Cecilia, though new to London, which city the ill-health of her uncle had hitherto prevented her seeing, was yet no stranger to company; she had passed her time in retirement, but not in obscurity, since for some years past she had presided at the table of the Dean, who was visited by the first people of the county in which he lived: and notwithstanding his parties, which were frequent though small, and elegant though private, had not prepared her for the splendour or the diversity of a London assembly, they yet, by initiating her in the practical rules of good breeding, had taught her to subdue the timid fears of total inexperience, and to repress the bashful feelings of shamefaced awkwardness; fears and feelings which rather call for compassion than admiration, and which, except in extreme youth, serve but to degrade the modesty they indicate.
She regarded, therefore, the two young ladies between whom she was seated, rather with a wish of addressing, than a shyness of being attacked by them; but the elder, Miss Larolles, was earnestly engaged in discourse with a gentleman, and the younger, Miss Leeson, totally discouraged her, by the invariable silence and gravity with which from time to time she met her eyes.
Uninterrupted, therefore, except by occasional speeches from Mr and Mrs Harrel, she spent the first part of the evening merely in surveying the company.
Nor was the company dilatory in returning her notice, since from the time of her entrance into the room, she had been the object of general regard.
The ladies took an exact inventory of her dress, and internally settled how differently they would have been attired if blessed with equal affluence.
The men disputed among themselves whether or not she was painted; and one of them asserting boldly that she rouged well, a debate ensued, which ended in a bet, and the decision was mutually agreed to depend upon the colour of her cheeks by the beginning of April, when, if unfaded by bad hours and continual dissipation, they wore the same bright bloom with which they were now glowing, her champion acknowledged that his wager would be lost.
In about half an hour the gentleman with whom Miss Larolles had been talking, left the room, and then that young lady, turning suddenly to Cecilia, exclaimed, “How odd Mr Meadows is! Do you know, he says he shan’t be well enough to go to Lady Nyland’s assembly! How ridiculous! as if that could hurt him.”
Cecilia, surprised at an attack so little ceremonious, lent her a civil, but silent attention.
“You shall be there, shan’t you?” she added.
“No, ma’am, I have not the honour of being at all known to her ladyship.”
“Oh, there’s nothing in that,” returned she, “for Mrs Harrel can acquaint her you are here, and then, you know, she’ll send you a ticket, and then you can go.”
“A ticket?” repeated Cecilia, “does Lady Nyland only admit her company with tickets?”
“Oh, lord!” cried Miss Larolles, laughing immoderately, “don’t you know what I mean? Why, a ticket is only a visiting card, with a name upon it; but we all call them tickets now.”
Cecilia thanked her for the information, and then Miss Larolles enquired how many miles she had travelled since morning?
“Seventy-three,” answered Cecilia, “which I hope will plead my apology for being so little dressed.”
“Oh, you’re vastly well,” returned the other, “and for my part, I never think about dress. But only conceive what happened to me last year! Do you know I came to town the twentieth of March! was not that horrid provoking?”
“Perhaps so,” said Cecilia, “but I am sure I cannot tell why.”
“Not tell why?” repeated Miss Larolles, “why, don’t you know it was the very night of the grand private masquerade at Lord Darien’s? I would not have missed it for the whole universe. I never travelled in such an agony in my life: we did not get to town till monstrous late, and then do you know I had neither a ticket nor a habit! Only conceive what a distress! well, I sent to every creature I knew for a ticket, but they all said there was not one to be had; so I was just like a mad creature—but about ten or eleven o’clock, a young lady of my particular acquaintance, by the greatest good luck in the world happened to be taken suddenly ill; so she sent me her ticket,—was not that delightful?”
“For her, extremely!” said Cecilia, laughing.
“Well,” she continued, “then I was almost out of my wits with joy; and I went about, and got one of the sweetest dresses you ever saw. If you’ll call upon me some morning, I’ll shew it you.”
Cecilia, not prepared for an invitation so abrupt, bowed without speaking, and Miss Larolles, too happy in talking herself to be offended at the silence of another, continued her narration.
“Well, but now comes the vilest part of the business; do you know, when everything else was ready, I could not get my hair-dresser! I sent all over the town,—he was nowhere to be found; I thought I should have died with vexation; I assure you I cried so that if I had not gone in a mask, I should have been ashamed to be seen. And so, after all this monstrous fatigue, I was forced to have my hair dressed by my own maid, quite in a common way; was not it cruelly mortifying?”
“Why yes,” answered Cecilia, “I should think it was almost sufficient to make you regret the illness of the young lady who sent you her ticket.”
They were now interrupted by Mrs Harrel, who advanced to them followed by a young man of a serious aspect and modest demeanour, and said, “I am happy to see you both so well engaged; but my brother has been reproaching me with presenting everybody to Miss Beverley but himself.”
“I cannot hope,” said Mr Arnott, “that I have any place in the recollection of Miss Beverley, but long as I have been absent from Suffolk, and unfortunate as I was in not seeing her during my last visit there, I am yet sure, even at this distance of time, grown and formed as she is, I should instantly have known her.”
“Amazing!” cried an elderly gentleman, in a tone of irony, who was standing near them, “for the face is a very common one!”
“I remember well,” said Cecilia, “that when you left Suffolk I thought I had lost my best friend.”
“Is that possible?” cried Mr Arnott, with a look of much delight.
“Yes, indeed, and not without reason, for in all disputes you were my advocate; in all plays, my companion; and in all difficulties, my assistant.”
“Madam,” cried the same gentleman, “if you liked him because he was your advocate, companion, and assistant, pray like me too, for I am ready to become all three at once.”
“You are very good,” said Cecilia, laughing, “but at present I find no want of any defender.”
“That’s pity,” he returned, “for Mr Arnott seems to me very willing to act the same parts over again with you.”
“But for that purpose he must return to the days of his childhood.”
“Ah, would to heaven it were possible!” cried Mr Arnott, “for they were the happiest of my life.”
“After such a confession,” said his companion, “surely you will let him attempt to renew them? ‘tis but taking a walk backwards; and though it is very early in life for Mr Arnott to sigh for that retrograde motion, which, in the regular course of things, we shall all in our turns desire, yet with such a motive as recovering Miss Beverley for a playfellow, who can wonder that he anticipates in youth the hopeless wishes of age?”