As affluence is all comparative, you may at present think I have more than my share; but the time is only this moment past, when your own situation seemed as subject to the envy of others as mine may be now. My future destiny is yet undetermined, and the occasion I may have for my fortune is unknown to myself; but whether I possess it in peace or in turbulence, whether it proves to me a blessing or an injury, so long as I can call it my own, I shall always remember with alacrity the claim upon that and upon me which early friendship has so justly given Mrs Harrel. Yet permit me, at the same time, to add, that I do not hold myself so entirely independent as you may probably suppose me. I have not, it is true, any Relations to call me to account, but respect for their memory supplies the place of their authority, and I cannot, in the distribution of the fortune which has devolved to me, forbear sometimes considering how they would have wished it should be spent, and always remembering that what was acquired by industry and labour, should never be dissipated in idleness and vanity. Forgive me for thus speaking to the point; you will not find me less friendly to yourself, for this frankness with respect to your situation.”
Tears were again the only answer of Mrs Harrel; yet Cecilia, who pitied the weakness of her mind, stayed by her with the most patient kindness till the servants announced dinner. She then declared she would not go down stairs; but Cecilia so strongly represented the danger of awakening suspicion in the servants, that she at last prevailed with her to make her appearance.
Mr Harrel was already in the parlour, and enquiring for Mr Arnott, but was told by the servants he had sent word he had another engagement. Sir Robert Floyer also kept away, and, for the first time since her arrival in town, Cecilia dined with no other company than the master and mistress of the house.
Mrs Harrel could eat nothing; Cecilia, merely to avoid creating surprise in the servants, forbore following her example; but Mr Harrel ate much as usual, talked all dinner-time, was extremely civil to Cecilia, and discovered not by his manners the least alteration in his affairs.
When the servants were gone, he desired his wife to step for a moment with him into the library. They soon returned, and then Mr Harrel, after walking in a disordered manner about the room, rang the bell, and ordered his hat and cane, and as he took them, said “If this fails—” and, stopping short, without speaking to his wife, or even bowing to Cecilia, he hastily went out of the house.
Mrs Harrel told Cecilia that he had merely called her to know the event of her two petitions, and had heard her double failure in total silence. Whither he was now gone it was not easy to conjecture, nor what was the new resource which he still seemed to think worth trying; but the manner of his quitting the house, and the threat implied by if this fails, contributed not to lessen the grief of Mrs Harrel, and gave to Cecilia herself the utmost alarm.
They continued together till tea-time, the servants having been ordered to admit no company. Mr Harrel himself then returned, and returned, to the amazement of Cecilia, accompanied by Mr Marriot.
He presented that young man to both the ladies as a gentleman whose acquaintance and friendship he was very desirous to cultivate. Mrs Harrel, too much absorbed in her own affairs to care about any other, saw his entrance with a momentary surprise, and then thought of it no more; but it was not so with Cecilia, whose better understanding led her to deeper reflection.
Even the visits of Mr Marriot but a few weeks since Mr Harrel had prohibited, yet he now introduced him into his house with particular distinction; he came back too himself in admirable spirits, enlivened in his countenance, and restored to his good humour. A change so extraordinary both in conduct and disposition convinced her that some change no less extra-ordinary of circumstance must previously have happened; what that might be it was not possible for her to divine, but the lessons she had received from Mr Monckton led her to suspicions of the darkest kind.
Every part of his behaviour served still further to confirm them; he was civil even to excess to Mr Marriot; he gave orders aloud not to be at home to Sir Robert Floyer; he made his court to Cecilia with unusual assiduity, and he took every method in his power to procure opportunity to her admirer of addressing and approaching her.
The young man, who seemed enamoured even to madness, could scarce refrain not merely from prostration to the object of his passion, but to Mr Harrel himself for permitting him to see her. Cecilia, who not without some concern perceived a fondness so fruitless, and who knew not by what arts or with what views Mr Harrel might think proper to encourage it, determined to take all the means that were in her own power towards giving it immediate control. She behaved, therefore, with the utmost reserve, and the moment tea was over, though earnestly entreated to remain with them, she retired to her own room, without making any other apology than coldly saying she could not stay.
In about an hour Mrs Harrel ran up stairs to her.
“Oh Miss Beverley,” she cried, “a little respite is now granted me! Mr Harrel says he shall stay another day; he says, too, one single thousand pound would now make him a new man.”
Cecilia returned no answer; she conjectured some new deceit was in agitation to raise money, and she feared Mr Marriot was the next dupe to be played upon. Mrs Harrel, therefore, with a look of the utmost disappointment, left her, saying she would send for her brother, and once more try if he had yet any remaining regard for her.
Cecilia rested quiet till eleven o'clock, when she was summoned to supper; she found Mr Marriot still the only guest, and that Mr Arnott made not his appearance.
She now resolved to publish her resolution of going the next morning to St James's-square. As soon, therefore, as the servants withdrew, she enquired of Mr Harrel if he had any commands with Mr or Mrs Delvile, as she should see them the next morning, and purposed to spend some time with them.
Mr Harrel, with a look of much alarm, asked if she meant the whole day.
Many days, she answered, and probably some months.
Mrs Harrel exclaimed her surprise aloud, and Mr Harrel looked aghast; while his new young friend cast upon him a glance of reproach and resentment, which fully convinced Cecilia he imagined he had procured himself a title to an easiness of intercourse and frequency of meeting which this intelligence destroyed. Cecilia, thinking after all that had passed, no other ceremony on her part was necessary but that of simply speaking her intention, then arose and returned to her own room.
She acquainted her maid that she was going to make a visit to Mrs Delvile, and gave her directions about packing up her clothes, and sending for a man in the morning to take care of her books.
This employment was soon interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Harrel, who desiring to speak with her alone, when the maid was gone, said “O Miss Beverley, can you indeed be so barbarous as to leave me?”
“I entreat you, Mrs Harrel,” answered Cecilia, “to save both yourself and me any further discussions. I have delayed this removal very long, and I can now delay it no longer.”
Mrs Harrel then flung herself upon a chair in the bitterest sorrow, declaring she was utterly undone; that Mr Harrel had declared he could not stay even an hour in England if she was not in his house; that he had already had a violent quarrel with Mr Marriot upon the subject; and that her brother, though she had sent him the most earnest entreaties, would not come near her.
