LOVERS AND FRIENDS.

A NOVEL.

Printed by J. Darling, Leadenhall-Street, London.

LOVERS AND FRIENDS;

OR,

MODERN ATTACHMENTS.

A NOVEL.

IN FIVE VOLUMES.

BY

ANNE OF SWANSEA,

AUTHOR OF

CONVICTION, GONZALO DE BALDIVIA, CHRONICLES OF AN ILLUSTRIOUS HOUSE, SECRET AVENGERS, SECRETS IN EVERY MANSION, CAMBRIAN PICTURES, CESARIO ROSALBA,

&c. &c.

“I hold a mirror up for men to see

How bad they are, how good they ought to be.”

VOL. V.

LONDON:

Printed at the Minerva Press for

A.K. NEWMAN AND CO. LEADENHALL STREET.

1821.

LOVERS AND FRIENDS.

CHAPTER I.

“How noiseless falls the foot of Time

That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks

The ebbing of his glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass?

“But, ah! how slow Time steals along

With those condemn’d to woe!

For them how dark the brightest day

Who muse on pleasures past,

And as the moments creep away,

Wish each sad hour their last!” Z.

“The world is ever ready to believe evil of us, but it is slow

to give credit to our virtues: happy are they who, when

falsely represented, have the consolation of innocence.”

Villany disappointed—A Citizen and his Famil

—Covent Garden Theatre—A Scholar not al-

ways an agreeable Companion.

THE virtuous spirit with which Miss Delmore repulsed every attempt made by sir Cyril Musgrove against her honour, the undisguised censure she passed on his licentious conduct, and the contempt with which she constantly treated him, had effected a change in his sentiments surprising even to himself. Accustomed to meet but little opposition to his wishes, sir Cyril had taught himself to believe that every woman was to be obtained by assailing her vanity or her avarice; but a steady perseverance in refusal, though every offer had been made that could seduce and bribe a weak or venal mind, compelled sir Cyril to retract this illiberal opinion, and confess that Miss Delmore’s mind and principles were incorruptible. Her beauty and accomplishments the admiring world had universally acknowledged; to her vitrue, fortitude, and patience, he was obliged to bear witness, and fully persuaded that she was the only woman he could endure as a wife, and that he must be miserable without her, he at last, after many struggles with pride and profligacy, made her an offer of his hand.

Cecilia replied— “I know not, sir Cyril, whether your penitence, and proposal to make me your wife, is not a new stratagem to lull my suspicions, and get me more completely in your power; but of this I assure you, whatever may be your design, you will reap no advantage from it. I have before told you my affections are irrevocably engaged; my hand is promised: but were I at perfect liberty, and I was certain you are sincere in your present offer of marriage, I should with scorn reject it. The man who has presumed to confine my person, and dared to assail me with dishonourable proposals, is entitled only to my disdain; and rather than be your wife, sir Cyril, I would prefer to labour in the most menial servitude for the means of existence.”

During this unexpected declaration, sir Cyril bit his lips, frowned, and looked a good deal disconcerted; but stifling his mortification, he affected good-humour, and with forced gaiety replied—“You now speak, my charming Cecelia, under the influence of resentment, for which, I confess, I have given you some cause; but I trust you will forgive the little harmless stratagem I used to get you into my power, and kindly attribute it to the excess of my passion for you, particularly as I now offer you the amende honourable. Consider, my fair tyrant, I lay my title and fortune at your feet; and as to my person, I do not, I trust, flatter myself in supposing to that you can form no objection.”

“In my eyes it is hateful,” said Cecilia, “and now, and for ever, I reject any and every offer you can make me, unless Heaven should touch your heart with remorse, and induce you to offer me liberty.”

“Nay, lovely inflexible,” replied sir Cyril, “be not so hasty in your resolves; be calm, and take time to consider, before you so peremptorily reject.”

“No time will prevail on me to accept your proposal, sir Cyril,” returned Miss Delmore; “reflect on the time you have detained me a prisoner. Do you think your amende honorable, were I debased enough to accept it, will restore my ruined reputation, destroyed by your little harmless stratagem, or persuade the world to believe me innocent, after having passed near four months under your roof?”

“The world, my fair inexorable,” said sir Cyril, “is too polite to be severe in scrutinizing the actions of persons of rank and fortune. When you are lady Musgrove, depend upon it, all your former friends will be happy to renew their intimacy.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Miss Delmore; “my friends are all of them persons of honourable mind, and would shun me, however high my rank, or elevated my fortune, were I capable of renouncing an affection that was avowedly the pride of my existence, and breaking promises voluntarily plighted. No, sir Cyril, when I reflect on the noble generous character of lord Rushdale, yours must lose by the comparison; and however protracted may be my separation from him, my respect and affection can never know abatement. Whatever may be your motive for offering me marriage, I repeat, with the honest feeling of sincerity, I dislike your person, I abhor your principles, and never will be your wife.”

“You may, when too late, repent this rejection, madam,” said sir Cyril, reddening with resentment; “you may dislike my person, for certainly there is no accounting for taste; but I like yours, and if you will not marry me—if you will compel me to other measures, why the consequences must not be attributed to me, who would have acted honourably by you.”

“Whatever are the consequences, I am prepared to meet them,” returned Cecilia, with an assumption of spirit she was far from feeling. “You have already proved yourself capable of actions disgraceful to the character of a gentleman; beware that you do not add murder to the catalogue of your crimes.”

“Charming heroine!” exclaimed sir Cyril, “your very anger is beautiful, and armed with a dagger, or a bowl, you would rival Miss O’Neil. But surely you do not suppose me fool enough to believe you would destroy yourself, rather than comply with my wishes?”

Cecilia did not deign a reply to this insulting speech; she hastily retired to give vent to the tears which she with difficulty prevented from gushing from her eyes in the presence of her persecutor, and to supplicate the protection and assistance of that mighty Power whom she was confident she did not address in vain.

More than a fortnight had elapsed, and she believed the words marked on the handkerchief which she placed in the bosom of the child had passed unheeded, or been seen only by persons unable or unwilling to assist her escape. Of lord Rushdale’s feelings she thought with an agony that whirled her brain, for remembering the malicious newspaper representations, she was aware that appearances were indeed very much against her, and she trembled and wept, lest he should have yielded belief to slanders that indeed seemed too probable to be doubted.

