The Collected Works of Frances Burney (Illustrated Edition). Frances Burney
have been his guest, has merited from me nothing but praise and gratitude.”
“O,” cried Morrice, eagerly, “there is not a more worthy man in the world! he has so much wit, so much politeness! I don’t know a more charming man anywhere than my friend Mr Monckton.” Cecilia now perceiving that the opinions of her new acquaintance were as pliant as his bows, determined to pay him no further attention, and hoped by sitting silent to force from him the business of his visit, if any he had, or if, as she now suspected, he had none, to weary him into a retreat.
But this plan, though it would have succeeded with herself, failed with Mr Morrice, who to a stock of good humour that made him always ready to oblige others, added an equal portion of insensibility that hardened him against all indignity. Finding, therefore, that Cecilia, to whom his visit was intended, seemed already satisfied with its length, he prudently forbore to torment her; but perceiving that the lady of the house was more accessible, he quickly made a transfer of his attention, and addressed his discourse to her with as much pleasure as if his only view had been to see her, and as much ease as if he had known her all his life.
With Mrs Harrel this conduct was not injudicious; she was pleased with his assiduity, amused with his vivacity, and sufficiently satisfied with his understanding. They conversed, therefore, upon pretty equal terms, and neither of them were yet tired, when they were interrupted by Mr Harrel, who came into the room, to ask if they had seen or heard any thing of Sir Robert Floyer?
“No,” answered Mrs Harrel, “nothing at all.”
“I wish he was hanged,” returned he, “for he has kept me waiting this hour. He made me promise not to ride out till he called and now he’ll stay till the morning is over.”
“Pray where does he live, sir?” cried Morrice, starting from his seat.
“In Cavendish Square, sir,” answered Mr Harrel, looking at him with much surprise.
Not a word more said Morrice, but scampered out of the room.
“Pray who is this Genius?” cried Mr Harrel, “and what has he run away for?”
“Upon my word I know nothing at all of him,” said Mrs Harrel; “he is a visitor of Miss Beverley’s.”
“And I, too,” said Cecilia, “might almost equally disclaim all knowledge of him; for though I once saw, I never was introduced to him.”
She then began a relation of her meeting him at Mr Monckton’s house, and had hardly concluded it, before again, and quite out of breath, he made his appearance.
“Sir Robert Floyer, sir,” said he to Mr Harrel, “will be here in two minutes.”
“I hope, sir,” said Mr Harrel, “you have not given yourself the trouble of going to him?”
“No, sir, it has given me nothing but pleasure; a run these cold mornings is the thing I like best.”
“Sir, you are extremely good,” said Mr Harrel, “but I had not the least intention of your taking such a walk upon my account.”
He then begged him to be seated, to rest himself, and to take some refreshment; which civilities he received without scruple.
“But, Miss Beverley,” said Mr Harrel, turning suddenly to Cecilia, “you don’t tell me what you think of my friend?”
“What friend, sir?”
“Why, Sir Robert Floyer; I observed he never quitted you a moment while he stayed at Mrs Mears.”
“His stay, however, was too short,” said Cecilia, “to allow me to form a fair opinion of him.”
“But perhaps,” cried Morrice,” it was long enough to allow you to form a foul one.”
Cecilia could not forbear laughing to hear the truth thus accidentally blundered out; but Mr Harrel, looking very little pleased, said, “Surely you can find no fault with him? he is one of the most fashionable men I know.”
“My finding fault with him then,” said Cecilia, “will only farther prove what I believe is already pretty evident, that I am yet a novice in the art of admiration.”
Mr Arnott, animating at this speech, glided behind her chair, and said, “I knew you could not like him! I knew it from the turn of your mind; — I knew it even from your countenance!”
Soon after, Sir Robert Floyer arrived.
“You are a pretty fellow, a’n’t you,” cried Mr Harrel, “to keep me waiting so long.”
“I could not come a moment sooner; I hardly expected to get here at all, for my horse has been so confounded resty I could not tell how to get him along.”
“Do you come on horseback through the streets, Sir Robert?” asked Mrs Harrel.
“Sometimes; when I am lazy. But what the d —— l is the matter with him I don’t know; he has started at everything. I suspect there has been some foul play with him.”
“Is he at the door, sir?” cried Morrice.
“Yes,” answered Sir Robert.
“Then I’ll tell you what’s the matter with him in a minute;” and away again ran Morrice.
“What time did you get off last night, Harrel?” said Sir Robert.
“Not very early; but you were too much engaged to miss me. By the way,” lowering his voice, “what do you think I lost?”
“I can’t tell indeed, but I know what I gained: I have not had such a run of luck this winter.”
They then went up to a window to carry on their enquiries more privately.
At the words what do you think I lost, Cecilia, half starting, cast her eyes uneasily upon Mrs Harrel, but perceived not the least change in her countenance. Mr Arnott, however, seemed as little pleased as herself, and from a similar sensation looked anxiously at his sister.
Morrice now returning, called out, “He’s had a fall, I assure you!”
“Curse him!” cried Sir Robert, “what shall I do now? he cost me the d —— l and all of money, and I have not had him a twelvemonth. Can you lend me a horse for this morning, Harrel?”
“No, I have not one that will do for you. You must send to Astley.”
“Who can I send? John must take care of this.”
“I’ll go, sir,” cried Morrice, “if you’ll give me the commission.”
“By no means, sir,” said Sir Robert, “I can’t think of giving you such an office.”
“It is the thing in the world I like best,” answered he; “I understand horses, and had rather go to Astley’s than any where.”
The matter was now settled in a few minutes, and having received his directions, and an invitation to dinner, Morrice danced off, with a heart yet lighter than his heels.
“Why, Miss Beverley,” said Mr Harrel, “this friend of yours is the most obliging gentleman I ever met with; there was no avoiding asking him to dinner.”
“Remember, however,” said Cecilia, who was involuntarily diverted at the successful officiousness of her new acquaintance, “that if you receive him henceforth as your guest, he obtains admission through his own merits, and not through my interest.”
At dinner, Morrice, who failed not to accept the invitation of Mr Harrel, was the gayest, and indeed the happiest man in the company: the effort he had made to fasten himself upon Cecilia as an acquaintance, had not, it is true, from herself met with much encouragement; but he knew the chances were against him when he made the trial, and therefore the prospect of gaining admission into such a house as Mr Harrel’s, was not only sufficient to make amends for what scarcely amounted to a disappointment, but a subject of serious comfort from the credit of the connection, and