Cecilia, tired of vain attempts to offer comfort, now urged the warmest expostulations against her opposition, strongly representing the real necessity of her going abroad, and the unpardonable weakness of wishing to continue such a life as she now led, adding debt to debt, and hoarding distress upon distress.
Mrs Harrel then, though rather from compulsion than conviction, declared she would agree to go, if she had not a dread of ill usage; but Mr Harrel, she said, had behaved to her with the utmost brutality, calling her the cause of his ruin, and threatening that if she procured not this thousand pound before the ensuing evening, she should be treated as she deserved for her extravagance and folly.
“Does he think, then,” said Cecilia with the utmost indignation, “that I am to be frightened through your fears into what compliances he pleases?”
“O no,” cried Mrs Harrel, “no; his expectations are all from my brother. He surely thought that when I supplicated and pleaded to him, he would do what I wished, for so he always did formerly, and so once again I am sure he would do now, could I but make him come to me, and tell him how I am used, and tell him that if Mr Harrel takes me abroad in this humour, I verily think in his rage he will half murder me.”
Cecilia, who well knew she was herself the real cause of Mr Arnott's resistance, now felt her resolution waver, internally reproaching herself with the sufferings of his sister; alarmed, however, for her own constancy, she earnestly besought Mrs Harrel to go and compose herself for the night, and promised to deliberate what could be done for her before morning.
Mrs Harrel complied; but scarce was her own rest more broken than that of Cecilia, who, though extremely fatigued with a whole night's watching, was so perturbed in her mind she could not close her eyes. Mrs Harrel was her earliest, and had once been her dearest friend; she had deprived her by her own advice of her customary refuge in her brother; to refuse, therefore, assistance to her seemed cruelty, though to deny it to Mr Harrel was justice; she endeavoured, therefore, to make a compromise between her judgment and compassion, by resolving that though she would grant nothing further to Mr Harrel while he remained in London, she would contribute from time to time both to his necessities and comfort, when once he was established elsewhere upon some plan of prudence and economy.
The next morning by five o'clock Mrs Harrel came into Cecilia's room to know the result of her deliberation; and Cecilia, with that graceful readiness which accompanied all her kind offices, instantly assured her the thousand pound should be her own, if she would consent to seek some quiet retreat, and receive it in small sums, of fifty or one hundred pounds at a time, which should be carefully transmitted, and which, by being delivered to herself, might secure better treatment from Mr Harrel, and be a motive to revive his care and affection.
She flew, much delighted, with this proposal to her husband; but presently, and with a dejected look, returning, said Mr Harrel protested he could not possibly set out without first receiving the money. “I shall go myself, therefore,” said she, “to my brother after breakfast, for he will not, I see, unkind as he is grown, come to me; and if I do not succeed with him, I believe I shall never come back!”
To this Cecilia, offended and disappointed, answered “I am sorry for Mr Arnott, but for myself I have done!”
Mrs Harrel then left her, and she arose to make immediate preparations for her removal to St James's-square, whither, with all the speed in her power, she sent her books, her trunks, and all that belonged to her.
When she was summoned down stairs, she found, for the first time, Mr Harrel breakfasting at the same table with his wife; they seemed mutually out of humour and comfortless, nothing hardly was spoken, and little was swallowed; Mr Harrel, however, was civil, but his wife was totally silent, and Cecilia the whole time was planning how to take her leave.
When the tea things were removed, Mr Harrel said, “You have not, I hope, Miss Beverley, quite determined upon this strange scheme?”
“Indeed I have, Sir,” she answered, “and already I have sent my clothes.”
At this information he seemed thunderstruck; but, after somewhat recovering, said with much bitterness, “Well, madam, at least may I request you will stay here till the evening?”
“No, Sir,” answered she coolly, “I am going instantly.”
“And will you not,” said he, with yet greater asperity, “amuse yourself first with seeing bailiffs take possession of my house, and your friend Priscilla follow me to jail?”
“Good God, Mr Harrel!” exclaimed Cecilia, with uplifted hands, “is this a question, is this behaviour I have merited!”
“O no!” cried he with quickness, “should I once think that way—” then rising and striking his forehead, he walked about the room.
Mrs Harrel arose too, and weeping violently went away.
“Will you at least,” said Cecilia, when she was gone, “till your affairs are settled, leave Priscilla with me? When I go into my own house, she shall accompany me, and mean time Mr Arnott's I am sure will gladly be open to her.”
“No, no,” answered he, “she deserves no such indulgence; she has not any reason to complain, she has been as negligent, as profuse, as expensive as myself; she has practised neither oeconomy nor self-denial, she has neither thought of me nor my affairs, nor is she now afflicted at any thing but the loss of that affluence she has done her best towards diminishing.
“All recrimination,” said Cecilia, “were vain, or what might not Mrs Harrel urge in return! but let us not enlarge upon so ungrateful a subject, the wisest and the happiest scheme now were mutually and kindly to console each other.”
“Consolation and kindness,” cried he, with abruptness, “are out of the question. I have ordered a post chaise to be here at night, and if till then you will stay, I will promise to release you without further petition if not, eternal destruction be my portion if I live to see the scene which your removal will occasion!”
“My removal,” cried Cecilia, shuddering, “good heaven, and how can my removal be of such dreadful consequence?”
“Ask me not,” cried he, fiercely, “questions or reasons now; the crisis is at hand, and you will soon, happen what may, know all; mean time what I have said is a fact, and immutable; and you must hasten my end, or give me a chance for avoiding it, as you think fit. I scarce care at this instant which way you decide; remember, however, all I ask of you is to defer your departure; what else I have to hope is from Mr Arnott.”
He then left the room.
Cecilia now was again a coward! In vain she called to her support the advice, the prophesies, the cautions of Mr Monckton, in vain she recollected the impositions she had already seen practised, for neither the warnings of her counsellor, nor the lessons of her own experience, were proofs against the terrors which threats so desperate inspired; and though more than once she determined to fly at all events from a tyranny he had so little right to usurp, the mere remembrance of the words if you stay not till night I will not live, robbed her of all courage; and however long she had prepared herself for this very attack, when the moment arrived, its power over her mind was too strong for resistance.