Sir Cyril Musgrove had never in his life passed so long a period at Frome Hall, which, though an ancestral seat, was not in a fashionable neighbourhood, and was therefore seldom honoured with his residence for more than a month every summer. He was now heartily tired of the place, as well from want of society, as from the conviction that every servant in the house was assured of Miss Delmore’s innocence, that they all pitied her, and were certain she was kept there against her will; he was also convinced that they all condemned his conduct, and would oppose any violence being offered to her. His prime minister, Mr. Samuel Sparks, had strongly recommended his taking Miss Delmore to France, where he might easily persuade monsieur she was a refractory wife, and national politeness would prevent any interference between mi lor Anglais and his domestic concerns.

This advice sir Cyril considered too good to be neglected, and he resolved to adopt it without loss of time, for his pride was offended, and his resentment influenced. He would have condescended to take the low-born portionless Cecilia to wife; but she had treated his generous proposal with insolent contempt, and he resolved to humble her haughty spirit, by arrogating all the privileges of a husband as soon as they landed in France.

Mr. Samuel Sparks, with much secret satisfaction, received sir Cyril’s orders to prepare for quitting England, and every arrangement being made for a year’s absence, Cecilia was informed they should quit Frome Hall, and begin their journey to Poole the following morning, where a vessel waited to convey them to France.

Against this fresh outrage in forcing her to quit the kingdom, Cecilia remonstrated in terms of bitter reproach, at which sir Cyril laughed, and insultingly said, as she was weary of Frome Hall, he thought to have received her thanks for projecting a trip to Paris, where he trusted she would forget her indignation— “I expect, when you breathe the air of France,” said he, “that you will throw off all your English prudery, and display only the loves and graces.”

Cecilia perceived that sir Cyril was indeed fixed on quitting Frome Hall, for trunks and packages filled all the rooms; and to prevent her from exciting commiseration in the servants, Mr. Sparks was her constant attendant. Never did Cecilia pass a night of such hopeless agony; her eyes were not, for a single moment, visited by sleep; but the long hours were passed in tears and supplications to Heaven, to enable her to preserve the consciousness of virtue in the midst of her future trails.

A dark rainy morning succeeded this miserable night, and sir Cyril remained in bed beyond the hour he proposed setting off. When Cecilia was informed that breakfast waited, and descended to the parlour he remarked that she looked unwell; as the wind swept boisterously over the flowering shrubs, and the rain beat against the windows, he drew near the fire, and protested that the morning was so unpleasant, that, ’pon his honour, he felt inclined to postpone their journey to the next day.

To this Cecilia made no reply; but she felt like a wretch reprieved, though she saw no good that could possibly arise from the delay of a few hours.

“What say you, my charmer,” said sir Cyril, snatching her hand, and rudely kissing it, “shall we remain another day at Frome Hall, or pursue our intended journey, in defiance of wind and rain?”

Struggling to release her hand, which he tightly grasped, Cecilia replied, whether she remained or went, it was equally repugnant to her will, and against her consent. “You are a dear perverse creature,” said sir Cyril, “but I hope every thing from the love-breathing air of France. ’Pon my honour,” staring her in the face, “you look pale, and your eyes are heavy, as if you had not rested well.” Releasing her hand, he looked at the sky— “No hope of the rain going off—cloudy, thick, and gloomy; perhaps to-morrow the sun and Cecilia may both look bright. In the hope it will be so, I will spare my horses, for, ’pon my honour, I should be extremely sorry to expose them to bad weather; the pair that run in my travelling-carriage cost me a thousand pounds; but for figure and action, they are not to be matched in England.”

When the breakfast-things were removed, Miss Delmore would have retired, but sir Cyril insisted she should remain, and play chess with him— “The morning,” said he, “is so confounded dull, that you shall stay and entertain me.”

“I should suppose, sir, you have found, before this, that compulsion fails to make an amusing companion,” replied Cecilia. “Release my hand. I am very unwell, and wish to retire.”

“Mere obstinacy and perverseness,” returned sir Cyril; “but I shall find a way to subdue this froward spirit, to bend you to my will.”

“Never,” said Cecilia.

“Yes,” continued sir Cyril, still grasping her hand, “I shall very shortly see this disdain exchanged for looks of humble entreaty. This hand, which now obstinately resists my clasp, and struggles to free itself, will press mine in fond endearment, and those lips, that now utter reproach and refusal, will soon put on their most inviting smiles, and solicit my kiss.”

“Release me, sir Cyril,” said Cecilia, as, covered with indignant blushes, she evaded his clasp; “never will you be other than detestable in my eyes—never will my lips utter other than reproach for your unmanly conduct.”

At the moment when sir Cyril forcibly held her in his arms, and her shrieks of terror provoked him to snatch kisses from her neck and cheek, a postchaise, followed by four horsemen, drove furiously towards the house. The eyes of Cecilia caught the figure of her friend Wilson, and a loud shriek of joyful recognition burst from her overcharged heart.

Sir Cyril turned in confusion towards the window to reconnoitre his unwelcome visitors, and Cecilia, rushing towards the hall, exclaimed— “Heaven has not forgotten me! deliverance comes!”

Before she could reach the hall, she was met by Mr. Samuel Sparks, who would have hurried her into the passage that led to the servants’ offices; but her cries for help soon brought a young naval officer to her assistance, who, laying a thick cane over the head of Mr. Sparks, left him prostrate on the floor, while he bore the terrified Cecilia to the breakfast-parlour, where sir Cyril Musgrove, in attempting to escape from the window, had dislocated his shoulder, and so severely lacerated his leg, that he lay on the carpet groaning, covered with blood, and unable to reply to the invectives and menaces of the enraged Wilson.

When Cecilia was sufficiently composed to be sensible of the happiness of her deliverance, and had expressed her pleasure at so unexpectedly seeing her early friend, she was introduced to lieutenant Melrose, and two gentlemen of the law, to whom she was requested to relate every circumstance of her being decoyed from the protection of lady Welford, with all that had occurred since sir Cyril Musgrove had confined her person.

