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Title: Tales and Novels, Vol. III
       Belinda

Author: Maria Edgeworth

Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9455]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on October 2, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS, VOL. III ***




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TALES AND NOVELS, VOL. III

BELINDA.

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH.


IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.


1857.



CONTENTS.

I. Characters

II. Masks

III. Lady Delacour's History

IV. The same continued

V. Birthday Dresses

VI. Ways and Means

VII. The Serpentine River

VIII. A Family Party

IX. Advice

X. The Mysterious Boudoir

XI. Difficulties

XII. The Macaw

XIII. Sortes Virgilianae

XIV. The Exhibition

XV. Jealousy

XVI. Domestic Happiness

XVII. Rights of Woman

XVIII. A Declaration

XIX. A Wedding

XX. Reconciliation

XXI. Helena

XXII. A Spectre

XXIII. The Chaplain

XXIV. Peu a peu

XXV. Love me, love my dog

XXVI. Virginia

XXVII. A Discovery

XXVIII. E O

XXIX. A Jew

XXX. News

XXXI. The Denouement




BELINDA




CHAPTER I.

CHARACTERS.


Mrs. Stanhope, a well-bred woman, accomplished in that branch of knowledge
which is called the art of rising in the world, had, with but a small
fortune, contrived to live in the highest company. She prided herself upon
having established half a dozen nieces most happily, that is to say, upon
having married them to men of fortunes far superior to their own. One
niece still remained unmarried--Belinda Portman, of whom she was
determined to get rid with all convenient expedition. Belinda was
handsome, graceful, sprightly, and highly accomplished; her aunt had
endeavoured to teach her that a young lady's chief business is to please
in society, that all her charms and accomplishments should be invariably
subservient to one grand object--the establishing herself in the world:

    "For this, hands, lips, and eyes were put to school,
    And each instructed feature had its rule."

Mrs. Stanhope did not find Belinda such a docile pupil as her other
nieces, for she had been educated chiefly in the country; she had early
been inspired with a taste for domestic pleasures; she was fond of
reading, and disposed to conduct herself with prudence and integrity. Her
character, however, was yet to be developed by circumstances.

Mrs. Stanhope lived at Bath, where she had opportunities of showing her
niece off, as she thought, to advantage; but as her health began to
decline, she could not go out with her as much as she wished. After
manoeuvring with more than her usual art, she succeeded in fastening
Belinda upon the fashionable Lady Delacour for the season. Her ladyship
was so much pleased by Miss Portman's accomplishments and vivacity, as to
invite her to spend the winter with her in London. Soon after her arrival
in town, Belinda received the following letter from her aunt Stanhope.

"Crescent, Bath.

"After searching every place I could think of, Anne found your bracelet in
your dressing-table, amongst a heap of odd things, which you left behind
you to be thrown away: I have sent it to you by a young gentleman, who
came to Bath (unluckily) the very day you left me--Mr. Clarence Hervey--an
acquaintance, and great admirer of my Lady Delacour. He is really an
uncommonly pleasant young man, is highly connected, and has a fine
independent fortune. Besides, he is a man of wit and gallantry, quite a
connoisseur in female grace and beauty--just the man to bring a new face
into fashion: so, my dear Belinda, I make it a point--look well when he is
introduced to you, and remember, what I have so often told you, that
nobody _can_ look well without taking some pains to please.

"I see--or at least when I went out more than my health will at present
permit--I used to see multitudes of silly girls, seemingly all cut out
upon the same pattern, who frequented public places day after day, and
year after year, without any idea farther than that of diverting
themselves, or of obtaining transient admiration. How I have pitied and
despised the giddy creatures, whilst I have observed them playing off
their unmeaning airs, vying with one another in the most _obvious_, and
consequently the most ridiculous manner, so as to expose themselves before
the very men they would attract: chattering, tittering, and flirting; full
of the present moment, never reflecting upon the future; quite satisfied
if they got a partner at a hall, without ever thinking of a partner for
life! I have often asked myself, what is to become of such girls when they
grow old or ugly, or when the public eye grows tired of them? If they have
large fortunes, it is all very well; they can afford to divert themselves
for a season or two, without doubt; they are sure to be sought after and
followed, not by mere danglers, but by men of suitable views and
pretensions: but nothing to my mind can be more miserable than the
situation of a poor girl, who, after spending not only the interest, but
the solid capital of her small fortune in dress, and frivolous
extravagance, fails in her matrimonial expectations (as many do merely
from not beginning to speculate in time). She finds herself at five or
six-and-thirty a burden to her friends, destitute of the means of
rendering herself independent (for the girls I speak of never think of
_learning_ to play cards), _de trop_ in society, yet obliged to hang upon
all her acquaintance, who wish her in heaven, because she is unqualified
to make the _expected_ return for civilities, having no home, I mean no
establishment, no house, &c. fit for the reception of company of a certain
rank.--My dearest Belinda, may this never be your case!--You have every
possible advantage, my love: no pains have been spared in your education,
and (which is the essential point) I have taken care that this should be
known--so that you have _the name_ of being perfectly accomplished. You
will also have the name of being very fashionable, if you go much into
public, as doubtless you will with Lady Delacour.--Your own good sense
must make you aware, my dear, that from her ladyship's situation and
knowledge of the world, it will always be proper, upon all subjects of
conversation, for her to lead and you to follow: it would be very unfit
for a young girl like you to suffer yourself to stand in competition with
Lady Delacour, whose high pretensions to wit and beauty are
_indisputable_. I need say no more to you upon this subject, my dear. Even
with your limited experience, you must have observed how foolish young
people offend those who are the most necessary to their interests, by an
imprudent indulgence of their vanity.

"Lady Delacour has an incomparable taste in dress: consult her, my dear,
and do not, by an ill-judged economy, counteract my views--apropos, I have
no objection to your being presented at court. You will, of course, have
credit with all her ladyship's tradespeople, if you manage properly. To
know how and when to lay out money is highly commendable, for in some
situations, people judge of what one can afford by what one actually
spends.--I know of no law which compels a young lady to tell what her age
or her fortune may be. You have no occasion for caution yet on one of
these points.

"I have covered my old carpet with a handsome green baize, and every
stranger who comes to see me, I observe, takes it for granted that I have
a rich carpet under it. Say every thing that is proper, in your best
manner, for me to Lady Delacour.

"Adieu, my dear Belinda,

"Yours, very sincerely,

"SELINA STANHOPE."



It is sometimes fortunate, that the means which are taken to produce
certain effects upon the mind have a tendency directly opposite to what is
expected. Mrs. Stanhope's perpetual anxiety about her niece's appearance,
manners, and establishment, had completely worn out Belinda's patience;
she had become more insensible to the praises of her personal charms and
accomplishments than young women of her age usually are, because she had
been so much flattered and _shown off_, as it is called, by her
match-making aunt.--Yet Belinda was fond of amusement, and had imbibed
some of Mrs. Stanhope's prejudices in favour of rank and fashion. Her
taste for literature declined in proportion to her intercourse with the
fashionable world, as she did not in this society perceive the least use
in the knowledge that she had acquired. Her mind had never been roused to
much reflection; she had in general acted but as a puppet in the hands of
others. To her aunt Stanhope she had hitherto paid unlimited, habitual,
blind obedience; but she was more undesigning, and more free from
affectation and coquetry, than could have been expected, after the course
of documenting which she had gone through. She was charmed with the idea
of a visit to Lady Delacour, whom she thought the most agreeable--no, that
is too feeble an expression--the most fascinating person she had ever
beheld. Such was the light in which her ladyship appeared, not only to
Belinda, but to all the world--that is to say, all the world of fashion,
and she knew of no other.--The newspapers were full of Lady Delacour's
parties, and Lady Delacour's dresses, and Lady Delacour's _bon mots_:
every thing that her ladyship said was repeated as witty; every thing that
her ladyship wore was imitated as fashionable. Female wit sometimes
depends on the beauty of its possessor for its reputation; and the reign
of beauty is proverbially short, and fashion often capriciously deserts
her favourites, even before nature withers their charms. Lady Delacour
seemed to be a fortunate exception to these general rules: long after she
had lost the bloom of youth, she continued to be admired as a fashionable
_bel esprit_; and long after she had ceased to be a novelty in society,
her company was courted by all the gay, the witty, and the gallant. To be
seen in public with Lady Delacour, to be a visitor at her house, were
privileges of which numbers were vehemently ambitious; and Belinda Portman
was congratulated and envied by all her acquaintance, for being admitted
as an inmate. How could she avoid thinking herself singularly fortunate?

A short time after her arrival at Lady Delacour's, Belinda began to see
through the thin veil with which politeness covers domestic
misery.--Abroad, and at home, Lady Delacour was two different persons.
Abroad she appeared all life, spirit, and good humour--at home, listless,
fretful, and melancholy; she seemed like a spoiled actress off the stage,
over-stimulated by applause, and exhausted by the exertions of supporting
a fictitious character.--When her house was filled with well-dressed
crowds, when it blazed with lights, and resounded with music and dancing,
Lady Delacour, in the character of Mistress of the Revels, shone the soul
and spirit of pleasure and frolic: but the moment the company retired,
when the music ceased, and the lights were extinguishing, the spell was
dissolved.

She would sometimes walk up and down the empty magnificent saloon,
absorbed in thoughts seemingly of the most painful nature.

For some days after Belinda's arrival in town she heard nothing of Lord
Delacour; his lady never mentioned his name, except once accidentally, as
she was showing Miss Portman the house, she said, "Don't open that
door--those are only Lord Delacour's apartments."--The first time Belinda
ever saw his lordship, he was dead drunk in the arms of two footmen, who
were carrying him up stairs to his bedchamber: his lady, who was just
returned from Ranelagh, passed by him on the landing-place with a look of
sovereign contempt.