While this conflict between fear and resolution was still undecided, her servant brought her the following letter from Mr Arnott.
To Miss Beverley, Portman-square.
June 13th, 1779.
MADAM,—Determined to obey those commands which you had the goodness to honour me with, I have absented myself from town till Mr Harrel is settled; for though I am as sensible of your wisdom as of your beauty, I find myself too weak to bear the distress of my unhappy sister, and therefore I run from the sight, nor shall any letter or message follow me, unless it comes from Miss Beverley herself, lest she should in future refuse the only favour I dare presume to solicit, that of sometimes deigning to honour with her directions, the most humble and devoted of her servants, J. ARNOTT.
In the midst of her apprehensions for herself and her own interest, Cecilia could not forbear rejoicing that Mr Arnott, at least, had escaped the present storm; yet she was certain it would fall the more heavily upon herself; and dreaded the sight of Mrs Harrel after the shock which this flight would occasion.
Her expectations were but too quickly fulfilled; Mrs Harrel in a short time after rushed wildly into the room, calling out “My brother is gone! he has left me for ever! Oh save me, Miss Beverley, save me from abuse and insult!” And she wept with so much violence she could utter nothing more.
Cecilia, quite tortured by this persecution, faintly asked what she could do for her?
“Send,” cried she, “to my brother, and beseech him not to abandon me! send to him, and conjure him to advance this thousand pound!—the chaise is already ordered,—Mr Harrel is fixed upon going,—yet he says without that money we must both starve in a strange land,—O send to my cruel brother! he has left word that nothing must follow him that does not come from you.”
“For the world, then,” cried Cecilia, “would I not baffle his discretion! indeed you must submit to your fate, indeed Mrs Harrel you must endeavour to bear it better.”
Mrs Harrel, shedding a flood of tears, declared she would try to follow her advice, but again besought her in the utmost agony to send after her brother, protesting she did not think even her life would be safe in making so long a journey with Mr Harrel in his present state of mind; his character, she said, was totally changed, his gaiety, good humour, and sprightliness were turned into roughness and moroseness, and, since his great losses at play, he was grown so fierce and furious, that to oppose him even in a trifle, rendered him quite outrageous in passion.
Cecilia, though truly concerned, and almost melted, yet refused to interfere with Mr Arnott, and even thought it but justice to acknowledge she had advised his retreat.
“And can you have been so cruel?” cried Mrs Harrel, with still encreasing violence of sorrow, “to rob me of my only friend, to deprive me of my Brother's affection, at the very time I am forced out of the kingdom, with a husband who is ready to murder me, and who says he hates the sight of me, and all because I cannot get him this fatal, fatal money!—O Miss Beverley, how could I have thought to have had such an office from you?”
Cecilia was beginning a justification, when a message came from Mr Harrel, desiring to see his wife immediately.
Mrs Harrel, in great terror, cast herself at Cecilia's feet, and clinging to her knees, called out “I dare not go to him! I dare not go to him! he wants to know my success, and when he hears my brother is run away, I am sure he will kill me!—Oh Miss Beverley, how could you send him away? how could you be so inhuman as to leave me to the rage of Mr Harrel?”
Cecilia, distressed and trembling herself, conjured her to rise and be consoled; but Mrs Harrel, weak and frightened, could only weep and supplicate; “I don't ask you,” she cried, “to give the money yourself, but only to send for my brother, that he may protect me, and beg Mr Harrel not to treat me so cruelly,—consider but what a long, long journey I am going to make! consider how often you used to say you would love me for ever! consider you have robbed me of the tenderest brother in the world!—Oh Miss Beverley, send for him back, or be a sister to me yourself, and let not your poor Priscilla leave her native land without help or pity!”
Cecilia, wholly overcome, now knelt too, and embracing her with tears, said “Oh Priscilla, plead and reproach no more! what you wish shall be yours,—I will send for your brother,—I will do what you please!”
“Now you are my friend indeed!” cried Mrs Harrel, “let me but see my brother, and his heart will yield to my distress, and he will soften Mr Harrel by giving his unhappy sister this parting bounty.”
Cecilia then took a pen in her hand to write to Mr Arnott; but struck almost in the same moment with a notion of treachery in calling him from a retreat which her own counsel made him seek, professedly to expose him to a supplication which from his present situation might lead him to ruin, she hastily flung it from her, and exclaimed “No, excellent Mr Arnott, I will not so unworthily betray you!”
“And can you, Miss Beverley, can you at last,” cried Mrs Harrel, “be so barbarous as to retract?”
“No, my poor Priscilla,” answered Cecilia, “I cannot so cruelly disappoint you; my pity shall however make no sufferer but myself,—I cannot send for Mr Arnott,—from me you must have the money, and may it answer the purpose for which it is given, and restore to you the tenderness of your husband, and the peace of your own heart!”
Priscilla, scarce waiting to thank her, flew with this intelligence to Mr Harrel; who with the same impetuosity, scarce waiting to say he was glad of it, ran himself to bring the Jew from whom the money was to be procured. Every thing was soon settled, Cecilia had no time for retracting, and repentance they had not the delicacy to regard; again, therefore, she signed her name for paying the principal and interest of another 1000l. within ten days after she was of age; and having taken the money, she accompanied Mr and Mrs Harrel into another room. Presenting it then with an affecting solemnity to Mrs Harrel, “accept, Priscilla,” she cried, “this irrefragable mark of the sincerity of my friendship; but suffer me at the same time to tell you, it is the last to so considerable an amount I ever mean to offer; receive it, therefore, with kindness, but use it with discretion.”
She then embraced her, and eager now to avoid acknowledgment, as before she had been to escape importunities, she left them together.
The soothing recompense of succouring benevolence, followed not this gift, nor made amends for this loss; perplexity and uneasiness, regret and resentment, accompanied the donation, and rested upon her mind; she feared she had done wrong; she was certain Mr Monckton would blame her; he knew not the persecution she suffered, nor would he make any allowance for the threats which alarmed, or the intreaties which melted her.
Far other had been her feelings at the generosity she exerted for the Hills; no doubts then tormented her, and no repentance embittered her beneficence. Their worth was without suspicion, and their misfortunes were not of their own seeking; the post in which they had been stationed they had never deserted, and the poverty into which they had sunk was accidental and unavoidable.
