Mr Monckton, too, who for some time had seen and watched her, now approached; he had observed with much satisfaction that her whole mind had been intent upon the performance, yet still the familiarity of Sir Robert Floyer’s admiration disturbed and perplexed him; he determined, therefore, to make an effort to satisfy his doubts by examining into his intentions: and, taking him apart, before the dance was quite over, “Well,” he said, “who is so handsome here as Harrel’s ward?”
“Yes,” answered he, calmly, “she is handsome, but I don’t like her expression.”
“No? why, what is the fault of it?”
“Proud, cursed proud. It is not the sort of woman I like. If one says a civil thing to her, she only wishes one at the devil for one’s pains.”
“O, you have tried her, then, have you? why, you are not, in general, much given to say civil things.”
“Yes, you know, I said something of that sort to her once about Juliet, at the rehearsal. Was not you by?”
“What, then, was that all? and did you imagine one compliment would do your business with her?”
“O, hang it, who ever dreams of complimenting the women now? that’s all at an end.”
“You won’t find she thinks so, though; for, as you well say, her pride is insufferable, and I, who have long known her, can assure you it does not diminish upon intimacy.”
“Perhaps not — but there’s very pretty picking in 3000 pounds per annum! one would not think much of a little encumbrance upon such an estate.”
“Are you quite sure the estate is so considerable? Report is mightily given to magnify.”
“O, I have pretty good intelligence: though, after all, I don’t know but I may be off; she’ll take a confounded deal of time and trouble.”
Monckton, too much a man of interest and of the world to cherish that delicacy which covets universal admiration for the object of its fondness, then artfully enlarged upon the obstacles he already apprehended, and insinuated such others as he believed would be most likely to intimidate him. But his subtlety was lost upon the impenetrable Baronet, who possessed that hard insensibility which obstinately pursues its own course, deaf to what is said, and indifferent to what is thought.
Meanwhile the ladies were now making way to the coffee-room, though very slowly on account of the crowd; and just as they got near the lobby, Cecilia perceived Mr Belfield, who, immediately making himself known to her, was offering his service to hand her out of the pit, when Sir Robert Floyer, not seeing or not heeding him, pressed forward, and said, “Will you let me have the honour, Miss Beverley, of taking care of you?”
Cecilia, to whom he grew daily more disagreeable, coldly declined his assistance, while she readily accepted that which had first been offered her by Mr Belfield.
The haughty Baronet, extremely nettled, forced his way on, and rudely stalking up to Mr Belfield, motioned with his hand for room to pass him, and said, “Make way, sir!”
“Make way for me, Sir!” cried Belfield, opposing him with one hand, while with the other he held Cecilia.
“You, Sir? and who are you, Sir?” demanded the Baronet, disdainfully.
“Of that, Sir, I shall give you an account whenever you please,” answered Belfield, with equal scorn.
“What the devil do you mean, Sir?”
“Nothing very difficult to be understood,” replied Belfield, and attempted to draw on Cecilia, who, much alarmed, was shrinking back.
Sir Robert then, swelling with rage, reproachfully turned to her, and said, “Will you suffer such an impertinent fellow as that, Miss Beverley, to have the honour of taking your hand?”
Belfield, with great indignation, demanded what he meant by the term impertinent fellow; and Sir Robert yet more insolently repeated it: Cecilia, extremely shocked, earnestly besought them both to be quiet; but Belfield, at the repetition of this insult, hastily let go her hand and put his own upon his sword, whilst Sir Robert, taking advantage of his situation in being a step higher than his antagonist, fiercely pushed him back, and descended into the lobby.
Belfield, enraged beyond endurance, instantly drew his sword, and Sir Robert was preparing to follow his example, when Cecilia, in an agony of fright, called out, “Good Heaven! will nobody interfere?” And then a young man, forcing his way through the crowd, exclaimed, “For shame, for shame, gentlemen! is this a place for such violence?”
Belfield, endeavouring to recover himself, put up his sword, and, though in a voice half choaked with passion, said, “I thank you, Sir! I was off my guard. I beg pardon of the whole company.”
Then, walking up to Sir Robert, he put into his hand a card with his name and direction, saying, “With you, Sir, I shall be happy to settle what apologies are necessary at your first leisure;” and hurried away.
Sir Robert, exclaiming aloud that he should soon teach him to whom he had been so impertinent, was immediately going to follow him, when the affrighted Cecilia again called out aloud, “Oh, stop him! — good God! will nobody stop him!”
The rapidity with which this angry scene had passed had filled her with amazement, and the evident resentment of the Baronet upon her refusing his assistance, gave her an immediate consciousness that she was herself the real cause of the quarrel; while the manner in which he was preparing to follow Mr Belfield convinced her of the desperate scene which was likely to succeed; fear, therefore, overcoming every other feeling, forced from her this exclamation before she knew what she said.
The moment she had spoken, the young man who had already interposed again rushed forward, and seizing Sir Robert by the arm, warmly remonstrated against the violence of his proceedings, and being presently seconded by other gentlemen, almost compelled him to give up his design.
Then, hastening to Cecilia, “Be not alarmed, madam,” he cried, “all is over, and every body is safe.”
Cecilia, finding herself thus addressed by a gentleman she had never before seen, felt extremely ashamed of having rendered her interest in the debate so apparent; she courtsied to him in some confusion, and taking hold of Mrs Harrel’s arm, hurried her back into the pit, in order to quit a crowd, of which she now found herself the principal object.
Curiosity, however, was universally excited, and her retreat served but to inflame it: some of the ladies, and most of the gentlemen, upon various pretences, returned into the pit merely to look at her, and in a few minutes the report was current that the young lady who had been the occasion of the quarrel, was dying with love for Sir Robert Floyer.
Mr Monckton, who had kept by her side during the whole affair, felt thunderstruck by the emotion she had shewn; Mr Arnott too, who had never quitted her, wished himself exposed to the same danger as Sir Robert, so that he might be honoured with the same concern: but they were both too much the dupes of their own apprehensions and jealousy, to perceive that what they instantly imputed to fondness, proceeded simply from general humanity, accidentally united with the consciousness of being accessary to the quarrel.
The young stranger who had officiated as mediator between the disputants, in a few moments followed her with a glass of water, which he had brought from the coffee-room, begging her to drink it and compose herself.
Cecilia, though she declined his civility with more vexation than gratitude, perceived, as she raised her eyes to thank him, that her new friend was a young man very strikingly elegant in his address and appearance.
Miss Larolles next, who, with her party, came back into the pit, ran up to Cecilia, crying, “O my dear creature, what a monstrous shocking thing! You’ve no Idea how I am frightened; do you know I happened to be quite at the further end of the coffee-room when it began, and I could not get out to see what was the matter for ten ages; only conceive what a situation!”
“Would your fright, then, have