Miss Delmore’s deposition being ended, Mr. Samuel Sparks was brought forward, and ordered to confess the share he had taken in decoying Miss Delmore from London. Under the influence of fear, the gay bold Mr. Sparks became mean and cowardly; falling on his knees, he entreated mercy, and declared that he had been employed by sir Cyril Musgrove to carry off Miss Delmore from Torrington Castle, but having failed in that attempt, he had received a bribe of three hundred pounds from sir Cyril, and the promise of three hundred more, and to be set up in a grand hotel at Paris, as soon as Miss Delmore accepted the offers of sir Cyril.

All this being sworn to, Mr. Sparks was given into the charge of a constable, to be held in custody till he had found sufficient bail for his assault on the person of Miss Delmore. Sir Cyril could only reply to the questions he was asked with groans; and having also left him properly guarded, Cecilia, eager to quit the scene of her sufferings and detention, was led to the chaise by Mr. Melrose, leaving sir Cyril Musgrove and his agent, Mr. Samuel Sparks, bound over to answer at law for their offences.

Seated between Mr. Wilson and his young friend, Cecilia learned that her handkerchief had fallen into the hands of an ignorant but worthy woman, who brought it to the mother of Mr. Melrose to read.

“When in London,” said the young lieutenant, “I had heard of the mysterious disappearance of Miss Delmore, and I wrote immediately to Mr. Scroggins, the brother-in-law of Mr. Wilson, to inform him of the discovery brought about by the handkerchief. I was certain Mr. Scroggins was much interested, and anxious to know what had become of Miss Delmore, and I waited with no little impatience for his instruction how to proceed for her liberation.”

“You are the best-hearted lad in the world,” replied Wilson, “and I will use all my influence to promote your marriage with Marian, for though you are not rich, you are a worthy brave fellow, and I would rather see you her husband, than the stupid hunks her father has cast his eye upon; but Scroggins would have answered your letter directly, only he expected me in town, and wished to consult what he is pleased to call a wiser head than his own on the business. Egad, Cecilia, I was half mad with joy to get that account of you, distressing as it was, and I lost no time, I promise you, in taking a counsellor’s advice how to proceed, and in posting to your deliverance.”

Cecilia gratefully pressed the hand of her friend— “Even from my earliest remembrance,” said she, “you have heaped obligations on me; when, or in what way, shall I ever evince my sense of your kindness?”

With a good-humoured smile Wilson replied— “By recovering, as fast as you can, your health and your spirits, for I am sorry to see the rose on your cheek is not as bright as it was when we parted in Cumberland.”

Cecilia’s eyes filled with tears; with the mention of Cumberland, a thousand tender remembrances associated days of innocence, of friendship, and love— “But they will return again,” said she, mentally; “the Power that has hitherto protected will not abandon me to wretchedness.”

Cecilia learned with regret that lady Welford was in Somersetshire with her brother, who was on the point of marriage, and had invited her to assist at his nuptials; and what was still more distressing, that the earl of Torrington, and his son, both in bad health, were gone to Lisbon; that most of her particular friends were absent from London, and Mrs. Doricourt was still in France. Mr. Wilson did not say that either the earl of Torrington or his son were in a dangerous state, but attributed their illness to vexation and regret on account of the ill conduct of the countess, and to her strange departure from lady Welford’s. Other communications he could not make, for the very important disclosure of Mr. Dacres was not known to him, or any persons, except the most particular friends of the unfortunate Oscar. But the apprehensive mind of Cecilia instantly took alarm, and though delicacy restrained the outward expression of grief, and the utterance of her thoughts, she believed that her unaccountable absence, and the vile reports of the newspapers, that so soon appeared after her quitting London, had affected the health and peace of her beloved Oscar; yet ever resigned, and piously relying on the directing wisdom of Providence, she endeavoured to overcome her fears, and having listened to Mr. Wilson’s account of all her friends being absent from town, she said— “We shall then, of course, proceed immediately to Cumberland. How I shall rejoice to see my dear aunt Milman again, and to feel myself in safety among the friends of my infancy at Torrington Castle!”

“I have business that will detain me in town for a month,” replied Wilson, “and as I think it will be highly improper to suffer you to travel alone, I shall, if you approve, place you under the protection of my brother-in-law, honest Matthew Scroggins, who has a wife, not a fine lady to be sure, but a well-meaning good sort of woman, and two daughters, tolerable well-looking girls—Marian particularly so. Eh, Melrose!”

“Marian is a very amiable girl,” said the lieutenant, “and will, I am certain, be happy to do all in her power to render Miss Delmore’s visit in Abchurch-street agreeable.”

Had the mind of Cecilia been at ease, she would have been gratified with the variety of scenery that met her view on the road, which she had before travelled at night; but grief and anxiety so occupied her heart, that she was no longer sensible to the charms of spring, and would have passed the most romantic spots without observance, had they not been pointed out by young Melrose.

The journey to London was safely performed, and having been but very seldom beyond Cheapside, Cecilia was not a little astonished to find the chaise stop at the door of a grocer in a narrow dirty street.

A good-looking elderly man, in a full-bottomed powder wig, received her as she descended from the chaise, and saluting her with a smacking kiss on the cheek, and a hearty shake of the hand, said— “You are welcome to London, Miss. I am very glad my brother-in-law has succeeded in setting you free. Here, Mrs. Scroggins—Jenny—where are you?” bawling loud enough to be heard into the garret, at the same time opening the door of a small parlour— “Mrs. Scroggins—Jenny, I say, why don’t you come down stairs? Here is Miss Delmore arrived! Plague on these here women folk, they take such a long time to dizen themselves! Walk in, Miss—pray walk into the parlour. My wife and daughter will be with you in a twinkle. So, Melrose, my hero, you are returned to London again, I see; hankering after Marian, I suppose; but I shall keep a sharp look-out. You need not expect to marry my daughter till you are made a post-captain, and as them there promotions go by favour, more than by merit, why you stand but a poorish sort of a chance.”

“It is very true, sir,” replied Melrose, “my present visit to London has Marian for its object. I expect to be ordered to sea, and I wished to see her, to assure her—”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Scroggins; “you are a fine young man, and I don’t wish Marian to listen to your love-tales. You can’t marry, for your pay is not more than sufficient to maintain yourself. Marian must marry a husband that can support her; and to be plain with you, a wealthy neighbour of ours has taken a liking to the girl, and as he is an honest, sober man, no reasonable objection can be made to the match.”

“Yes,” replied Melrose, warmly; “the strongest objection. He is old enough to be her father, and Marian dislikes him.”