But here, every evil had been wantonly incurred by vanity and licentiousness, and shamelessly followed by injustice and fraud; the disturbance of her mind only increased by reflection, for when the rights of the creditors with their injuries occurred to her, she enquired of herself by what title or equity, she had so liberally assisted Mr Harrel in eluding their claims, and flying the punishment which the law would inflict.
Startled by this consideration, she most severely reproached herself for a compliance of which she had so lightly weighed the consequences, and thought with the utmost dismay, that while she had flattered herself she was merely indulging the dictates of humanity, she might perhaps be accused by the world as an abettor of guile and injustice.
“And yet,” she continued, “whom can I essentially have injured but myself? would his creditors have been benefitted by my refusal? had I braved the execution of his dreadful threat, and quitted his house before I was wrought upon to assist him, would his suicide have lessened their losses, or secured their demands? even if he had no intention but to intimidate me, who will be wronged by my enabling him to go abroad, or who would be better paid were he seized and confined? All that remains of his shattered fortune may still be claimed, though I have saved him from a lingering imprisonment, desperate for himself and his wife, and useless for those he has plundered.”
And thus, now soothed by the purity of her intentions, and now uneasy from the rectitude of her principles, she alternately rejoiced and repined at what she had done.
At dinner Mr Harrel was all civility and good humour. He warmly thanked Cecilia for the kindness she had shewn him, and gaily added, “You should be absolved from all the mischief you may do for a twelvemonth to come, in reward for the preservation from mischief which you have this day effected.”
“The preservation,” said Cecilia, “will I hope be for many days. But tell me, sir, exactly, at what time I may acquaint Mrs Delvile I shall wait upon her?”
“Perhaps,” he answered, “by eight o'clock; perhaps by nine; you will not mind half an hour?”
“Certainly not;” she answered, unwilling by disputing about a trifle to diminish his satisfaction in her assistance. She wrote, therefore, another note to Mrs Delvile, desiring she would not expect her till near ten o'clock, and promising to account and apologize for these seeming caprices when she had the honour of seeing her.
The rest of the afternoon she spent wholly in exhorting Mrs Harrel to shew more fortitude, and conjuring her to study nothing while abroad but oeconomy, prudence and housewifery; a lesson how hard for the thoughtless and negligent Priscilla! she heard the advice with repugnance, and only answered it with helpless complaints that she knew not how to spend less money than she had always done.
After tea, Mr Harrel, still in high spirits, went out, entreating Cecilia to stay with Priscilla till his return, which he promised should be early.
Nine o'clock, however, came, and he did not appear; Cecilia then grew anxious to keep her appointment with Mrs Delvile; but ten o'clock also came, and still Mr Harrel was absent.
She then determined to wait no longer, and rang her bell for her servant and chair; but when Mrs Harrel desired to be informed the moment that Mr Harrel returned, the man said he had been come home more than half an hour.
Much surprised, she enquired where he was.
“In his own room, madam, and gave orders not to be disturbed.”
Cecilia, who was not much pleased at this account, was easily persuaded to stay a few minutes longer; and, fearing some new evil, she was going to send him a message, by way of knowing how he was employed, when he came himself into the room.
“Well, ladies,” he cried in a hurrying manner, “who is for Vauxhall?”
“Vauxhall!” repeated Mrs Harrel, while Cecilia, staring, perceived in his face a look of perturbation that extremely alarmed her.
“Come, come,” he cried, “we have no time to lose. A hackney coach will serve us; we won't wait for our own.”
“Have you then given up going abroad?” said Mrs Harrel.
“No, no; where can we go from half so well? let us live while we live! I have ordered a chaise to be in waiting there. Come, let's be gone.”
“First,” said Cecilia, “let me wish you both good night.”
“Will you not go with me?” cried Mrs Harrel, “how can I go to Vauxhall alone?”
“You are not alone,” answered she; “but if I go, how am I to return?”
“She shall return with you,” cried Mr Harrel, “if you desire it; you shall return together.”
Mrs Harrel, starting up in rapture, called out “Oh Mr Harrel, will you indeed leave me in England?”
“Yes,” answered he reproachfully, “if you will make a better friend than you have made a wife, and if Miss Beverley is content to take charge of you.”
“What can all this mean?” exclaimed Cecilia, “is it possible you can be serious? Are you really going yourself, and will you suffer Mrs Harrel to remain?”
“I am,” he answered, “and I will.”
Then ringing the bell, he ordered a hackney coach.
Mrs Harrel was scarce able to breathe for extacy, nor Cecilia for amazement; while Mr Harrel, attending to neither of them, walked for some time silently about the room.
“But how,” cried Cecilia at last, “can I possibly go? Mrs Delvile must already be astonished at my delay, and if I disappoint her again she will hardly receive me.”
“O make not any difficulties,” cried Mrs Harrel in an agony; “if Mr Harrel will let me stay, sure you will not be so cruel as to oppose him?”
“But why,” said Cecilia, “should either of us go to Vauxhall? surely that is no place for a parting so melancholy.”
A servant then came in, and said the hackney coach was at the door.
Mr Harrel, starting at the sound, called out, “come, what do we wait for? if we go not immediately, we may be prevented.”
Cecilia then again wished them good night, protesting she could fail Mrs Delvile no longer.
Mrs Harrel, half wild at this refusal, conjured her in the most frantic manner, to give way, exclaiming, “Oh cruel! cruel! to deny me this last request! I will kneel to you day and night,” sinking upon the ground before her, “and I will serve you as the humblest of your slaves, if you will but be kind in this last instance, and save me from banishment and misery!”
“Oh rise, Mrs Harrel,” cried Cecilia, ashamed of her prostration, and shocked by her vehemence, “rise and let me rest!—it is painful to me to refuse, but to comply for ever in defiance of my judgment—Oh Mrs Harrel, I know no longer what is kind or what is cruel, nor have I known for some time past right from wrong, nor good from evil!”
“Come,” cried Mr Harrel impetuously, “I wait not another minute!”
“Leave her then with me!” said Cecilia, “I will perform my promise, Mr Arnott will I am sure hold his to be sacred, she shall now go with him, she shall hereafter come to me,—leave her but behind, and depend upon our care.”