"What is the matter?--Who is this?" said Belinda.

"Only the body of my Lord Delacour," said her ladyship: "his bearers have
brought it up the wrong staircase. Take it down again, my good friends:
let his lordship go his _own way_. Don't look so shocked and amazed,
Belinda--don't look so _new_, child: this funeral of my lord's intellects
is to me a nightly, or," added her ladyship, looking at her watch and
yawning, "I believe I should say a _daily_ ceremony--six o'clock, I
protest!"

The next morning, as her ladyship and Miss Portman were sitting at the
breakfast-table, after a very late breakfast, Lord Delacour entered the
room.

"Lord Delacour, sober, my dear,"--said her ladyship to Miss Portman, by
way of introducing him. Prejudiced by her ladyship, Belinda was inclined
to think that Lord Delacour sober would not be more agreeable or more
rational than Lord Delacour drunk. "How old do you take my lord to be?"
whispered her ladyship, as she saw Belinda's eye fixed upon the trembling
hand which carried his teacup to his lips: "I'll lay you a wager,"
continued she aloud--"I'll lay your birth-night dress, gold fringe, and
laurel wreaths into the bargain, that you don't guess right."

"I hope you don't think of going to this birth-night, lady Delacour?" said
his lordship.

"I'll give you six guesses, and I'll bet you don't come within sixteen
years," pursued her ladyship, still looking at Belinda.

"You cannot have the new carriage you have bespoken," said his lordship.
"Will you do me the honour to attend to me, Lady Delacour?"

"Then you won't venture to guess, Belinda," said her ladyship (without
honouring her lord with the smallest portion of her attention)--"Well, I
believe you are right--for certainly you would guess him to be
six-and-sixty, instead of six-and-thirty; but then he can drink more than
any two-legged animal in his majesty's dominions, and you know that is an
advantage which is well worth twenty or thirty years of a man's
life--especially to persons who have no other chance of distinguishing
themselves."

"If some people had distinguished themselves a little less in the world,"
retorted his lordship, "it would have been as well!"

"As well!--how flat!"

"Flatly then I have to inform you, Lady Delacour, that I will neither be
contradicted nor laughed at--you understand me,--it would be as well, flat
or not flat, my Lady Delacour, if your ladyship would attend more to your
own conduct, and less to others!"

"To _that_ of others--his lordship means, if he means any thing. Apropos,
Belinda, did not you tell me Clarence Hervey is coming to town?--You have
never seen him.--Well, I'll describe him to you by negatives. He is _not_
a man who ever says any thing flat--he is _not_ a man who must he wound up
with half a dozen bottles of champaign before he can _go_--he is _not_ a
man who, when he does go, goes wrong, and won't be set right--he is _not_
a man, whose whole consequence, if he were married, would depend on his
wife--he is _not_ a man, who, if he were married, would be so desperately
afraid of being governed by his wife, that he would turn gambler, jockey,
or sot, merely to show that he could govern himself."

"Go on, Lady Delacour," said his lordship, who had been in vain attempting
to balance a spoon on the edge of his teacup during the whole of this
speech, which was delivered with the most animated desire to provoke--"Go
on, Lady Delacour--all I desire is, that you should go on; Clarence Hervey
will be much obliged to you, and I am sure so shall I. Go on, my Lady
Delacour--go on, and you'll oblige me."

"I never will oblige you, my lord, that you may depend upon," cried her
ladyship, with a look of indignant contempt.

His lordship whistled, rang for his horses, and looked at his nails with a
smile. Belinda, shocked and in a great confusion, rose to leave the room,
dreading the gross continuance of this matrimonial dialogue.

"Mr. Hervey, my lady," said a footman, opening the door; and he was
scarcely announced, when her ladyship went forward to receive him with an
air of easy familiarity.--"Where have you buried yourself, Hervey, this
age past?" cried she, shaking hands with him: "there's absolutely no
living in this most stupid of all worlds without you.--Mr. Hervey--Miss
Portman--but don't look as if you were half asleep, man--What are you
dreaming of, Clarence? Why looks your grace so heavily to-day?"

"Oh! I have passed a miserable night," replied Clarence, throwing himself
into an actor's attitude, and speaking in a fine tone of stage
declamation.

    "What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me,"

said her ladyship in a similar tone.--Clarence went on--

    "O Lord, methought what pain it was to dance!
    What dreadful noise of fiddles in my ears!
    What sights of ugly _belles_ within my eyes!
    ----Then came wandering by,
    A shadow like a devil, with red hair,
    'Dizen'd with flowers; and she bawl'd out aloud,
    Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence!"

"O, Mrs. Luttridge to the life!" cried Lady Delacour: "I know where you
have been now, and I pity you--but sit down," said she, making room for
him between Belinda and herself upon the sofa, "sit down here, and tell
me what could take you to that odious Mrs. Luttridge's."

Mr. Hervey threw himself on the sofa; Lord Delacour whistled as before,
and left the room without uttering a syllable.

"But my dream has made me forget myself strangely," said Mr. Hervey,
turning to Belinda, and producing her bracelet: "Mrs. Stanhope promised me
that if I delivered it safely, I should be rewarded with the honour of
putting it on the owner's fair arm." A conversation now took place on the
nature of ladies' promises--on fashionable bracelets--on the size of the
arm of the Venus de Medici--on Lady Delacour's and Miss Portman's--on the
thick legs of ancient statues--and on the various defects and absurdities
of Mrs. Luttridge and her wig. On all these topics Mr. Hervey displayed
much wit, gallantry, and satire, with so happy an effect, that Belinda,
when he took leave, was precisely of her aunt's opinion, that he was a
most uncommonly pleasant young man.

Clarence Hervey might have been more than a pleasant young man, if he had
not been smitten with the desire of being thought superior in every thing,
and of being the most admired person in all companies. He had been early
flattered with the idea that he was a man of genius; and he imagined that,
as such, he was entitled to be imprudent, wild, and eccentric. He affected
singularity, in order to establish his claims to genius. He had
considerable literary talents, by which he was distinguished at Oxford;
but he was so dreadfully afraid of passing for a pedant, that when he came
into the company of the idle and the ignorant, he pretended to disdain
every species of knowledge. His chameleon character seemed to vary in
different lights, and according to the different situations in which he
happened to be placed. He could be all things to all men--and to all
women. He was supposed to be a favourite with the fair sex; and of all his
various excellencies and defects, there was none on which he valued
himself so much as on his gallantry. He was not profligate; he had a
strong sense of honour, and quick feelings of humanity; but he was so
easily led, or rather so easily excited by his companions, and his
companions were now of such a sort, that it was probable he would soon
become vicious. As to his connexion with Lady Delacour, he would have
started with horror at the idea of disturbing the peace of a family; but
in her family, he said, there was no peace to disturb; he was vain of
having it seen by the world that he was distinguished by a lady of her wit
and fashion, and he did not think it incumbent on him to be more
scrupulous or more attentive to appearances than her ladyship. By Lord
Delacour's jealousy he was sometimes provoked, sometimes amused, and
sometimes flattered. He was constantly of all her ladyship's parties in
public and private; consequently he saw Belinda almost every day, and
every day he saw her with increasing admiration of her beauty, and with
increasing dread of being taken in to marry a niece of "the
_catch-match-maker_," the name by which Mrs. Stanhope was known amongst
the men of his acquaintance. Young ladies who have the misfortune to be
_conducted_ by these artful dames, are always supposed to be partners in
all the speculations, though their names may not appear in the firm. If he
had not been prejudiced by the character of her aunt, Mr. Hervey would
have thought Belinda an undesigning, unaffected girl; but now he suspected
her of artifice in every word, look, and motion; and even when he felt
himself most charmed by her powers of pleasing, he was most inclined to
despise her, for what he thought such premature proficiency in scientific
coquetry. He had not sufficient resolution to keep beyond the sphere of
her attraction; but, frequently, when he found himself within it, he
cursed his folly, and drew back with sudden terror. His manner towards her
was so variable and inconsistent, that she knew not how to interpret its
language. Sometimes she fancied, that with all the eloquence of eyes he
said, "_I adore you_, Belinda;" at other times she imagined that his
guarded silence meant to warn her that he was so entangled by Lady
Delacour, that he could not extricate himself from her snares. Whenever
this last idea struck her, it excited, in the most edifying manner, her
indignation against coquetry in general, and against her ladyship's in
particular: she became wonderfully clear-sighted to all the improprieties
of her ladyship's conduct. Belinda's newly acquired moral sense was so
much shocked, that she actually wrote a full statement of her observations
and her scruples to her aunt Stanhope; concluding by a request, that she
might not remain under the protection of a lady, of whose character she
could not approve, and whose intimacy might perhaps be injurious to her
reputation, if not to her principles.