“She will alter her mind,” said old Scroggins. “He has a handsome house at Putney, keeps a gig, and will settle half his fortune upon her.”

“She will never accept him,” replied Melrose.

A customer drew Scroggins to the counter.

During the conversation between him and the lieutenant, Wilson had been settling with the postboy, and Cecilia had sunk sick and fatigued on a chair in the little dismal-looking parlour, where a nearly-expiring fire made the room appear still more forlorn and comfortless. Presently a rustling noise at the opposite side of the parlour made her start, and perceive a glass-door, covered on the outside with a green curtain, from the concealment of which she perceived she was peeped at by persons who were gratifying their curiosity at the expence of good manners.

Mr. Wilson, on entering the room, and finding Cecilia alone, rang the bell furiously. Presently a dirty-looking servant girl appeared, and asked— “What is your will, sir?”

“My will is to see your mistress and the young ladies,” replied Wilson, in no very complacent tone. “Do they know that Miss Delmore is arrived?”

“Yes, they do, sir,” said the girl; “my mistress will be down as soon as she has settled her head a bit, and Miss Scroggins has put on her new dress.”

“Where is Marian?” asked Mr. Wilson, impatiently.

“Gone to pay a bride visit, sir,” replied the girl, with a simper; “but here comes my mistress.”

Mrs. and Miss Scroggins now bustled into the room, and having, with coarse familiarity, congratulated Miss Delmore on her release from confinement and safe arrival in London, apologized for not being ready to receive her.

“Well, there you have said enough in the way of compliments,” said old Scroggins, thrusting his little purple face in between his wife and daughter; “but fine words go but little way towards filling empty stomachs. Jenny, take Miss Delmore up stairs to your badwire, as you call it, and let her have some refreshment, for I dare say she is almost famished.”

“La, papa!” replied Miss; “sure I know what belongs to good manners, without your instruction.”

Miss Scroggins then invited Cecilia up stairs, who, weary and unhappy in mind, followed her conductors in silence to Miss Scroggins’s boudoir, a low, dark, old-fashioned room, absurdly furnished with Grecian draperies, Egyptian couches, and Italian lamps.

“Now, my dear Miss Delmore, you will find yourself at home,” said Miss Scroggins, casting a glance of proud satisfaction round the apartment, “because I know this boudoir resembles what you have been accustomed to.”

At another time, when her mind was happy, Cecilia’s smile would have contradicted the assertion of Miss Scroggins, and declared that the furniture of the room was unlike any thing she had ever seen—a jumble of articles crowded together, without taste or design; but heartsick, she complained of fatigue, and expressed a wish to retire to bed.

“Not till you have taken some refreshment, Miss,” said Mrs. Scroggins. “My husband would never forgive me, if I did not make you take something. Would you like a sandwich, and a glass of warm port negus, or a cup of strong coffee or tea?”

Finding she should not be allowed to retire before she had taken some refreshment, Cecilia chose tea. Mr. Wilson, the lieutenant, and old Scroggins, attended the tea-table, where, to Cecilia’s great annoyance, she was questioned by Mrs. Scroggins and her daughter, and compelled to give them an account of her being decoyed from lady Welford’s, a description of her journey to Frome Hall, and the behaviour of sir Cyril Musgrove, down to the last moment she remained under his roof.

Mr. Scroggins often repeated—“Well, I never heard the like! what wickedness! Sir Cyril Musgrove deserves hanging.”

Mr. Scroggins wished to tar and feather him. Young Melrose said he should like to see him brought to the gangway of the Alfred, where the boatswain handled a cat-o-nine tails famously.

“If the cowardly rascal had not put his shoulder out, and tore the flesh from his leg in trying to make his escape, I would have horsewhipped him famously,” said Mr. Wilson; “but it strikes me he has got such a punishment as will prevent his running away with another lady in a hurry.”

Miss Scroggins was curious to know if sir Cyril Musgrove was handsome?

“Not in my opinion,” replied Cecilia; “but his person might pass, did he not render himself hateful by his vices.”

Miss Scroggins thought sir Cyril must be greatly in love with Miss Delmore, before he would have ventured on such a daring plan.

“In love!” repeated Mr. Wilson; “why, Jenny, you surprise me. What love can a man feel, that seeks to bring the object of his pursuit to disgrace? When a man is in love, child, he acts generously and openly, and makes his proposals in the face of day. Sir Cyril Musgrove is a scoundrel, and I hope to see him trounced for his villany.”

A knock was now heard at the private door, and Mrs. Scroggins exclaimed— “That, I am sure, is Marian’s genteel rap.”

Presently footsteps were heard in the passage, and Melrose, with joy in his countenance, advanced to open the door, when, to his extreme mortification, he beheld Marian, attended by a military beau, whose dress and manner denoted a complete coxcomb.

Hardly waiting his introduction to Miss Delmore, he threw himself on the couch beside Miss Scroggins, and in language composed of bad English, and worse French, he informed her that her sister Marian was a prude and a simpleton—that she had been terrified to death at the idea of playing silver loo, and had actually insisted on quitting a gay party, just as they had set the card-tables, and were preparing to spend a pleasant evening.

“All the result of her very confined education,” said Miss Scroggins, “and knowing nothing of the customs of the west end of the town. But pray, my dear captain Seaford, how did the bride behave?”

“As brides generally do,” replied the military beau. “She blushed very often, and looked very silly and bashful.”

“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Miss Scroggins; “but I always thought Harriet Morley a very prudish formal girl, quite old maidish in her manner. She never was a favourite of mine, and when she married Howard the waxchandler, I made up my mind not to visit her; but Marian and her, you know, were always particularly intimate; indeed, in their ways, they are very much alike.”

The captain declared the resemblance was striking. “But you will not,” said he, “be so cruel as to absent yourself from the ball her aunt intends giving on the happy occasion of her marriage. Surely, my dear Miss Scroggins, you will not be so barbarous as to deny me the happiness of waltzing with you?”

“I really have not given the ball a thought,” replied Miss Scroggins; “but as I am immensely fond of dancing, it is probable that I may be there, that is, if I approve the company; for really the idea of mixing with cheesemongers, tobacconists, and cornfactors, and fishmongers, is intolerable.”

“Certainly it is a great bore,” replied the captain, “particularly so to you, who have been accustomed to company so very superior.”