“No, no,” cried he, with quickness, “I must take care of her myself. I shall not carry her abroad with me, but the only legacy I can leave her, is a warning which I hope she will remember for ever. You, however, need not go.”
“What,” cried Mrs Harrel, “leave me at Vauxhall, and yet leave me alone?”
“What of that?” cried he with fierceness, “do you not desire to be left? have you any regard for me? or for any thing upon earth but yourself! cease these vain clamours, and come, I insist upon it, this moment.”
And then, with a violent oath, he declared he would be detained no longer, and approached in great rage to seize her; Mrs Harrel shrieked aloud, and the terrified Cecilia exclaimed, “If indeed you are to part to-night, part not thus dreadfully!—rise, Mrs Harrel, and comply!—be reconciled, be kind to her, Mr Harrel!—and I will go with her myself,—we will all go together!”
“And why,” cried Mr Harrel, more gently yet with the utmost emotion, “why should you go!—you want no warning! you need no terror!—better far had you fly us, and my wife when I am set out may find you.”
Mrs Harrel, however, suffered her not to recede; and Cecilia, though half distracted by the scenes of horror and perplexity in which she was perpetually engaged, ordered her servant to acquaint Mrs Delvile she was again compelled to defer waiting upon her.
Mr Harrel then hurried them both into the coach, which he directed to Vauxhall.
“Pray write to me when you are landed,” said Mrs Harrel, who now released from her personal apprehensions, began to feel some for her husband.
He made not any answer. She then asked to what part of France he meant to go; but still he did not reply; and when she urged him by a third question, he told her in a rage to torment him no more.
During the rest of the ride not another word was said; Mrs Harrel wept, her husband guarded a gloomy silence, and Cecilia most unpleasantly passed her time between anxious suspicions of some new scheme, and a terrified wonder in what all these transactions would terminate.
When they entered Vauxhall, Mr Harrel endeavoured to dismiss his moroseness, and affecting his usual gaiety, struggled to recover his spirits; but the effort was vain, he could neither talk nor look like himself, and though from time to time he resumed his air of wonted levity, he could not support it, but drooped and hung his head in evident despondency.
He made them take several turns in the midst of the company, and walked so fast that they could hardly keep pace with him, as if he hoped by exercise to restore his vivacity; but every attempt failed, he sunk and grew sadder, and muttering between his teeth “this is not to be borne!” he hastily called to a waiter to bring him a bottle of champagne.
Of this he drank glass after glass, notwithstanding Cecilia, as Mrs Harrel had not courage to speak, entreated him to forbear. He seemed, however, not to hear her; but when he had drunk what he thought necessary to revive him, he conveyed them into an unfrequented part of the garden, and as soon as they were out of sight of all but a few stragglers, he suddenly stopt, and, in great agitation, said, “my chaise will soon be ready, and I shall take of you a long farewell!—all my affairs are unpropitious to my speedy return;—the wine is now mounting into my head, and perhaps I may not be able to say much by and by. I fear I have been cruel to you, Priscilla, and I begin to wish I had spared you this parting scene; yet let it not be banished your remembrance, but think of it when you are tempted to such mad folly as has ruined us.”
Mrs Harrel wept too much to make any answer; and turning from her to Cecilia, “Oh Madam,” he cried, “to you, indeed, I dare not speak! I have used you most unworthily, but I pay for it all! I ask you not to pity or forgive me, I know it is impossible you should do either.”
“No,” cried the softened Cecilia, “it is not impossible, I do both at this moment, and I hope—”
“Do not hope,” interrupted he, “be not so angelic, for I cannot bear it! benevolence like yours should have fallen into worthier hands. But come, let us return to the company. My head grows giddy, but my heart is still heavy; I must make them more fit companions for each other.”
He would then have hurried them back; but Cecilia, endeavouring to stop him, said “You do not mean, I hope, to call for more wine?”
“Why not?” cried he, with affected spirit, “what, shall we not be merry before we part? Yes, we will all be merry, for if we are not, how shall we part at all?—Oh not without a struggle!—” Then, stopping, he paused a moment, and casting off the mask of levity, said in accents the most solemn “I commit this packet to you,” giving a sealed parcel to Cecilia; “had I written it later, its contents had been kinder to my wife, for now the hour of separation approaches, ill will and resentment subside. Poor Priscilla!—I am sorry—but you will succour her, I am sure you will,—Oh had I known you myself before this infatuation—bright pattern of all goodness!—but I was devoted,—a ruined wretch before ever you entered my house; unworthy to be saved, unworthy that virtues such as yours should dwell under the same roof with me! But come,—come now, or my resolution will waver, and I shall not go at last.”
“But what is this packet?” cried Cecilia, “and why do you give it to me?”
“No matter, no matter, you will know by and by;—the chaise waits, and I must gather courage to be gone.”
He then pressed forward, answering neither to remonstrance nor intreaty from his frightened companions.
The moment they returned to the covered walk, they were met by Mr Marriot; Mr Harrel, starting, endeavoured to pass him; but when he approached, and said “you have sent, Sir, no answer to my letter!” he stopt, and in a tone of forced politeness, said, “No, Sir, but I shall answer it to-morrow, and to-night I hope you will do me the honour of supping with me.”
Mr Marriot, looking openly at Cecilia as his inducement, though evidently regarding himself as an injured man, hesitated a moment, yet accepted the invitation.
“To supper?” cried Mrs Harrel, “what here?”
“To supper?” repeated Cecilia, “and how are we to get home?”
“Think not of that these two hours,” answered he; “come, let us look for a box.”
Cecilia then grew quite urgent with him to give up a scheme which must keep them so late, and Mrs Harrel repeatedly exclaimed “Indeed people will think it very odd to see us here without any party;” but he heeded them not, and perceiving at some distance Mr Morrice, he called out to him to find them a box; for the evening was very pleasant, and the gardens were so much crowded that no accommodation was unseized.
“Sir,” cried Morrice, with his usual readiness, “I'll get you one if I turn out ten old Aldermen sucking custards.”