Mrs. Stanhope answered Belinda's letter in a very guarded style; she
rebuked her niece severely for her imprudence in mentioning _names_ in
such a manner, in a letter sent by the common post; assured her that her
reputation was in no danger; that she hoped no niece of hers would set up
for a prude--a character more suspected by men of the world than even that
of a coquette; that the person alluded to was a perfectly fit chaperon for
any young lady to appear with in public, as long as she was visited by the
first people in town; that as to any thing in the _private_ conduct of
that person, and as to any _private brouillieries_ between her and her
lord, Belinda should observe on these dangerous topics a profound silence,
both in her letters and her conversation; that as long as the lady
continued under the protection of her husband, the world might whisper,
but would not speak out; that as to Belinda's own principles, she would be
utterly inexcusable if, after the education she had received, they could
be hurt by any bad examples; that she could not be too cautious in her
management of a man of ----'s character; that she could have no _serious_
cause for jealousy in the quarter she apprehended, as marriage there could
not be the object; and there was such a difference of age, that no
permanent influence could probably be obtained by the lady; that the most
certain method for Miss Portman to expose herself to the ridicule of one
of the parties, and to the total neglect of the other, would be to betray
anxiety or jealousy; that, in short, if she were fool enough to lose her
own heart, there would be little chance of her being wise enough to win
that of------, who was evidently a man of gallantry rather than of
sentiment, and who was known to play his cards well, and to have good luck
whenever _hearts_ were trumps.

Belinda's fears of Lady Delacour, as a dangerous rival, were much quieted
by the artful insinuations of Mrs. Stanhope, with respect to her age, &c.;
and in proportion as her fears subsided, she blamed herself for having
written too harshly of her ladyship's conduct. The idea that whilst she
appeared as Lady Delacour's friend she ought not to propagate any stories
to her disadvantage, operated powerfully upon Belinda's mind, and she
reproached herself for having told even her aunt what she had seen in
private. She thought that she had been guilty of treachery, and she wrote
again immediately to Mrs. Stanhope, to conjure her to burn her last
letter; to forget, if possible, its contents; and to believe that not a
syllable of a similar nature should ever more be heard from her: she was
just concluding with the words--"I hope my dear aunt will consider all
this as an error of my judgment, and not of my heart," when Lady Delacour
burst into the room, exclaiming, in a tone of gaiety, "Tragedy or comedy,
Belinda? The masquerade dresses are come. But how's this?" added she,
looking full in Belinda's face--"tears in the eyes! blushes in the cheeks!
tremors in the joints! and letters shuffling away! But, you novice of
novices, how awkwardly shuffled!--A niece of Mrs. Stanhope's, and so
unpractised a shuffler!--And is it credible she should tremble in this
ridiculous way about a love-letter or two?"

"No love-letters, indeed, Lady Delacour," said Belinda, holding the paper
fast, as her ladyship, half in play, half in earnest, attempted to snatch
it from her.

"No love-letters! then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all
that's good, or by all that's bad--I see the name of Delacour!"--and her
ladyship absolutely seized the letters by force, in spite of all Belinda's
struggles and entreaties.

"I beg, I request, I conjure you not to read it!" cried Miss Portman,
clasping her hands. "Read mine, read mine, if you _must_, but don't read
my aunt Stanhope's--Oh! I beg, I entreat, I conjure you!" and she threw
herself upon her knees.

"You beg! you entreat! you conjure! Why, this is like the Duchess de
Brinvilliers, who wrote on her paper of poisons, 'Whoever finds this, I
entreat, I conjure them, in the name of more saints than I can remember,
not to open the paper any farther.'--What a simpleton, to know so little
of the nature of curiosity!"

As she spoke, Lady Delacour opened Mrs. Stanhope's letter, read it from
beginning to end, folded it up coolly when she had finished it, and simply
said, "The _person alluded to_ is almost as bad as her name at full
length: does Mrs. Stanhope think no one can make out an inuendo in a
libel, or fill up a blank, but an attorney-general?" pointing to a blank
in Mrs. Stanhope's letter, left for the name of Clarence Hervey.

Belinda was in too much confusion either to speak or think.

"You were right to swear they were not love-letters," pursued her
ladyship, laying down the papers. "I protest I snatched them by way of
frolic--I beg pardon. All I can do now is not to read the rest."

"Nay--I beg--I wish--I insist upon your reading mine," said Belinda.

When Lady Delacour had read it, her countenance suddenly changed--"Worth a
hundred of your aunt's, I declare," said she, patting Belinda's cheek.
"What a treasure to meet with any thing like a _new_ heart!--all hearts,
now-a-days, are second-hand, at best."

Lady Delacour spoke with a tone of feeling which Belinda had never heard
from her before, and which at this moment touched her so much, that she
took her ladyship's hand and kissed it.




CHAPTER II.

MASKS


"Where were we when all this began?" cried Lady Delacour, forcing herself
to resume an air of gaiety--"O, masquerade was the order of the
day---tragedy or comedy? which suits your genius best, my dear?"

"Whichever suits your ladyship's taste least."

"Why, my woman, Marriott, says I ought to be tragedy; and, upon the notion
that people always succeed best when they take characters diametrically
opposite to their own--Clarence Hervey's principle--perhaps you don't
think that he has any principles; but there you are wrong; I do assure
you, he has sound principles--of taste."

"Of that," said Belinda, with a constrained smile, "he gives the most
convincing proof, by his admiring your ladyship so much."

"And by his admiring Miss Portman so much more. But whilst we are making
speeches to one another, poor Marriott is standing in distress, like
Garrick, between tragedy and comedy."

Lady Delacour opened her dressing-room door, and pointed to her as she
stood with the dress of the comic muse on one arm, and the tragic muse on
the other.

"I am afraid I have not spirits enough to undertake the comic muse," said
Miss Portman.

Marriott, who was a personage of prodigious consequence, and the judge in
the last resort at her mistress's toilette, looked extremely out of humour
at having been kept waiting so long; and yet more so at the idea that her
appellant jurisdiction could be disputed.

"Your ladyship's taller than Miss Portman by half ahead," said Marriott,
"and to be sure will best become tragedy with this long train; besides, I
had settled all the rest of your ladyship's dress. Tragedy, they say, is
always tall; and, no offence, your ladyship's taller than Miss Portman by
half a head."

"For head read inch," said Lady Delacour, "if you please."

"When things are settled, one can't bear to have them unsettled--but your
ladyship must have your own way, to be sure--I'll say no more," cried she,
throwing down the dresses.

"Stay, Marriott," said Lady Delacour, and she placed herself between the
angry waiting-maid and the door.

"Why will you, who are the best creature in the world, put yourself into
these _furies_ about nothing? Have patience with us, and you shall be
satisfied."

"That's another affair," said Marriott.

"Miss Portman," continued her ladyship, "don't talk of not having spirits,
you that are all life!--What say you, Belinda?--O yes, you must be the
comic muse; and I, it seems, must be tragedy, because Marriott has a
passion for seeing me 'come sweeping by.' And because Marriott must have
her own way in every thing--she rules me with a rod of iron, my dear, so
tragedy I needs must be.--_Marriott knows her power_."

There was an air of extreme vexation in Lady Delacour's countenance as she
pronounced these last words, in which evidently more was meant than met
the ear. Upon many occasions Miss Portman had observed, that Marriott
exercised despotic authority over her mistress; and she had seen, with
surprise, that a lady, who would not yield an iota of power to her
husband, submitted herself to every caprice of the most insolent of
waiting-women. For some time, Belinda imagined that this submission was
merely an air, as she had seen some other fine ladies proud of appearing
to be governed by a favourite maid; but she was soon convinced that
Marriott was no favourite with Lady Delacour; that her ladyship's was not
_proud humility_, but fear. It seemed certain that a woman, extravagantly
fond of her own _will_, would never have given it up without some very
substantial reason. It seemed as if Marriott was in possession of some
secret, which should for ever remain unknown. This idea had occurred to
Miss Portman more than once, but never so forcibly as upon the present
occasion. There had always been some mystery about her ladyship's
toilette: at certain hours doors were bolted, and it was impossible for
any body but Marriott to obtain admission. Miss Portman at first imagined
that Lady Delacour dreaded the discovery of her cosmetic secrets, but her
ladyship's rouge was so glaring, and her pearl powder was so obvious, that
Belinda was convinced there must be some other cause for this toilette
secrecy. There was a little cabinet beyond her bedchamber, which Lady
Delacour called her boudoir, to which there was an entrance by a back
staircase; but no one ever entered there but Marriott. One night, Lady
Delacour, after dancing with great spirit at a ball, at her own house,
fainted suddenly: Miss Portman attended her to her bedchamber, but
Marriott begged that her lady might be left alone with _her_, and she
would by no means suffer Belinda to follow her into the boudoir. All these
things Belinda recollected in the space of a few seconds, as she stood
contemplating Marriott and the dresses. The hurry of getting ready for the
masquerade, however, dispelled these thoughts, and by the time she was
dressed, the idea of what Clarence Hervey would think of her appearance
was uppermost in her mind. She was anxious to know whether he would
discover her in the character of the comic muse. Lady Delacour was
discontented with her tragic attire, and she grew still more out of humour
with herself, when she saw Belinda.

"I protest Marriott has made a perfect fright of me," said her ladyship,
as she got into her carriage, "and I'm positive my dress would become you
a million of times better than your own."

Miss Portman regretted that it was too late to change.

"Not at all too late, my dear," said Lady Delacour; "never too late for
women to change their minds, their dress, or their lovers. Seriously, you
know, we are to call at my friend Lady Singleton's--she sees masks
to-night: I'm quite intimate there; I'll make her let me step up to her
own room, where no soul can interrupt us, and there we can change our
dresses, and Marriott will know nothing of the matter. Marriott's a
faithful creature, and very fond of me; fond of power too--but who is
not?--we must all have our faults: one would not quarrel with such a good
creature as Marriott for a trifle." Then suddenly changing her tone, she
said, "Not a human being will find us out at the masquerade; for no one
but Mrs. Freke knows that we are the two muses. Clarence Hervey swears he
should know me in any disguise--but I defy him--I shall take special
delight in puzzling him. Harriot Freke has told him, in confidence, that
I'm to be the widow Brady, in man's clothes: now that's to be Harriot's
own character; so Hervey will make fine confusion."