“Oh dear, yes,” resumed Miss Scroggins. “When my godmother, lady Meldrum, was alive, I was suffered to associate with none but persons of rank and family; never was seen in public but with a titled arm to lean upon: then on our gala nights—”

“For goodness’ sake, Jane,” said her mother, “don’t begin to talk about them there galleys, for if you do, nobody else will be able to put in a word edgeways.”

“Ay, ay,” rejoiced old Scroggins, “nobody wants to hear nothing about lady Meldrum’s grand doings. I wish, with all my soul, she had been dead afore she took you to live with her, Jane, for she has just made you good for nothing at all but to lie a-bed half the day, and be as proud and fantastical as she was, and to despise tradespeople.”

“Very true, Mr. Scroggins,” resumed his wife; “and as to them there galleys as Jane loves to talk about, they does no sort of good, as I know of.”

“I beg leave to differ in opinion with you there, ma’am,” said the captain, with a look between a smile and a sneer. “A gala, ma’am, let me tell you, does a great deal of good; it puts money into tradesmens’ pockets.”

“Yes,” observed Scroggins, “when they have the good luck to get paid, which does not happen above once in half-a-dozen years.”

“And then,” resumed the captain, “it pays the newspaper writers for puffs, in which the dresses of the ladies, and the quantity devoured of green peas, grapes, and pine-apples, are mentioned, besides all the bond mots and jews pres that passed between certain persons of quality.”

During this conversation, Marian had been seated next Miss Delmore, who was as much pleased with her modest unpresuming attention as she was disgusted with the rude familiarity of her sister. The gentle Marian had been paying a bridal visit, where she met captain Seaford, the avowed admirer of Miss Scroggins, who, having five thousand pounds at her own disposal the day she was twenty, the legacy of her godmother, lady Meldrum, thought proper to encourage his addresses, much against the approbation of her father, who constantly asserted, that when Tom Seaford attended to his practice as a surgeon and apothecary, and minded his shop, he was a well-behaved creditable young man, and he had no objection to him for a son-in-law; but since he had got made a captain in the Smithfield Volunteers, he had become a fool and a jackanapes, talking a lingo that neither himself nor nobody else understood, and instead of getting forward in the world, he was going backwards, neglecting his business, and running in debt— “A pretty sort of a fellow for a husband!” said Scroggins: “if I can prevent it, Jane shall never throw away her five thousand pounds upon him.”

But while he openly and on every occasion expressed his dislike to captain Seaford, it was evident the old man had no other objection to Melrose than that most formidable one, his being poor; with Marian this circumstance did not appear to lessen the lieutenant’s merits; and Mr. Wilson, to whom the whole family, Miss Scroggins excepted, looked up with respect and awe, was so much pleased with his open countenance and manly behaviour, that while he eyed the military beau with disdain, he determined to promote, with all his influence, the fortunes of the lieutenant, to whose good sense and bravery he was so much indebted in the recovery of Cecilia.

In defiance of the prohibition of her mother, Miss Scroggins continued to entertain captain Seaford with the characters of the great people with whom she had been on terms of intimacy while under the protection of lady Meldrum, described the operas she had attended, and the galas where she had been in such delightful crowds, that she was nearly suffocated and squeezed to death, till Miss Delmore, sick of her vulgarity and ridiculous pretensions, as well as much fatigued form her journey, begged permission to retire.

Mrs. Scroggins entreated she would sit up to supper, which should be ready early.

Cecilia again pleaded fatigue, and retired attended by Marian.

Mr. Wilson also declined taking supper, which, he said, was an unwholesome and superfluous meal, and requested to be shewn to his chamber.

Miss Scroggins and the captain now uttered their opinions aloud and unrestrained, declaring, if sir Cyril Musgrove would have married Miss Delmore, she was a great fool to refuse him— “Unless,” added the captain, “she had an attachment elsewhere, and in that case, you know, my dear Miss Scroggins, what is wealth compared to love?”

“It bears no sort of comparison,” observed Mr. Scroggins, “for with money you may purchase every comfort the world can afford; but with love, nothing but hunger, rags, and poverty.”

“Miss Delmore’s rouge is not good,” remarked Miss Scroggins.

“Bless us, Jane! do you think the young lady paints?” asked Mrs. Scroggins.

Miss smiled disdain at the ignorance of her mother.

The captain, taking upon himself to answer her question, said— “My dear ma’am, you will recollect Miss Delmore has been accustomed to the society of persons of rank, and I give you my word of honour, no lady of fashion can possibly appear in public without rouge.”

“I don’t like such fashions,” replied Mrs. Scroggins; “folks ought to let their faces remain as nature made them.”

“You read of Jezabel in the bible painting herself, and she came to the dogs.”

“I don’t think Miss Delmore a good figure,” resumed Miss Scroggins; “she is not near as tall as I am.”

“She is half a head taller,” said her mother.

“Why certainly, ma’am,” replied Miss Scroggins, angrily, “I must appear a dwarf in your eyes.”

“No, no, not a dwarf, Jane,” returned Mrs. Scroggins; “but you are not as tall as Miss Delmore.”

“Have done with this dispute, and let us have supper,” interrupted Mr. Scroggins.

“Not here, sir, I promise you,” replied Miss Scroggins, “to grease the carpet, and fumigate the draperies with the effluvia of tobacco, which I know you will call for as soon as you have swallowed your supper.”

“The cloth is laid in the parlour,” said Mrs. Scroggins; and catching up a candle, she led the way down stairs, followed by the grocer, who kept muttering against the absurdity of furnishing rooms just to look at.

Picking the pinion of a chicken did not prevent Miss Scroggins from pulling the person of Miss Delmore to pieces— “I declare,” said she, “from uncle Wilson’s description, I expected to see a perfect beauty, and after all, she is nothing so extraordinary. I can’t think what induced sir Cyril Musgrove to run away with her.”

Captain Seaford’s interest would not allow him to discover Miss Delmore’s beauty; he protested, upon his honour as a gentleman, Miss Delmore was not to be mentioned in the same year with his divine Jane for beauty, and really, for his part, he thought her stupid and inanimate.

Mr. Melrose, provoked at their illiberal comments, observed it was impossible to judge of Miss Delmore from the very little they had seen, either of her person or manner— “Just off a long journey, she is doubtless greatly fatigued; besides, it should be remembered she is a stranger to the present company, and female reserve and timidity would prevent the display of spirit and animation.”