Just after he was gone, a fat, sleek, vulgar-looking man, dressed in a bright purple coat, with a deep red waistcoat, and a wig bulging far from his head with small round curls, while his plump face and person announced plenty and good living, and an air of defiance spoke the fullness of his purse, strutted boldly up to Mr Harrel, and accosting him in a manner that shewed some diffidence of his reception, but none of his right, said “Sir your humble servant.” And made a bow first to him, and then to the ladies.
“Sir yours,” replied Mr Harrel scornfully, and without touching his hat he walked quickly on.
His fat acquaintance, who seemed but little disposed to be offended with impunity, instantly replaced his hat on his head, and with a look that implied I'll fit you for this! put his hands to his sides, and following him, said “Sir, I must make bold to beg the favour of exchanging a few words with you.”
“Ay, Sir,” answered Mr Harrel, “come to me to-morrow, and you shall exchange as many as you please.”
“Nothing like the time present, Sir,” answered the man; “as for to-morrow, I believe it intends to come no more; for I have heard of it any time these three years. I mean no reflections, Sir, but let every man have his right. That's what I say, and that's my notion of things.”
Mr Harrel, with a violent execration, asked what he meant by dunning him at such a place as Vauxhall?
“One place, Sir,” he replied, “is as good as another place; for so as what one does is good, 'tis no matter for where it may be. A man of business never wants a counter if he can meet with a joint-stool. For my part, I'm all for a clear conscience, and no bills without receipts to them.”
“And if you were all for broken bones,” cried Mr Harrel, angrily, “I would oblige you with them without delay.”
“Sir,” cried the man, equally provoked, “this is talking quite out of character, for as to broken bones, there's ne'er a person in all England, gentle nor simple, can say he's a right to break mine, for I'm not a person of that sort, but a man of as good property as another man; and there's ne'er a customer I have in the world that's more his own man than myself.”
“Lord bless me, Mr Hobson,” cried Mrs Harrel, “don't follow us in this manner! If we meet any of our acquaintance they'll think us half crazy.”
“Ma'am,” answered Mr Hobson, again taking off his hat, “if I'm treated with proper respect, no man will behave more generous than myself; but if I'm affronted, all I can say is, it may go harder with some folks than they think for.”
Here a little mean-looking man, very thin, and almost bent double with perpetual cringing, came up to Mr Hobson, and pulling him by the sleeve, whispered, yet loud enough to be heard, “It's surprizeable to me, Mr Hobson, you can behave so out of the way! For my part, perhaps I've as much my due as another person, but I dares to say I shall have it when it's convenient, and I'd scorn for to mislest a gentleman when he's taking his pleasure.”
“Lord bless me,” cried Mrs Harrel, “what shall we do now? here's all Mr Harrel's creditors coming upon us!”
“Do?” cried Mr Harrel, re-assuming an air of gaiety, “why give them all a supper, to be sure. Come, gentlemen, will you favour me with your company to supper?”
“Sir,” answered Mr Hobson, somewhat softened by this unexpected invitation, “I've supped this hour and more, and had my glass too, for I'm as willing to spend my money as another man; only what I say is this, I don't chuse to be cheated, for that's losing one's substance, and getting no credit; however, as to drinking another glass, or such a matter as that, I'll do it with all the pleasure in life.”
“And as to me,” said the other man, whose name was Simkins, and whose head almost touched the ground by the profoundness of his reverence, “I can't upon no account think of taking the liberty; but if I may just stand without, I'll make bold to go so far as just for to drink my humble duty to the ladies in a cup of cyder.”
“Are you mad, Mr Harrel, are you mad!” cried his wife, “to think of asking such people as these to supper? what will every body say? suppose any of our acquaintance should see us? I am sure I shall die with shame.”
“Mad!” repeated he, “no, not mad but merry. O ho, Mr Morrice, why have you been so long? what have you done for us?”
“Why Sir,” answered Morrice, returning with a look somewhat less elated than he had set out, “the gardens are so full, there is not a box to be had; but I hope we shall get one for all that; for I observed one of the best boxes in the garden, just to the right there, with nobody in it but that gentleman who made me spill the tea-pot at the Pantheon. So I made an apology, and told him the case; but he only said humph? and hay? so then I told it all over again, but he served me just the same, for he never seems to hear what one says till one's just done, and then he begins to recollect one's speaking to him; however, though I repeated it all over and over again, I could get nothing from him but just that humph? and hay? but he is so remarkably absent, that I dare say if we all go and sit down round him, he won't know a word of the matter.”
“Won't he?” cried Mr Harrel, “have at him, then!”
And he followed Mr Morrice, though Cecilia, who now half suspected that all was to end in a mere idle frolic, warmly joined her remonstrances to those of Mrs Harrel, which were made with the utmost, but with fruitless earnestness.
Mr Meadows, who was seated in the middle of the box, was lolloping upon the table with his customary ease, and picking his teeth with his usual inattention to all about him. The intrusion, however, of so large a party, seemed to threaten his insensibility with unavoidable disturbance; though imagining they meant but to look in at the box, and pass on, he made not at their first approach any alteration in his attitude or employment.
“See, ladies,” cried the officious Morrice, “I told you there was room; and I am sure this gentleman will be very happy to make way for you, if it's only out of good-nature to the waiters, as he is neither eating nor drinking, nor doing any thing at all. So if you two ladies will go in at that side, Mr Harrel and that other gentleman,” pointing to Mr Marriot, “may go to the other, and then I'll sit by the ladies here, and those other two gentlemen—”
Here Mr Meadows, raising himself from his reclining posture, and staring Morrice in the face, gravely said, “What's all this, Sir!”
Morrice, who expected to have arranged the whole party without a question, and who understood so little of modish airs as to suspect neither affectation nor trick in the absence of mind and indolence of manners which he observed in Mr Meadows, was utterly amazed by this interrogatory, and staring himself in return, said, “Sir, you seemed so thoughtful—I did not think—I did not suppose you would have taken any notice of just a person or two coming into the box.”
“Did not you, Sir?” said Mr Meadows very coldly, “why then now you do, perhaps you'll be so obliging as to let me have my own box to myself.”
And then again he returned to his favourite position.
“Certainly, Sir,” said Morrice, bowing; “I am sure I did not mean to disturb you; for you seemed so lost in thought, that I'm sure I did not much believe you would have seen us.”