As soon as they got to Lady Singleton's, Lady Delacour and Miss Portman
immediately went up stairs to exchange dresses. Poor Belinda, now that she
felt herself in spirits to undertake the comic muse, was rather vexed to
be obliged to give up her becoming character; but there was no resisting
the polite energy of Lady Delacour's vanity. Her ladyship ran as quick as
lightning into a closet within the dressing-room, saying to Lady
Singleton's woman, who attempted to follow with--"Can I do any thing for
your ladyship?"--"No, no, no--nothing, nothing--thank ye, thank ye,--I
want no assistance--I never let any body do any thing for me but
Marriott;" and she bolted herself in the closet. In a few minutes she half
opened the door, threw out her tragic robes, and cried, "Here, Miss
Portman, give me yours--quick--and let's see whether comedy or tragedy
will be ready first."

"Lord bless and forgive me," said Lady Singleton's woman, when Lady
Delacour at last threw open the door, when she was completely
dressed--"but if your la'ship has not been dressing all this time in that
den, without any thing in the shape of a looking-glass, and not to let me
help! I that should have been so proud."

Lady Delacour put half a guinea into the waiting-maid's hand, laughed
affectedly at her own _whimsicalities_, and declared that she could always
dress herself better without a glass than with one. All this went off
admirably well with every body but Miss Portman; she could not help
thinking it extraordinary that a person who was obviously fond of being
waited upon would never suffer any person to assist her at her toilet
except Marriott, a woman of whom she was evidently afraid. Lady Delacour's
quick eye saw curiosity painted in Belinda's countenance, and for a moment
she was embarrassed; but she soon recovered herself, and endeavoured to
turn the course of Miss Portman's thoughts by whispering to her some
nonsense about Clarence Hervey--a cabalistical name, which she knew had
the power, when pronounced in a certain tone, of throwing Belinda into
confusion.

The first person they saw, when they went into the drawing-room at Lady
Singleton's, was this very Clarence Hervey, who was not in a masquerade
dress. He had laid a wager with one of his acquaintance, that he could
perform the part of the serpent, such as he is seen in Fuseli's well-known
picture. For this purpose he had exerted much ingenuity in the invention
and execution of a length of coiled skin, which he manoeuvred with great
dexterity, by means of internal wires; his grand difficulty had been to
manufacture the rays that were to come from his eyes. He had contrived a
set of phosphoric rays, which he was certain would charm all the fair
daughters of Eve. He forgot, it seems, that phosphorus could not well be
seen by candlelight. When he was just equipped as a serpent, his rays set
fire to part of his _envelope_, and it was with the greatest difficulty
that he was extricated. He escaped unhurt, but his serpent's skin was
utterly consumed; nothing remained but the melancholy spectacle of its
skeleton. He was obliged to give up the hopes of shining at the
masquerade, but he resolved to be at Lady Singleton's that he might meet
Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. The moment that the tragic and comic muse
appeared, he invoked them with much humour and mock pathos, declaring that
he knew not which of them could best sing his adventure. After a recital
of his misfortune had entertained the company, and after the muses had
performed their parts to the satisfaction of the audience and their own,
the conversation ceased to be supported in masquerade character; muses and
harlequins, gipsies and Cleopatras, began to talk of their private
affairs, and of the news and the scandal of the day.

A group of gentlemen, amongst whom was Clarence Hervey, gathered round the
tragic muse; as Mr. Hervey had hinted that he knew she was a person of
distinction, though he would not tell her name. After he had exercised his
wit for some time, without obtaining from the tragic muse one single
syllable, he whispered, "Lady Delacour, why this unnatural reserve? Do you
imagine that, through this tragical disguise, I have not found you out?"

The tragic muse, apparently absorbed in meditation, vouchsafed no reply.

"The devil a word can you get for your pains, Hervey," said a gentleman of
his acquaintance, who joined the party at this instant. "Why didn't you
stick to t'other muse, who, to do her justice, is as arrant a flirt as
your heart could wish for?"

"There's danger in flirting," said Clarence, "with an arrant flirt of Mrs.
Stanhope's training. There's a kind of electricity about that girl. I have
a sort of cobweb feeling, an imaginary net coming all over me."

"Fore-warned is fore-armed," replied his companion: "a man must be a
novice indeed that could be taken in at this time of day by a niece of
Mrs. Stanhope's."

"That Mrs. Stanhope must be a good clever dame, faith," said a third
gentleman: "there's no less than six of her nieces whom she has got off
within these four winters--not one of 'em now that has not made a
catch-match.--There's the eldest of the set, Mrs. Tollemache, what had
she, in the devil's name, to set up with in the world but a pair of good
eyes?--her aunt, to be sure, taught her the use of them early enough: they
might have rolled to all eternity before they would have rolled me out of
my senses; but you see they did Tollemache's business. However, they are
going to part now, I hear: Tollemache was tired of her before the
honey-moon was over, as I foretold. Then there's the musical girl.
Joddrell, who has no more ear than a post, went and married her, because
he had a mind to set up for a connoisseur in music; and Mrs. Stanhope
flattered him that he was one."

The gentlemen joined in the general laugh: the tragic muse sighed.

"Even were she at the School for Scandal, the tragic muse dare not laugh,
except behind her mask," said Clarence Hervey.

"Far be it from her to laugh at those follies which she must for ever
deplore!" said Belinda, in a feigned voice.--"What miseries spring from
these ill-suited marriages! The victims are sacrificed before they have
sense enough to avoid their fate."

Clarence Hervey imagined that this speech alluded to Lady Delacour's own
marriage.

"Damn me if I know any woman, young or old, that would _avoid_ being
married, if she could, though," cried Sir Philip Baddely, a gentleman who
always supplied "each vacuity of sense" with an oath: "but, Rochfort,
didn't Valleton marry one of these nieces?"

"Yes: she was a mighty fine dancer, and had good legs enough: Mrs.
Stanhope got poor Valleton to fight a duel about her place in a country
dance, and then he was so pleased with himself for his prowess, that he
married the girl."

Belinda made an effort to change her seat, but she was encompassed so that
she could not retreat.

"As to Jenny Mason, the fifth of the _nieces_," continued the witty
gentleman, "she was as brown as mahogany, and had neither eyes, nose,
mouth, nor legs: what Mrs. Stanhope could do with her I often wondered;
but she took courage, _rouged_ her up, set her a going as a _dasher_, and
she dashed herself into Tom Levit's curricle, and Tom couldn't get her out
again till she was the honourable Mrs. Levit: she then took the reins into
her own hands, and I hear she's driving him and herself _the road to ruin_
as fast as they can gallop. As for this Belinda Portman, 'twas a good hit
to send her to Lady Delacour's; but, I take it she hangs upon hand; for
last winter, when I was at Bath, she was hawked about every where, and the
aunt was puffing her with might and main. You heard of nothing, wherever
you went, but of Belinda Portman, and Belinda Portman's accomplishments:
Belinda Portman, and her accomplishments, I'll swear, were as well
advertised as Packwood's razor strops."

"Mrs. Stanhope overdid the business, I think," resumed the gentleman who
began the conversation: "girls brought to the hammer this way don't go off
well. It's true, Christie himself is no match for dame Stanhope. Many of
my acquaintance were tempted to go and look at the premises, but not one,
you may be sure, had a thought of becoming a tenant for life."

"That's an honour reserved for you, Clarence Hervey," said another,
tapping him upon the shoulder.--"Give ye joy, Hervey; give ye joy!"

"Me!" said Clarence, starting.

"I'll be hanged if he didn't change colour," said his facetious companion;
and all the young men again joined in a laugh.

"Laugh on, my merry men all!" cried Clarence; "but the devil's in it if I
don't know my own mind better than any of you. You don't imagine I go to
Lady Delacour's to look for a _wife?_--Belinda Portman's a good pretty
girl, but what then? Do you think I'm an idiot?--do you think I could be
taken in by one of the Stanhope school? Do you think I don't see as
plainly as any of you that Belinda Portman's a composition of art and
affectation?"

"Hush--not so loud, Clarence; here she comes," said his companion. "The
comic muse, is not she--?"

Lady Delacour, at this moment, came lightly tripping towards them, and
addressing herself, in the character of the comic muse, to Hervey,
exclaimed,

"Hervey! _my_ Hervey! most favoured of my votaries, why do you forsake me?

    'Why mourns my friend, why weeps his downcast eye?
     That eye where mirth and fancy used to shine.'

Though you have lost your serpent's form, yet you may please any of the
fair daughters of Eve in your own."

Mr. Hervey bowed; all the gentlemen who stood near him smiled; the tragic
muse gave an involuntary sigh.

"Could I borrow a sigh, or a tear, from my tragic sister," pursued Lady
Delacour, "however unbecoming to my character, I would, if only sighs or
tears can win the heart of Clarence Hervey:--let me practise"--and her
ladyship practised sighing with much comic effect.

    "Persuasive words and more persuasive sighs,"

said Clarence Hervey.

"A good bold Stanhope cast of the net, faith," whispered one of his
companions. "Melpomene, hast thou forgot thyself to marble?" pursued Lady
Delacour. "I am not very well," whispered Miss Portman to her ladyship:
"could we get away?"

"Get away from Clarence Hervey, do you mean?" replied her ladyship, in a
whisper: "'tis not easy, but we'll try what can be done, if it is
necessary."