“Oh dear!” interrupted Miss Scroggins, “people, Mr. Melrose, that are accustomed to high life, and have kept good company, are not troubled with awkward feelings of reserve and timidity.”

“I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Scroggins,” replied the lieutenant, “for in my humble opinion, modesty and timidity are so beautiful and desirable, that it would be quite impossible I should ever admire or love a female in whose conduct they were not conspicuous.”

Marian blushed for her sister, who, giving her head a disdainful toss, observed, that persons who had passed the greatest part of their lives at sea, and had never had the good fortune to be admitted into the higher circles, had generally queer notions respecting women.

“Have done with this nonsense,” said Scroggins; “I neither know, nor want to know, how the women behave in the higher circles, though, if report is to be credited, a good many of them would be the better for a little modesty and reserve. I wish, with all my soul, that fantastical godmother of yours had never introduced you to her company, for I am certain they have learned you to be disobedient to your parents, and rude to your acquaintance. I wish lady Meldrum had taught you a little good manners, for you have done nothing for the last hour but pull Miss Delmore to pieces, in which you have been manfully assisted by that fribble of a fellow that calls himself a captain; and I wonder what your uncle would say if he knew how you have been abusing his favourite.”

“Uncle Wilson would act more properly if he found favourites in his own family,” replied Miss Scroggins, “though, for my part,” affecting an air of indifference, “I don’t care a straw who he leaves his money to. I am sure I don’t want his dirty cash, and I think, papa, it is not a very grateful return to lady Meldrum, to treat her memory so disrespectfully, after having educated me, and treating me as if I had been her own child, and leaving me a handsome fortune; a person of her quality, that kept the very best of company, and always—”

“Don’t provoke me, Jenny,” retorted the grocer. “Hold your tongue, and don’t provoke me: I know well enough what sort of company she kept—a parcel of half-starved persons of title, with little or no fortune. A party of eight or ten of these poor devils she used to call a rout, and a pretty sort of a rout it was—tea and muffins, two or three glasses of raisin wine, a few biscuits, and turn out.”

“It was no such thing, sir,” returned Miss Scroggins, swelling with rage; “my godmother, lady Meldrum, was—”

“Half mad and half foolish,” said Mr. Scroggins. “Zounds, girl! you will persuade me soon that I don’t know a fig from a raisin. I say she has filled your head full of pride and conceit. What are you good for? You don’t know how to mend a hole in your stocking as it should be. You will never be fit for a tradesman’s wife, Jane, and I am certain them there knights and lords, as you are so fond of bragging about, will never think of you in the way of marriage.”

Mrs. Scroggins endeavoured to pacify her husband, who was getting into a passion, by turning the conversation to her son’s expected arrival on the morrow—“ I dare say Solomon will be mighty glad to see his uncle,” said Mrs. Scroggins.

“If he is not, he will be an ungrateful rascal,” replied the grocer, “after all he has done for him since before he was the height of a sugar loaf.”

“What a pleasure it will be to my brother to hear him talk Greek and Latin,” said Mrs. Scroggins, “just the same as if it was his own natural tongue!”

“Perhaps my brother-in-law may understand them there languages,” returned Scroggins, “or else it will give him but little pleasure. To be sure, it is a very fine thing to be a scholar; but when Solomon was at home before, he almost put me beside myself with his Homer, and his Virgil, and his cramp words; but he is a year older now, and I hope he has learned how to behave himself better, and can talk to be understood; at any rate, I hope he will be obedient to his uncle’s wishes, and fall in love with Miss Delmore as soon as ever he sees her.”

Young Melrose stared, and the captain, twirling his watch-chain, asked if she had a good fortune?

“Nothing to you, I suppose, whether she has or not,” replied the grocer, “and it is a matter I don’t trouble my head about. My brother-in-law means to marry the young lady to my son, and to give them all he is worth, which is no trifle, I know.”

“Bless me! how fortunate some folks are!” said the captain. “I have got a rich uncle too, but I never heard the old codger meant to make me his heir.”

“Most likely he has heard how you neglect your shop,” resumed Scroggins, “and lie in bed when you ought to be attending your patients. Business won’t take care of itself, I can tell you. I am sure it is getting late,” yawning and pulling out his watch— “wants only three minutes to eleven—time for every body that has a shop to open in the morning to go to bed.”

Melrose immediately took the hint, pressed Marian’s hand, wished the rest of the party good-night, and departed.

The captain protested it was a prodigious bore to be turned out at so early an hour, just when he was beginning to enjoy himself.

“It is abominably vulgar and ill-bred,” said Miss Scroggins; “but I shall not always be tied down to city hours, I trust.”

The captain, in a half-whisper, replied— “You know how to get rid of this disagreeable slavery whenever you please.”

Miss Scroggins said she detested going to bed so early, and would give his proposals serious consideration.

Old Scroggins, yawning again, exclaimed— “Zounds! will you never have done whispering? It is time to go to bed.”

The captain hoped Miss Scroggins would have pleasant dreams, bowed affectedly, and took his leave.

Old Scroggins did not retire to rest without giving his daughter a lecture on the folly and imprudence of giving encouragement to Tom Seaford, who had laid out his whole fortune in a pair of gold epaulets— “For as to the drugs in his shop,” said the grocer, “they are not worth a pound of hyson bloom; and as to his book-debts, they do not amount to half enough to pay his own creditors.”

Miss Scroggins had heard of the effect produced by silent contempt, and she did not condescend to make a reply to what she considered a very impertinent interference in her father. Captain Seaford was, in her opinion, the most stylish dashing young man she had seen since her return to the city. She certainly had not made up her mind to marry him, because she had higher views; for in lady Meldrum’s house she had been flattered by men of rank, and it was not impossible but she might match with a title; but till something better offered, she was determined to retain the captain as an admirer, in spite of her father’s dislike and remonstrance.

The chief part of the next day Miss Delmore employed in writing to the earl of Torrington and Mrs. Doricourt, and when in the evening she joined the family party, which had then the addition of Mr. Solomon Scroggins, she found nothing to reconcile her to remaining a month with them, but the mild obliging manners of Marian, who, without any of her sister’s affectation and folly, was a genteel-looking interesting young woman. Mr. Solomon Scroggins was a pale thin young man, with large grey eyes, and lank dark hair; he spoke but little, was very awkward, and appeared quite out of his element.