“Why Sir,” said Mr Hobson, strutting forward, “if I may speak my opinion, I should think, as you happen to be quite alone, a little agreeable company would be no such bad thing. At least that's my notion.”
“And if I might take the liberty,” said the smooth tongued Mr Simkins, “for to put in a word, I should think the best way would be, if the gentleman has no peticklar objection, for me just to stand somewhere hereabouts, and so, when he's had what he's a mind to, be ready for to pop in at one side, as he comes out at the t'other; for if one does not look pretty 'cute such a full night as this, a box is whipt away before one knows where one is.”
“No, no, no,” cried Mrs Harrel impatiently, “let us neither sup in this box nor in any other; let us go away entirely.”
“Indeed we must! indeed we ought!” cried Cecilia; “it is utterly improper we should stay; pray let us be gone immediately.”
Mr Harrel paid not the least regard to these requests; but Mr Meadows, who could no longer seem unconscious of what passed, did himself so much violence as to arise, and ask if the ladies would be seated.
“I said so!” cried Morrice triumphantly, “I was sure there was no gentleman but would be happy to accommodate two such ladies!”
The ladies, however, far from happy in being so accommodated, again tried their utmost influence in persuading Mr Harrel to give up this scheme; but he would not hear them, he insisted upon their going into the box, and, extending the privilege which Mr Meadows had given, he invited without ceremony the whole party to follow.
Mr Meadows, though he seemed to think this a very extraordinary encroachment, had already made such an effort from his general languor in the repulse he had given to Morrice, that he could exert himself no further; but after looking around him with mingled vacancy and contempt, he again seated himself, and suffered Morrice to do the honours without more opposition. Morrice, but too happy in the office, placed Cecilia next to Mr Meadows, and would have made Mr Marriot her other neighbour, but she insisted upon not being parted from Mrs Harrel, and therefore, as he chose to sit also by that lady himself, Mr Marriot was obliged to follow Mr Harrel to the other side of the box; Mr Hobson, without further invitation, placed himself comfortably in one of the corners, and Mr Simkins, who stood modestly for some time in another, finding the further encouragement for which he waited was not likely to arrive, dropt quietly into his seat without it.
Supper was now ordered, and while it was preparing Mr Harrel sat totally silent; but Mr Meadows thought proper to force himself to talk with Cecilia, though she could well have dispensed with such an exertion of his politeness.
“Do you like this place, ma'am?”
“Indeed I hardly know,—I never was here before.”
“No wonder! the only surprise is that any body can come to it at all. To see a set of people walking after nothing! strolling about without view or object! 'tis strange! don't you think so, ma'am?”
“Yes,—I believe so,” said Cecilia, scarce hearing him.
“O it gives me the vapours, the horrors,” cried he, “to see what poor creatures we all are! taking pleasure even from the privation of it! forcing ourselves into exercise and toil, when we might at least have the indulgence of sitting still and reposing!”
“Lord, Sir,” cried Morrice, “don't you like walking?”
“Walking?” cried he, “I know nothing so humiliating; to see a rational being in such mechanical motion! with no knowledge upon what principles he proceeds, but plodding on, one foot before another, without even any consciousness which is first, or how either—”
“Sir,” interrupted Mr Hobson, “I hope you won't take it amiss if I make bold to tell my opinion, for my way is this, let every man speak his maxim! But what I say as to this matter, is this, if a man must always be stopping to consider what foot he is standing upon, he had need have little to do, being the right does as well as the left, and the left as well as the right. And that, Sir, I think is a fair argument.”
Mr Meadows deigned no other answer to this speech than a look of contempt.
“I fancy, Sir,” said Morrice, “you are fond of riding, for all your good horsemen like nothing else.”
“Riding!” exclaimed Mr Meadows, “Oh barbarous! Wrestling and boxing are polite arts to it! trusting to the discretion of an animal less intellectual than ourselves! a sudden spring may break all our limbs, a stumble may fracture our sculls! And what is the inducement? to get melted with heat, killed with fatigue, and covered with dust! miserable infatuation!—Do you love riding, ma'am?”
“Yes, very well, Sir.”
“I am glad to hear it,” cried he, with a vacant smile; “you are quite right; I am entirely of your opinion.”
Mr Simkins now, with a look of much perplexity, yet rising and bowing, said “I don't mean, Sir, to be so rude as to put in my oar, but if I did not take you wrong, I'm sure just now I thought you seemed for to make no great 'count of riding, and yet now, all of the sudden, one would think you was a speaking up for it!”
“Why, Sir,” cried Morrice, “if you neither like riding nor walking, you can have no pleasure at all but only in sitting.”
“Sitting!” repeated Mr Meadows, with a yawn, “O worse and worse! it dispirits me to death! it robs me of all fire and life! it weakens circulation, and destroys elasticity.”
“Pray then, Sir,” said Morrice, “do you like any better to stand?”
“To stand? O intolerable! the most unmeaning thing in the world! one had better be made a mummy!”
“Why then, pray Sir,” said Mr Hobson, “let me ask the favour of you to tell us what it is you do like?”
Mr Meadows, though he stared him full in the face, began picking his teeth without making any answer.
“You see, Mr Hobson,” said Mr Simkins, “the gentleman has no mind for to tell you; but if I may take the liberty just to put in, I think if he neither likes walking, nor riding, nor sitting, nor standing, I take it he likes nothing.”
“Well, Sir,” said Morrice, “but here comes supper, and I hope you will like that. Pray Sir, may I help you to a bit of this ham?”
Mr Meadows, not seeming to hear him, suddenly, and with an air of extreme weariness, arose, and without speaking to anybody, abruptly made his way out of the box. — Mr Harrel now, starting from the gloomy reverie into which he had sunk, undertook to do the honours of the table, insisting with much violence upon helping every body, calling for more provisions, and struggling to appear in high spirits and good humour.
In a few minutes Captain Aresby, who was passing by the box, stopt to make his compliments to Mrs Harrel and Cecilia.
“What a concourse!” he cried, casting up his eyes with an expression of half-dying fatigue, “are you not accablé? for my part, I hardly respire. I have really hardly ever had the honour of being so obsedé before.”
“We can make very good room, Sir,” said Morrice, “if you chuse to come in.”