Belinda had no power to reply to this raillery; indeed, she scarcely heard
the words that were said to her; but she put her arm within Lady
Delacour's, who, to her great relief, had the good nature to leave the
room with her immediately. Her ladyship, though she would sacrifice the
feelings of others, without compunction, to her vanity, whenever the power
of her wit was disputed, yet towards those by whom it was acknowledged she
showed some mercy.

"What is the matter with the child?" said she, as she went down the
staircase.

"Nothing, if I could have air," said Belinda. There was a crowd of
servants in the hall.

"Why does Lady Delacour avoid me so pertinaciously? What crime have I
committed, that I was not favoured with one word?" said Clarence Hervey,
who had followed them down stairs, and overtook them in the hall.

"Do see if you can find any of my people," cried Lady Delacour.

"Lady Delacour, the comic muse!" exclaimed Mr. Hervey. "I thought--"

"No matter what you thought," interrupted her ladyship. "Let my carriage
draw up, for here's a young friend of yours trembling so about _nothing_,
that I am half afraid she will faint; and you know it would not be so
pleasant to faint here amongst footmen. Stay! this room is empty. O, I did
not mean to tell _you_ to stay," said she to Hervey, who involuntarily
followed her in the utmost consternation.

"I'm perfectly well, now--perfectly well," said Belinda.

"Perfectly a simpleton, I think," said Lady Delacour. "Nay, my dear, you
must be ruled; your mask must come off: didn't you tell me you wanted
air?--What now! This is not the first time Clarence Hervey has ever seen
your face without a mask, is it? It's the first time indeed he, or anybody
else, ever saw it of such a colour, I believe."

When Lady Delacour pulled off Belinda's mask, her face was, during the
first instant, pale; the next moment, crimsoned over with a burning blush.

"What is the matter with ye both? How he stands!" said Lady Delacour,
turning to Mr. Hervey. "Did you never see a woman blush before?--or did
you never say or do any thing to make a woman blush before? Will you give
Miss Portman a glass of water?--there's some behind you on that sideboard,
man!--but he has neither eyes, ears, nor understanding.--Do go about your
business," said her ladyship, pushing him towards the door--"Do go about
your business, for I haven't common patience with you: on my conscience I
believe the man's in love--and not with me! That's sal-volatile for you,
child, I perceive," continued she to Belinda. "O, you can walk now--but
remember you are on slippery ground: remember Clarence Hervey is not a
marrying man, and you are not a married woman."

"It is perfectly indifferent to me, madam," Belinda said, with a voice and
look of proud indignation.

"Lady Delacour, your carriage has drawn up," said Clarence Hervey,
returning to the door, but without entering.

"Then put this 'perfectly well' and 'perfectly indifferent' lady into it,"
said Lady Delacour.

He obeyed without uttering a syllable.

"Dumb! absolutely dumb! I protest," said her ladyship, as he handed her in
afterwards. "Why, Clarence, the casting of your serpent's skin seems to
have quite changed your nature--nothing but the simplicity of the dove
left; and I expect to hear, you cooing presently--don't you, Miss
Portman?" She ordered the coachman to drive to the Pantheon.

"To the Pantheon! I was in hopes your ladyship would have the goodness to
set me down at home; for indeed I shall be a burden to you and everybody
else at the masquerade."

"If you have made any appointment for the rest of the evening in
Berkley-square, I'll set you down, certainly, if you insist upon it, my
dear--for punctuality is a virtue; but prudence is a virtue too, in a
young lady; who, as your aunt Stanhope would say, has to _establish_
herself in the world. Why these tears, Belinda?--or are they tears? for by
the light of the lamps I can scarcely tell; though I'll swear I saw the
handkerchief at the eyes. What is the meaning of all this? You'd best
trust me--for I know as much of men and manners as your aunt Stanhope at
least; and in one word, you have nothing to fear from me, and every thing
to hope from yourself, if you will only dry up your tears, _keep on your
mask_, and take my advice; you'll find it as good as your aunt
Stanhope's."

"My aunt Stanhope's! O," cried Belinda, "never, never more will I take
such advice; never more will I expose myself to be insulted as a female
adventurer.--Little did I know in what a light I appeared; little did I
know what _gentlemen_ thought of my aunt Stanhope, of my cousins, of
myself!"

"_Gentlemen_! I presume Clarence Hervey stands at this instant, in your
imagination, as the representative of all the gentlemen in England; and
he, instead of Anacharsis Cloots, is now, to be sure, l'orateur du genre
humain. Pray let me have a specimen of the eloquence, which, to judge by
its effects, must be powerful indeed."

Miss Portman, not without some reluctance, repeated the conversation which
she had heard.--"And is this all?" cried Lady Delacour. "Lord, my dear,
you must either give up living in the world, or expect to hear yourself,
and your aunts, and your cousins, and your friends, from generation to
generation, abused every hour in the day by their friends and your
friends; 'tis the common course of things. Now you know what a multitude
of obedient humble servants, dear creatures, and very sincere and most
affectionate friends, I have in my writing-desk, and on my mantel-piece,
not to mention the cards which crowd the common rack from intimate
acquaintance, who cannot live without the honour, or favour, or pleasure
of seeing Lady Delacour twice a week;--do you think I'm fool enough to
imagine that they would care the hundredth part of a straw if I were this
minute thrown into the Red or the Black Sea?--No, I have not one _real_
friend in the world except Harriot Freke; yet, you see I am the comic
muse, and mean to keep it up--keep it up to the last--on purpose to
provoke those who would give their eyes to be able to pity me;--I humbly
thank them, no pity for Lady Delacour. Follow my example, Belinda; elbow
your way through the crowd: if you stop to be civil and beg pardon, and
'_hope I didn't hurt ye_,' you will be trod under foot. Now you'll meet
those young men continually who took the liberty of laughing at your aunt,
and your cousins, and yourself; they are men of fashion. Show them you've
no feeling, and they'll acknowledge you for a woman of fashion. You'll
marry better than any of your cousins,--Clarence Hervey if you can; and
then it will be your turn to laugh about nets and cages. As to love and
all that--"

The carriage stopped at the Pantheon just as her ladyship came to the
words "love and all that." Her thoughts took a different turn, and during
the remainder of the night she exhibited, in such a manner as to attract
universal admiration, all the ease, and grace, and gaiety, of Euphrosyne.

To Belinda the night appeared long and dull: the commonplace wit of
chimney-sweepers and gipsies, the antics of harlequins, the graces of
flower-girls and Cleopatras, had not power to amuse her; for her thoughts
still recurred to that conversation which had given her so much pain--a
pain which Lady Delacour's raillery had failed to obliterate.

"How happy you are, Lady Delacour," said she, when they got into the
carriage to go home; "how happy you are to have such an amazing flow of
spirits!"

"Amazing you might well say, if you knew all," said Lady Delacour; and she
heaved a deep sigh, threw herself back in the carriage, let fall her mask,
and was silent. It was broad daylight, and Belinda had a full view of her
countenance, which was the picture of despair. She uttered not one
syllable more, nor had Miss Portman the courage to interrupt her
meditations till they came within sight, of Lady Singleton's, when Belinda
ventured to remind her that she had resolved to stop there and change
dresses before Marriott saw them.

"No, it's no matter," said Lady Delacour; "Marriott will leave me at the
last, like all the rest--'tis no matter." Her ladyship sunk back into her
former attitude; but after she had remained silent for some minutes, she
started up and exclaimed--

"If I had served myself with half the zeal that I have served the world, I
should not now be thus forsaken! I have sacrificed reputation, happiness,
every thing to the love of frolic:--all frolic will soon be at an end with
me--I am dying--and I shall die unlamented by any human being. If I were
to live my life over again, what a different life it should be!--What a
different person _I would be!_[1]--But it is all over now--I am dying."

Belinda's astonishment at these words, and at the solemn manner in which
they were pronounced, was inexpressible; she gazed at Lady Delacour, and
then repeated the word,--'dying!'--"Yes, dying!" said Lady Delacour.

"But you seem to me, and to all the world, in perfect health; and but half
an hour ago in perfect spirits," said Belinda.

"I seem to you and to all the world, what I am not--I tell you I am
dying," said her ladyship in an emphatic tone.

Not a word more passed till they got home. Lady Delacour hurried up
stairs, bidding Belinda follow her to her dressing-room. Marriott was
lighting the six wax candles on the dressing-table.--"As I live, they have
changed dresses after all," said Marriott to herself, as she fixed her
eyes upon Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. "I'll be burnt, if I don't make
my lady remember this."

"Marriott, you need not wait; I'll ring when I want you," said Lady
Delacour; and taking one of the candles from the table, she passed on
hastily with Miss Portman through her dressing-room, through her
bedchamber, and to the door of the mysterious cabinet.

"Marriott, the key of this door," cried she impatiently, after she had in
vain attempted to open it.

"Heavenly graciousness!" cried Marriott; "is my lady out of her senses?"

"The key--the key--quick, the key," repeated Lady Delacour, in a
peremptory tone. She seized it as soon as Marriott drew it from her
pocket, and unlocked the door.

"Had not I best put _the things_ to rights, my lady?" said Marriott,
catching fast hold of the opening door.

"I'll ring when you are wanted, Marriott," said Lady Delacour; and pushing
open the door with violence she rushed forward to the middle of the room,
and turning back, she beckoned to Belinda to follow her--"Come in; what is
it you are afraid of?" said she. Belinda went on, and the moment she was
in the room, Lady Delacour shut and locked the door. The room was rather
dark, as there was no light in it except what came from the candle which
Lady Delacour held in her hand, and which burned but dimly. Belinda, as
she looked round, saw nothing but a confusion of linen rags; vials, some
empty, some full, and she perceived that there was a strong smell of
medicines.