The grocer, seeing him sit twirling his thumbs, gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder— “Why, you are in a brown study, Solomon,” said he. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was just then, sir, ruminant,” replied the young man, “on the Scholium to Cicero, page thirty-seven, volume eight.”

“Never mind the scholars now,” said his mother; “let us hear you talk a bit. Remember, you are not at college now.”

“And instead of thinking of your books, nephew,” rejoined Mr. Wilson, “turn your attention to the ladies; you will find them a very pleasant study.”

“I believe not, sir,” returned Solomon, “for I remember Martial says—”

“Never mind what Martial says,” interrupted Mr. Wilson; “for the sake of making yourself agreeable to the fair sex, you must forget the ancients.”

“Forget the ancients!” repeated Solomon, in a tone of astonishment. “Then for what purpose have I spent so many years in study?”

“Why to make you a clever fellow, to be sure,” said his father, “and to make you a proper partner for the young lady whom your uncle and I have fixed upon for your wife.”

“Woman,” returned Solomon, “has never interfered with, or made any part of my studies.”

Miss Scroggins tittered, and thought her brother Solomon more than half a fool.

“Woman,” resumed the scholar, “is a theoretical subject, and requires a mansuetude, and various marital qualities and properties, which are by no means miscible with my pursuits; and though it is my wish to be marigerous—”

“Well, if it is your wish to be married, Solomon,” said his father, “what are all these cramp words about?”

“You mistake my meaning, sir,” replied Solomon, with increasing gravity. “Marigerous—“

“Stop, Solomon,” said the grocer— “stop till Marian fetches me Bailey’s dictionary.”

“Our college prefers Johnson,” remarked the scholar.

“Now,” resumed old Scroggins, “if it is English you are speaking, I may possibly get at the meaning of your words, for at present I understand them as little as if you were talking Dutch.”

“I am exactly in the same predicament,” rejoined Wilson. “Do, nephew, let your hard words alone, and recollect that you are not at college now, and that neither your father nor myself are great scholars.”

Solomon appeared vexed, as he replied— “I seriously lament that my nescience in the common terms of conversation should render it necessary to apply to a nomenclature; but my fellow-students and myself have always had a nolition to enter into nugacity, and on every subject aspire to express ourselves in ornate language.”

Old Scroggins threw down the dictionary in a rage, wishing the inventor of hard words at the devil, and swearing that Solomon’s came so thick and fast upon him, that he could not find the explanation of one before he was puzzled with another.

Miss Scroggins said, that her brother should have brought an interpreter with him from college; Marian felt inclined to weep; and Miss Delmore pitied the young man, whose education had rendered him unfit for the society of any but professors and graduates; Mr. Wilson looked disappointed, and the young scholar disconcerted.

Mrs. Scroggins said, it was a great pity they did not all of them understand Hebrew and Greek, because they could then converse pleasantly together.

Mr. Wilson began to perceive that his keeping Solomon so very strict to his learning, instead of making him a gentleman and a scholar, had produced only a stiff, formal pedant, who uttered a learned jargon, that would make him the ridicule of his own sex, and the detestation of the other; he wished that his nephew knew less of Hebrew and Greek, and was less conversant with the ancients, as his intimacy with them was likely to shut him out from modern society, and actually rendered his conversation unintelligible to persons of common education and capacity.

A thousand times in the course of the evening Solomon wished himself at college again; while Mr. Wilson lamented the waste of his money, which had been expended to form a learned fool, for Solomon had not an idea or opinion but what he had borrowed from books; Miss Scroggins ridiculed her brother’s awkwardness and formality; old Scroggins swore at his hard words; and Cecilia rejoiced when the hour of retiring released her from a party, from whom she could derive neither instruction nor amusement.

The following morning lieutenant Melrose called, and Cecilia again expressed her grateful sense of the generous and active part he had taken in her liberation from Frome Hall. Melrose declared himself happy in having had the power to be of service to her, and evaded any further praise or thanks, by inviting the ladies to go that evening to Covent Garden theatre, to see the representation of Reynolds’s Dramatist, a comedy which, he said, he had heard much commended.

“I am very glad it is not a tragedy,” said Miss Scroggins, “for I hate every thing horrid and dismal.”

“If you were to see the tragedies of the immortal Æschylus represented,” replied Solomon, “you would alter your opinion, and you may be certain they are worthy attention, for they have undergone philological examination.”

“I agree with Miss Scroggins,” said Melrose, “in preferring comedy, for we have real sorrows and troubles enough, without paying to be made unhappy by fictitious distress.”

“The comedies of Terence,” resumed Solomon, “are allowed to be unequalled in chastity of idea, and elegance of style. Terence was the slave of a Roman senator, who manumitted him for the brilliancy of his genius. His eloquent simplicity in describing the native independence of man, will always be remembered; that single line,

‘Homo sum, humani nil a me alienum puto,

has rendered him immortal. The Greek comedy—”

“The present company know nothing about,” said the lieutenant. “The comedy to be performed to-night, sir, is by a living author, and whimsically delineates the follies, manners, and extravagances of Englishmen of the present age.”

The present age, and living authors, created no interest in the mind of the scholar, who took out his pocketbook and pencil, and occupied himself with writing.

Miss Scroggins declared at once the pleasure it would afford her to go to the theatre. Marian hesitated to assent, and appeared to wait Miss Delmore’s decision, who, not considering the family of Scroggins exactly the sort of people she would wish to go into public with, was about declining being of the party, but the entrance of Mr. Wilson changed her determination. He so strongly pointed out the necessity of her proving to the world that she was not with sir Cyril Musgrove, that she reluctantly yielded up her own opinion, and consented to go.

Nearly the whole of the day Miss Scroggins was in the bustle of preparation, and her hair was twisted into a variety of forms, and ornamented with chaplets and feathers out of number, before she could determine on the most becoming. At length she descended to her boudoir extravagantly dressed, and highly rouged, where, to her astonishment, she found Miss Delmore and Marian attired with the utmost simplicity.

Her father having surveyed her from head to foot, observed, that she looked like one of the showfolks at Bartholomew fair; and Wilson, who did not at all approve of her dress, expressed his disapprobation in unequivocal terms.