“Yes,” said Mr Simkins, obsequiously standing up, “I am sure the gentleman will be very welcome to take my place, for I did not mean for to sit down, only just to look agreeable.”
“By no means, Sir,” answered the Captain; “I shall be quite au desespoir if I derange any body.”
“Sir,” said Mr Hobson, “I don't offer you my place, because I take it for granted if you had a mind to come in, you would not stand upon ceremony; for what I say is, let every man speak his mind, and then we shall all know how to conduct ourselves. That's my way, and let any man tell me a better!”
The Captain, after looking at him with a surprise not wholly unmixt with horror, turned from him without making any answer, and said to Cecilia, “And how long, ma'am, have you tried this petrifying place?”
“An hour,—two hours, I believe,” she answered.
“Really? and nobody here! assez de monde, but nobody here! a blank partout!”
“Sir,” said Mr Simkins, getting out of the box that he might bow with more facility, “I humbly crave pardon for the liberty, but if I understood right, you said something of a blank? pray, Sir, if I may be so free, has there been any thing of the nature of a lottery, or a raffle, in the garden? or the like of that?”
“Sir!” said the Captain, regarding him from head to foot, “I am quite assommé that I cannot comprehend your allusion.”
“Sir, I ask pardon,” said the man, bowing still lower, “I only thought if in case it should not be above half a crown, or such a matter as that, I might perhaps stretch a point once in a way.”
The Captain, more and more amazed, stared at him again, but not thinking it necessary to take any further notice of him, he enquired of Cecilia if she meant to stay late.
“I hope not,” she replied, “I have already stayed later than I wished to do.”
“Really!” said he, with an unmeaning smile, “Well, that is as horrid a thing as I have the malheur to know. For my part, I make it a principle not to stay long in these semi-barbarous places, for after a certain time, they bore me to that degree I am quite abimé. I shall, however, do mon possible to have the honour of seeing you again.”
And then, with a smile of yet greater insipidity, he protested he was reduced to despair in leaving her, and walked on.
“Pray, ma'am, if I may be so bold,” said Mr Hobson, “what countryman may that gentleman be?”
“An Englishman, I suppose, Sir,” said Cecilia.
“An Englishman, ma'am!” said Mr Hobson, “why I could not understand one word in ten that came out of his mouth.”
“Why indeed,” said Mr Simkins, “he has a mighty peticklar way of speaking, for I'm sure I thought I could have sworn he said something of a blank, or to that amount, but I could make nothing of it when I come to ask him about it.”
“Let every man speak to be understood,” cried Mr Hobson, “that's my notion of things; for as to all those fine words that nobody can make out, I hold them to be of no use. Suppose a man was to talk in that manner when he's doing business, what would be the upshot? who'd understand what he meant? Well, that's the proof; what i'n't fit for business, i'n't of no value; that's my way of judging, and that's what I go upon.”
“He said some other things,” rejoined Mr Simkins, “that I could not make out very clear, only I had no mind to ask any more questions, for fear of his answering me something I should not understand; but as well as I could make it out, I thought I heard him say there was nobody here! what he could mean by that, I can't pretend for to guess, for I'm sure the garden is so stock full, that if there was to come many more, I don't know where they could cram 'em.”
“I took notice of it at the time,” said Mr Hobson, “for it i'n't many things are lost upon me; and, to tell you the truth, I thought he had been making pretty free with his bottle, by his seeing no better.”
“Bottle!” cried Mr Harrel, “a most excellent hint, Mr Hobson! come! let us all make free with the bottle!”
He then called for more wine, and insisted that every body should pledge him. Mr Marriot and Mr Morrice made not any objection, and Mr Hobson and Mr Simkins consented with much delight.
Mr Harrel now grew extremely unruly, the wine he had already drunk being thus powerfully aided; and his next project was to make his wife and Cecilia follow his example. Cecilia, more incensed than ever to see no preparation made for his departure, and all possible pains taken to unfit him for setting out, refused him with equal firmness and displeasure, and lamented, with the bitterest self-reproaches, the consent which had been forced from her to be present at a scene of such disorder; but Mrs Harrel would have opposed him in vain, had not his attention been called off to another object. This was Sir Robert Floyer, who perceiving the party at some distance, no sooner observed Mr Marriot in such company, than advancing to the box with an air of rage and defiance, he told Mr Harrel he had something to say to him.
“Ay,” cried Harrel, “say to me? and so have I to say to you! Come amongst us and be merry! Here, make room, make way! Sit close, my friends!”
Sir Robert, who now saw he was in no situation to be reasoned with, stood for a moment silent; and then, looking round the box, and observing Messrs Hobson and Simkins, he exclaimed aloud “Why what queer party have you got into? who the d—-l have you picked up here?”
Mr Hobson, who, to the importance of lately acquired wealth, now added the courage of newly drunk Champagne, stoutly kept his ground, without seeming at all conscious he was included in this interrogation; but Mr Simkins, who had still his way to make in the world, and whose habitual servility would have resisted a larger draught, was easily intimidated; he again, therefore stood up, and with the most cringing respect offered the Baronet his place; who, taking neither of the offer nor offerer the smallest notice, still stood opposite to Mr Harrel, waiting for some explanation.
Mr Harrel, however, who now grew really incapable of giving any, only repeated his invitation that he would make one among them.
“One among you?” cried he, angrily, and pointing to Mr Hobson, “why you don't fancy I'll sit down with a bricklayer?”
“A bricklayer?” said Mr Harrel, “ay, sure, and a hosier too; sit down, Mr Simkins, keep your place, man!”
Mr Simkins most thankfully bowed; but Mr Hobson, who could no longer avoid feeling the personality of this reflection, boldly answered, “Sir, you may sit down with a worse man any day in the week! I have done nothing I'm ashamed of, and no man can say to me why did you so? I don't tell you, Sir, what I'm worth; no one has a right to ask; I only say three times five is fifteen! that's all.”
“Why what the d——l, you impudent fellow,” cried the haughty Baronet, “you don't presume to mutter, do you?”
“Sir,” answered Mr Hobson, very hotly, “I sha'n't put up with abuse from no man! I've got a fair character in the world, and wherewithal to live by my own liking. And what I have is my own, and all I say is, let every one say the same, for that's the way to fear no man, and face the d——l.”