Lady Delacour, whose motions were all precipitate, like those of a person
whose mind is in great agitation, looked from side to side of the room,
without seeming to know what she was in search of. She then, with a
species of fury, wiped the paint from her face, and returning to Belinda,
held the candle so as to throw the light full upon her livid features. Her
eyes were sunk, her cheeks hollow; no trace of youth or beauty remained on
her death-like countenance, which formed a horrid contrast with her gay
fantastic dress.

"You are shocked, Belinda," said she; "but as yet you have seen
nothing--look here,"--and baring one half of her bosom, she revealed a
hideous spectacle.

Belinda sunk back into a chair; Lady Delacour flung herself on her knees
before her.

"Am I humbled, am I wretched enough?" cried she, her voice trembling with
agony. "Yes, pity me for what you have seen, and a thousand times more for
that which you cannot see:--my mind is eaten away like my body by
incurable disease--inveterate remorse--remorse for a life of folly--of
folly which has brought on me all the punishments of guilt."

"My husband," continued she, and her voice suddenly altered from the tone
of grief to that of anger--"my husband hates me--no matter--I despise
him. His relations hate me--no matter--I despise them. My own relations
hate me--no matter, I never wish to see them more--never shall they see my
sorrow--never shall they hear a complaint, a sigh from me. There is no
torture which I could not more easily endure than their insulting pity. I
will die, as I have lived, the envy and admiration of the world. When I am
gone, let them find out their mistake; and moralize, if they will, over my
grave." She paused. Belinda had no power to speak.

"Promise, swear to me," resumed Lady Delacour vehemently, seizing
Belinda's hand, "that you will never reveal to any mortal what you have
seen and heard this night. No living creature suspects that Lady Delacour
is dying by inches, except Marriott and that woman whom but a few hours
ago I thought my _real friend_, to whom I trusted every secret of my life,
every thought of my heart. Fool! idiot! dupe that I was to trust to the
friendship of a woman whom I knew to be without principle: but I thought
she had honour; I thought she could never betray _me_,--O Harriot!
Harriot! you to desert me!--Any thing else I could have borne--but you,
who I thought would have supported me in the tortures of mind and body
which I am to go through--you that I thought would receive my last breath
--you to desert me!--Now I am alone in the world--left to the mercy of an
insolent waiting-woman."

Lady Delacour hid her face in Belinda's lap, and almost stifled by the
violence of contending emotions, she at last gave vent to them, and sobbed
aloud.

"Trust to one," said Belinda, pressing her hand, with all the tenderness
which humanity could dictate, "who will never leave you at the mercy of an
insolent waiting-woman--trust to me."

"Trust to you!" said Lady Delacour, looking up eagerly in Belinda's face;
"yes--I think--I may trust to you; for though a niece of Mrs. Stanhope's,
I have seen this day, and have seen with surprise, symptoms of artless
feeling about you. This was what tempted me to open my mind to you when I
found that I had lost the only friend--but I will think no more of
that--if you have a heart, you must feel for me.--Leave me now--tomorrow
you shall hear my whole history--now I am quite exhausted--ring for
Marriott." Marriott appeared with a face of constrained civility and
latent rage. "Put me to bed, Marriott," said Lady Delacour, with a subdued
voice; "but first light Miss Portman to her room--she need not--yet--see
the horrid business of my toilette."

Belinda, when she was left alone, immediately opened her shutters, and
threw up the sash, to refresh herself with the morning air. She felt
excessively fatigued, and in the hurry of her mind she could not think of
any thing distinctly. She took off her masquerade dress, and went to bed
in hopes of forgetting, for a few hours, what she felt indelibly impressed
upon her imagination. But it was in vain that she endeavoured to compose
herself to sleep; her ideas were in too great and painful confusion. For
some time, whenever she closed her eyes, the face and form of Lady
Delacour, such as she had just beheld them, seemed to haunt her;
afterwards, the idea of Clarence Hervey, and the painful recollection of
the conversation she had overheard, recurred to her: the words, "Do you
think I don't know that Belinda Portman is a composition of art and
affectation?" fixed in her memory. She recollected with the utmost
minuteness every look of contempt which she had seen in the faces of the
young men whilst they spoke of Mrs. Stanhope, the match-maker. Belinda's
mind, however, was not yet sufficiently calm to reflect; she seemed only
to live over again the preceding night. At last, the strange motley
figures which she had seen at the masquerade flitted before her eyes, and
she sunk into an uneasy slumber.




CHAPTER III.

LADY DELACOUR'S HISTORY.


Miss Portman was awakened by the ringing of Lady Delacour's bedchamber
bell. She opened her eyes with the confused idea that something
disagreeable had happened; and before she had distinctly recollected
herself, Marriott came to her bedside, with a note from Lady Delacour: it
was written with a pencil.

"DELACOUR--_my_ lord!!!! is to have to-day what Garrick used to call a
_gander feast_--will you dine with me tete-a-tete, and I'll write an
_excuse_, alias a lie, to Lady Singleton, in the form of a charming
note--I pique myself _sur l'eloquence du billet_--then we shall have the
evening to ourselves. I have much to say, as people usually have when they
begin to talk of themselves.

"I have taken a double dose of opium, and am not so horribly out of
spirits as I was last night; so you need not be afraid of another _scene_.

"Let me see you in my dressing-room, dear Belinda, as soon as you have
adored

    'With head uncover'd the cosmetic powers.'

"But you don't paint--no matter--you will--you must--every body must,
sooner or later. In the mean time, whenever you want to send a note that
shall not be opened by _the bearer_, put your trust neither in wafer nor
wax, but twist it as I twist mine. You see I wish to put you in possession
of some valuable secrets before I leave this world--this, by-the-bye, I
don't, upon second thoughts, which are always best, mean to do yet. There
certainly were such people as Amazons--I hope you admire them--for who
could live without the admiration of Belinda Portman?--not Clarence
Hervey assuredly--nor yet

"T. C. H. DELACOUR."

Belinda obeyed the summons to her ladyship's dressing-room: she found Lady
Delacour with her face completely repaired with paint, and her spirits
with opium. She was in high consultation with Marriott and Mrs. Franks,
the milliner, about the crape petticoat of her birthnight dress, which was
extended over a large hoop in full state. Mrs. Franks descanted long and
learnedly upon festoons and loops, knots and fringes, submitting all the
time every thing to her ladyship's better judgment.

Marriott was sulky and silent. She opened her lips but once upon the
question of laburnum or no laburnum flowers.

Against them she quoted the memoirs and authority of the celebrated Mrs.
Bellamy, who has a case in point to prove that "straw colour must ever
look like dirty white by candlelight." Mrs. Franks, to compromise the
matter, proposed gold laburnums, "because nothing can look better by
candlelight, or any light, than gold;" and Lady Delacour, who was afraid
that the milliner's imagination, now that it had once touched upon gold,
might be led to the vulgar idea of _ready money_, suddenly broke up the
conference, by exclaiming,

"We shall be late at Phillips's exhibition of French china. Mrs. Franks
must let us see her again to-morrow, to take into consideration your court
dress, my dear Belinda--'Miss Portman presented by Lady Delacour'--Mrs.
Franks, let her dress, for heaven's sake, be something that will make a
fine paragraph:--I give you four-and-twenty hours to think of it. I have
done a horrid act this day," continued she, after Mrs. Franks had left the
room--"absolutely written a _twisted_ note to Clarence Hervey, my
dear--but why did I tell you that? Now your head will run upon the twisted
note all day, instead of upon 'The Life and Opinions of a Lady of Quality,
related by herself.'"

After dinner Lady Delacour having made Belinda protest and blush, and
blush and protest, that her head was not running upon the twisted note,
began the history of her life and opinions in the following manner:--

"I do nothing by halves, my dear. I shall not tell you my adventures as
Gil Blas told his to the Count d'Olivarez--skipping over the _useful_
passages. I am no hypocrite, and have nothing worse than folly to conceal:
that's bad enough--for a woman who is known to play the fool is always
suspected of playing the devil. But I begin where I ought to end--with my
moral, which I dare say you are not impatient to anticipate. I never read
or listened to a moral at the end of a story in my life:--manners for me,
and morals for those that like them. My dear, you will be woefully
disappointed if in my story you expect any thing like a novel. I once
heard a general say, that nothing was less like a review than a battle;
and I can tell you that nothing is more unlike a novel than real life. Of
all lives, mine has been the least romantic. No love in it, but a great
deal of hate. I was a rich heiress--I had, I believe, a hundred thousand
pounds, or more, and twice as many caprices: I was handsome and witty--or,
to speak with that kind of circumlocution which is called humility, the
world, the partial world, thought me a beauty and a bel-esprit. Having
told you my fortune, need I add, that I, or it, had lovers in
abundance--of all sorts and degrees--not to reckon those, it may be
presumed, who died of concealed passions for me? I had sixteen
declarations and proposals in form; then what in the name of wonder, or of
common sense--which by-the-bye is the greatest of wonders--what, in the
name of common sense, made me marry Lord Delacour? Why, my dear, you--no,
not _you_, but any girl who is not used to have a parcel of admirers,
would think it the easiest thing in the world to make her choice; but let
her judge by what she feels when a dexterous mercer or linen-draper
produces pretty thing after pretty thing--and this is so becoming, and
this will wear for ever, as he swears; but then that's so
fashionable;--the novice stands in a charming perplexity, and after
examining, and doubting, and tossing over half the goods in the shop, it's
ten to one, when it begins to get late, the young lady, in a hurry,
pitches upon the very ugliest and worst thing that she has seen. Just so
it was with me and my lovers, and just so--

   'Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,'

I pitched upon Viscount Delacour for my lord and judge. He had just at
that time lost at Newmarket more than he was worth in every sense of the
word; and my fortune was the most convenient thing in the world to a man
in his condition. Lozenges are of sovereign use in some complaints. The
heiress lozenge is a specific in some consumptions. You are surprised
that I can laugh and jest about such a melancholy thing as my marriage
with Lord Delacour; and so am I, especially when I recollect all the
circumstances; for though I bragged of there being no love in my
history, there was when I was a goose or a gosling of about eighteen--
just your age, Belinda, I think--something very like love playing about
my heart, or my head. There was a certain Henry Percival, a Clarence
Hervey of a man--no, he had ten times the sense, begging your pardon, of
Clarence Hervey--his misfortune, or mine, was, that he had too much sense
--he was in love with me, but not with my faults; now I, wisely
considering that my faults were the greatest part of me, insisted upon
his being in love with my faults. He wouldn't, or couldn't--I said
wouldn't, he said couldn't. I had been used to see the men about me lick
the dust at my feet, for it was gold dust. Percival made wry faces--Lord
Delacour made none. I pointed him out to Percival as an example--it was
an example he would not follow. I was provoked, and I married in hopes
of provoking the man I loved. The worst of it was, I did not provoke him
as much as I expected. Six months afterwards I heard of his marriage
with a very amiable woman. I hate those _very amiable women_. Poor
Percival! I should have been a very happy woman, I fancy, if I had
married you--for I believe you were the only man who ever really loved
me; but all that is over now!--Where were we? O, I married my Lord
Delacour, knowing him to be a fool, and believing that, for this reason,
I should find no trouble in governing him. But what a fatal mistake!-a
fool, of all animals in the creation, is the most difficult to govern.
We set out in the fashionable world with a mutual desire to be as
extravagant as possible. Strange, that with this similarity of taste we
could never agree!--strange, that this similarity of taste was the cause
of our perpetual quarrels! During the first year of our marriage, I had
always the upper hand in these disputes, and the last word; and I was
content. Stubborn as the brute was, I thought I should in time break him
in. From the specimens you have seen, you may guess that I was even then
a tolerable proficient in the dear art of _tormenting_. I had almost
gained my point, just broken my lord's heart, when one fair morning I
unluckily told his man Champfort that he knew no more how to cut hair
than a sheep-shearer. Champfort, who is conceit personified, took mortal
offence at this; and the devil, who is always at hand to turn anger into
malice, put it into Champfort's head to put it into my lord's head, that
the world thought--'_My lady governed him_.' My lord took fire. They say
the torpedo, the coldest of cold creatures, sometimes gives out a
spark--I suppose when electrified with anger. The next time that
innocent I insisted upon my Lord Delacour's doing or not doing--I forget
which--the most reasonable thing in the world, my lord turns short
round, and answers--'My Lady Delacour, I am not a man to be governed by
a wife.'--And from that time to this the words, 'I am not a man to be
governed by a wife,' have been written in his obstinate face, as all the
world who can read the human countenance may see. My dear, I laugh; but
even in the midst of laughter there is sadness. But you don't know what
it is--I hope you never may--to have an obstinate fool for a
bosom friend.

"I at first flattered myself that my lord's was not an inveterate,
incurable malady: but from his obvious weakness, I might have seen that
there was no hope; for cases of obstinacy are always dangerous in
proportion to the weakness of the patient. My lord's case was desperate.
Kill or cure was my humane or prudent maxim. I determined to try the
poison of jealousy, by way of an alterative. I had long kept it in petto
as my ultimate remedy. I fixed upon a proper subject--a man with whom I
thought that I could coquette to all eternity, without any danger to
myself--a certain Colonel Lawless, as empty a coxcomb as you would wish to
see. The world, said I to myself, can never be so absurd as to suspect
Lady Delacour with such a man as this, though her lord may, and will; for
nothing is too absurd for him to believe. Half my theory proved just; that
is saying a great deal for any theory. My lord swallowed the remedy that I
had prepared for him with an avidity and a bonhommie which it did me good
to behold; my remedy operated beyond my most sanguine expectations. The
poor man was cured of his obstinacy, and became stark mad with jealousy.
Then indeed I had some hopes of him; for a madman can be managed, a fool
cannot. In a month's time I made him quite docile. With a face longer than
the weeping philosopher's, he came to me one morning, and assured me, 'he
would do every thing I pleased, provided I would consult my own honour and
his, and give up Colonel Lawless.'

"'Give up!'--I could hardly forbear laughing at the expression. I replied,
'that as long as my lord treated me with becoming respect, I had never in
thought or deed given him just cause of complaint; but that I was not a
woman to be insulted, or to be kept, as I had hitherto been, in
leading-strings by a husband.' My lord, flattered as I meant he should be
with the idea that it was possible he should be suspected of keeping a
wife in leading-strings, fell to making protestations--'He hoped his
future conduct would prove,' &c. Upon this hint, I gave the reins to my
imagination, and full drive I went into a fresh career of extravagance: if
I were checked, it was _an insult_, and I began directly to talk of
_leading-strings_. This ridiculous game I played successfully enough for
some time, till at length, though naturally rather slow at calculation, he
actually discovered, that if we lived at the rate of twenty thousand
a-year, and had only ten thousand a-year to spend, we should in due time
have nothing left. This notable discovery he communicated to me one
morning, after a long preamble. When he had finished prosing, I agreed
that it was demonstrably just that he should retrench _his_ expenses; but
that it was equally unjust and impossible that I could make any
reformation in _my_ civil list: that economy was a word which I had never
heard of in my life till I married his lordship; that, upon second
recollection, it was true I had heard of such a thing as national economy,
and that it would be a very pretty, though rather hackneyed topic of
declamation for a maiden speech in the House of Lords. I therefore advised
him to reserve all he had to say upon the subject for the noble lord upon
the woolsack; nay, I very graciously added, that upon this condition I
would go to the house myself to give his arguments and eloquence a fair
hearing, and that I would do my best to keep myself awake. This was all
mighty playful and witty; but it happened that my Lord Delacour, who never
had any great taste for wit, could not this unlucky morning at all relish
it. Of course I grew angry, and reminded him, with an indelicacy which his
want of generosity justified, that an heiress, who had brought a hundred
thousand pounds into his family, had some right to amuse herself, and that
it was not my fault if elegant amusements were more expensive than others.

"Then came a long criminating and recriminating chapter. It was, 'My lord,
your Newmarket blunders'--'My lady, your cursed _theatricals_'--'My lord,
I have surely a right'--and, 'My lady, I have surely as good a right.'

"But, my dear Belinda, however we might pay one another, we could not pay
all the world with words. In short, after running through thousands and
tens of thousands, we were actually in distress for money. Then came
selling of lands, and I don't know what devices for raising money,
according to the modes of lawyers and attorneys. It was quite indifferent
to me how they got money, provided they did get it. By what art these
gentlemen raised money, I never troubled myself to inquire; it might have
been the black art, for any thing I know to the contrary. I know nothing
of business. So I signed all the papers they brought to me; and I was
mighty well pleased to find, that by so easy an expedient as writing 'T.
C. H. Delacour,' I could command money at will. I signed, and signed, till
at last I was with all due civility informed that my signature was no
longer worth a farthing; and when I came to inquire into the cause of this
phenomenon, I could nowise understand what my Lord Delacour's lawyer said
to me: he was a prig, and I had not patience either to listen to him or to
look at him. I sent for an old uncle of mine, who used to manage all my
money matters before I was married: I put the uncle and the lawyer into a
room, together with their parchments, to fight the matter out, or to come
to a right understanding if they could. The last, it seems, was quite
impossible. In the course of half an hour, out comes my uncle in such a
rage! I never shall forget his face--all the bile in his body had gotten
into it; he had literally no whites to his eyes. 'My dear uncle,' said I,
'what is the matter? Why, you are absolutely gold stick in waiting.'

"'No matter what I am, child,' said the uncle; 'I'll tell you what you
are, with all your wit--a dupe: 'tis a shame for a woman of your sense to
be such a fool, and to know nothing of business; and if you knew nothing
yourself, could not you send for me?'

"'I was too ignorant to know that I know nothing,' said I. But I will not
trouble you with all the said I's and said he's. I was made to understand,
that if Lord Delacour were to die the next day, I should live a beggar.
Upon this I grew serious, as you may imagine. My uncle assured me that I
had been grossly imposed upon by my lord and his lawyer; and that I had
been swindled out of my senses, and out of my dower. I repeated all that
my uncle said, very faithfully, to Lord Delacour; and all that either he
or his lawyer could furnish out by way of answer was, that 'Necessity had
no law.' Necessity, it must be allowed, though it might be the mother of
law, was never with my lord the mother of invention. Having now found out
that I had a good right to complain, I indulged myself in it most
gloriously; in short, my dear, we had a comfortable family quarrel. Love
quarrels are easily made up, but of money quarrels there is no end. From
the moment these money quarrels commenced, I began to hate Lord Delacour;
before, I had only despised him. You can have no notion to what meanness
extravagance reduces men. I have known Lord Delacour shirk, and look so
shabby, and tell so many lies to people about a hundred guineas--a hundred
guineas!--what do I say?--about twenty, ten, five! O, my dear, I cannot
bear the thoughts of it!

"But I was going on to tell you, that my good uncle and all my relations
quarrelled with me for having ruined myself, as they said; but I said they
quarrelled with me for fear I should ask them for some of their '_vile
trash_.' Accordingly, I abused and ridiculed them, one and all; and for my
pains, all my acquaintance said, that 'Lady Delacour was a woman of a vast
deal of spirit.'