Miss Scroggins said, that lady Meldrum always made her dress to go to the theatre, and if other people chose to attend public places as plain as Quakers, that was no reason she was to follow their example; that probably she might see some of her former acquaintance, and she should not choose them to believe that her circumstances were altered for the worse.

At an early hour, Mr. Wilson handed Miss Delmore into a hackney-coach, and invited Solomon to take a seat with them, leaving lieutenant Melrose to take care of the sisters. Mr. Wilson said, for his own part, he preferred the pit to any other part of the house; but as he knew Cecilia was accustomed to sit in the boxes, he should not think of his own gratification where she was at all concerned.

Cecilia felt repugnant to go to any place of amusement, particularly the theatre, where she had never before been but with lord Rushdale, the earl of Torrington, and lady Welford, and her heart reproached her for having consented to be present at any place of entertainment, while her friends were suffering from illness, and beheld her conduct in a doubtful light.

The house was very thin when they entered; but the box next to the one they sat in was occupied by a party of young men, who, far from sober, talked very loud, and stared so rudely in the face of Cecilia, that she was under the necessity of requesting Solomon Scroggins to change places with her. It was some moments before she could make him understood her wishes, for he was deeply engaged in considering the difference of the dimensions and decorations of Covent Garden theatre, and the amphitheatres at Rome; but after a repetition of her request, he suffered her to take his place.

The oddness of Solomon’s look, and the awkwardness of his manner, soon attracted the notice of the bucks in the next box, who assailed him with their quizzing-glasses, and made a thousand impertinent remarks on his lank hair, his grave countenance, and bare bones, all which never reached the ear of Solomon, who was occupied in reflections on the comedies of Plautus, Terence, and Afranius, compared with whose productions, the piece he came to see would, he supposed, be trifling, insipid, and unworthy the attention of a mind conversant with ancient writers. The curtain having drawn up, Solomon was very attentive to the stage, though he did not appear to be at all gratified with the representation, for he every now and then shook his head and groaned, and muttered— “By no means classical—no unity preserved. Where is the elegance of Terence—the wit of Aristophanes?”

Marian was too happy in the company of Melrose to pay much attention to the play; and Miss Scroggins finding Miss Delmore was not to be drawn into a conversation respecting the merits of the actors, and gave no encouragement to her ill-natured remarks on the dress and persons of the audience, became quite restless and disagreeable, declaring to Marian, that Miss Delmore was as proud as if she was a person of consequence—that she had said nothing to her, more than yes or no, since she entered the theatre; but, for her part, she had no notion of such airs from her indeed, who had been brought up and educated for charity.

Marian said she did not think Miss Delmore proud, and that, no doubt, her silence proceeded from a wish to attend to the play. Miss Scroggins protested she had never known the theatre so dull; she did not see a creature she knew, and would not have come for the world, if she could have guessed the house would have been so empty.

At half-price the boxes began to fill, and to the infinite joy of Miss Scroggins, two or three young men took their places beside her. Having examined her face, which she took no pains to conceal, they glanced at Marian, and then took much pains to get a peep at Miss Delmore; but her eyes were bent on the stage, though her thoughts were full of lord Rushdale, and her own unpleasant situation.

Presently an elderly man, dressed with all the foppery of youth, addressed Miss Scroggins with— “Heaven and earth, child, where have you hid yourself this age? I thought you were married, or turned nun.”

“Not either, sir Charles, I assure you,” replied Miss Scroggins, delighted at last to have obtained notice; “but I have not gone into public much since the death of lady Meldrum.”

“Don’t mention the old hag,” said he, “unless you wish to annihilate me; she was always my aversion; and whenever I remember her crooked figure, her bare bones wrapped in yellow skin, her shrivelled face, and indigo lips, I am ill for a month after. But inform me, my sweet creature, in what part of the town do you conceal your beauties?”

“In the city, sir Charles,” replied Miss Scroggins. “I reside, at present, with my father.”

“In the city!” repeated the old beau, “horrible! What can induce you to live in the city, where you must be continually annoyed with noise, bustle, and dirt? I hate the city, and all the stupid plodders in it.”

“I am sure so do I,” returned Miss Scroggins; “I have been quite miserable ever since I have been there.”

Marian looked the reproof her timidity would not allow her to utter; and Solomon, roused by a conversation not carried on in whispers, forgot, for a moment, the superior excellence of Plautus, Terence, and Aristophanes, to wonder at the intrepidity of his sister, who continued to talk aloud, notwithstanding she had drawn upon herself the gaze of all the persons in her vicinity.

“It is a confounded bore,” resumed the old beau, “to live in the city. Why don’t you take lodgings at the west end of the town? A devilish fine girl like you might establish a faro bank, keep a dashing equipage, and live in the first style—”

“And lose her reputation,” said Wilson, throwing an angry glance on the antiquated fop. “My niece, sir, will, I hope, have more prudence than to follow your advice, which, I must take the liberty to say is very improper, and comes very bad indeed from a person of your years.”

“Years, sir!” repeated the offended beau, “years! You are a d—d impertinent fellow! Do you know who you presume to address? I am sir Charles Chapman.”

“You are not a proper chap for my niece,” returned Wilson, angrily, “and you may spare yourself the trouble of introducing yourself, for I promise you I shall not be ambitious of your acquaintance.”

“Why, who the devil are you,” asked sir Charles, “who presume to address a person of my consequence so familiarly?”

“I am used to address your betters,” said Wilson, “and I don’t wish you to remain here.”

“Bless me, uncle,” rejoined Miss Scroggins, “what a rage you are putting yourself in about nothing! Sir Charles was merely joking; I have had the honour of his acquaintance a long time; he used to visit at lady Meldrum’s. Pray, sir Charles, be pacified; my uncle is a very good sort of man, but living always in the country, he is unacquainted with fashionable manners.”

Sir Charles sat down by Miss Scroggins, notwithstanding the repelling looks of Wilson, whom, muttering between his teeth, he called country put. Having again questioned Miss Scroggins respecting the street where she lived, he exclaimed— “I remember that ugly witch, lady Meldrum, used to say, that old Scroggins, your father, was as rich as a jew; the grocer has made a plum of his raisins, I suppose. If he would come down handsomely, I know a dashing sprig of nobility who would have no objection to take a wife out of the city.”

“My father,” replied Miss Scroggins, “is too fond of his money to par