"We were relieved from our money embarrassments by the timely death of a
rich nobleman, to whose large estate my Lord Delacour was heir-at-law. I
was intoxicated with the idle compliments of all my acquaintance, and I
endeavoured to console myself for misery at home by gaiety abroad.
Ambitious of pleasing universally, I became the worst of slaves---a slave
to the world. Not a moment of my time was at my own disposal--not one of
my actions; I may say, not one of my thoughts was my own; I was obliged to
find things 'charming' every hour, which tired me to death; and every day
it was the same dull round of hypocrisy and dissipation. You wonder to
hear me speak in this manner, Belinda--but one must speak the truth
sometimes; and this is what I have been saying to Harriot Freke
continually, for these ten years past. Then why persist in the same kind
of life? you say. Why, my dear, because I could not stop: I was fit for
this kind of life and for no other: I could not be happy at _home_; for
what sort of a companion could I have made of Lord Delacour? By this time
he was tired of his horse Potatoe, and his horse Highflyer, and his horse
Eclipse, and Goliah, and Jenny Grey, &c.; and he had taken to hard
drinking, which soon turned him, as you see, quite into a beast.

"I forgot to tell you that I had three children during the first five
years of my marriage. The first was a boy: he was born dead; and my lord,
and all his odious relations, laid the blame upon me, because I would not
be kept prisoner half a year by an old mother of his, a vile Cassandra,
who was always prophesying that my child would not be born alive. My
second child was a girl; but a poor diminutive, sickly thing. It was the
fashion at this time for fine mothers to suckle their own children: so
much the worse for the poor brats. Fine nurses never made fine children.
There was a prodigious rout made about the matter; a vast deal of
sentiment and sympathy, and compliments and inquiries; but after the
novelty was over, I became heartily sick of the business; and at the end
of about three months my poor child was sick too--I don't much like to
think of it--it died. If I had put it out to nurse, I should have been
thought by my friends an unnatural mother; but I should have saved its
life. I should have bewailed the loss of the infant more, if Lord
Delacour's relations and my own had not made such lamentations upon the
occasion that I was stunned. I couldn't or wouldn't shed a tear; and I
left it to the old dowager to perform in public, as she wished, the part
of chief mourner, and to comfort herself in private by lifting up her
hands and eyes, and railing at me as the most insensible of mothers. All
this time I suffered more than she did; but that is what she shall never
have the satisfaction of knowing. I determined, that if ever I had another
child, I would not have the barbarity to nurse it myself. Accordingly when
my third child, a girl, was born, I sent it off immediately to the
country, to a stout, healthy, broad-faced nurse, under whose care it grew
and flourished; so that at three years old, when it was brought back to
me, I could scarcely believe the chubby little thing was my own child. The
same reasons which convinced me I ought not to nurse my own child,
determined me, _a plus forte raison_, not to undertake its education. Lord
Delacour could not bear the child, because it was not a boy. The girl was
put under the care of a governess, who plagued my heart out with her airs
and tracasseries for three or four years; at the end of which time, as she
turned out to be Lord Delacour's mistress in form, I was obliged--in
form--to beg she would leave my house: and I put her pupil into better
hands, I hope, at a celebrated academy for young ladies. There she will,
at any rate, be better instructed than she could be at home. I beg your
pardon, my dear, for this digression on nursing and schooling; but I
wanted only to explain to you why it was that, when I was weary of the
business, I still went on in a course of dissipation. You see I had
nothing at home, either in the shape of husband or children, to engage my
affections. I believe it was this 'aching void' in my heart which made me,
after looking abroad some time for a bosom friend, take such a prodigious
fancy to Mrs. Freke. She was just then coming into fashion; she struck me,
the first time I met her, as being downright ugly; but there was a wild
oddity in her countenance which made one stare at her, and she was
delighted to be stared at, especially by me; so we were mutually agreeable
to each other--I as starer, and she as staree. Harriot Freke had, without
comparison, more assurance than any man or woman I ever saw; she was
downright brass, but of the finest kind--Corinthian brass. She was one of
the first who brought what I call _harum scarum_ manners into fashion. I
told you that she had assurance--_impudence_ I should have called it, for
no other word is strong enough. Such things as I have heard Harriot Freke
say!---You will not believe it--but her conversation at first absolutely
made me, like an old-fashioned fool, wish I had a fan to play with. But,
to my astonishment, all this _took_ surprisingly with a set of fashionable
young men. I found it necessary to _reform_ my manners. If I had not taken
heart of grace, and publicly abjured the heresies of _false delicacy_, I
should have been excommunicated. Lady Delacour's sprightly elegance--allow
me to speak of myself in the style in which the newspaper writers talk of
me--Lady Delacour's sprightly elegance was but pale, not to say _faded_
pink, compared with the scarlet of Mrs. Freke's dashing audacity. As my
rival, she would on certain ground have beat me hollow; it was therefore
good policy to make her my friend: we joined forces, and nothing could
stand against us. But I have no right to give myself credit for good
policy in forming this intimacy; I really followed the dictates of my
heart or my imagination. There was a frankness in Harriot's manner which I
mistook for artlessness of character: she spoke with such unbounded
freedom on certain subjects, that I gave her credit for unbounded
sincerity on all subjects: she had the talent of making the world believe
_that_ virtue to be invulnerable by nature which disdained the common
outworks of art for its defence. I, amongst others, took it for granted,
that the woman who could make it her sport to 'touch the brink of all we
hate,' must have a stronger head than other people. I have since been
convinced, however, of my mistake. I am persuaded that few can touch the
brink without tumbling headlong down the precipice. Don't apply this, my
dear, _literally_, to the person of whom we were speaking; I am not base
enough to betray her secrets, however I may have been provoked by her
treachery. Of her character and history you shall hear nothing but what is
necessary for my own justification. The league of amity between us was
scarcely ratified before my Lord Delacour came, with his wise
remonstrating face, to beg me 'to consider what was due to my own honour
and his.' Like the cosmogony-man in the Vicar of Wakefield, he came out
over and over with this cant phrase, which had once stood him in stead.
'Do you think, my lord,' said I, 'that because I gave up poor Lawless to
oblige you, I shall give up all common sense to suit myself to your taste?
Harriot Freke is visited by every body but old dowagers and old maids: I
am neither an old dowager nor an old maid--the consequence is obvious, my
lord.' Pertness in dialogue, my dear, often succeeds better with my lord
than wit: I therefore saved the sterling gold, and bestowed upon him
nothing but counters. I tell you this to save the credit of my taste and
judgment.

"But to return to my friendship for Harriot Freke. I, of course, repeated
to her every word which had passed between my husband and me. She
out-heroded Herod upon the occasion; and laughed so much at what she
called my folly in _pleading guilty_ in the Lawless cause, that I was
downright ashamed of myself, and, purely to prove my innocence, I
determined, upon the first convenient opportunity, to renew my intimacy
with the colonel. The opportunity which I so ardently desired of redeeming
my independence was not long wanting. Lawless, as my stars (which you know
are always more in fault than ourselves) would have it, returned just at
this time from the continent, where he had been with his regiment; he
returned with a wound across his forehead and a black fillet, which made
him look something more like a hero, and ten times more like a coxcomb,
than ever. He was in fashion, at all events; and amongst other ladies,
Mrs. Luttridge, odious Mrs. Luttridge! smiled upon him. The colonel,
however, had taste enough to know the difference between smile and smile:
he laid himself and his laurels at my feet, and I carried him and them
about in triumph. Wherever I went, especially to Mrs. Luttridge's, envy
and scandal joined hands to attack me, and I heard wondering and
whispering wherever I went. I had no object in view but to provoke my
husband; therefore, conscious of the purity of my intentions, it was my
delight to brave the opinion of the wondering world. I gave myself no
concern about the effect my coquetry might have upon the object of this
flirtation. Poor Lawless! Heart, I took it for granted, he had none; how
should a coxcomb come by a heart? Vanity I knew he had in abundance, but
this gave me no alarm, as I thought that if it should ever make him forget
him self, I mean forget what was due to me, I could, by one flash of my
wit, strike him to the earth, or blast him for ever. One night we had been
together at Mrs. Luttridge's;--she, amongst other good things, kept a faro
bank, and, I am convinced, cheated. Be that as it may, I lost an immensity
of money, and it was my pride to lose with as much gaiety as any body else
could win; so I was, or appeared to be, in uncommonly high spirits, and
Lawless had his share of my good humour. We left Mrs. Luttridge's together
early, about half-past one. As the colonel was going to hand me to my
carriage, a smart-looking young man, as I thought, came up close to the
coach door, and stared me full in the face: I was not a woman to be
disconcerted at such a thing as this, but I really was startled when the
young fellow jumped into the carriage after me: I thought he was mad: I
had only courage enough to scream. Lawless seized hold of the intruder to
drag him out, and out he dragged the youth, exclaiming, in a high tone,
'What is the meaning of all this, sir? Who the devil are you? My name's
Lawless: who the devil are you?' The answer to this was a convulsion of
laughter. By the laugh I knew it to be Harriot Freke. 'Who am I? only a
Freke!' cried she: 'shake hands.' I gave her my hand, into the carriage
she sprang, and desired the colonel to follow her: Lawless laughed, we all
laughed, and drove away. 'Where do you think I've been?' said Harriot; 'in
the gallery of the House of Commons; almost squeezed to death these four
hours; but I swore I'd hear Sheridan's speech to-night, and I did; betted
fifty guineas I would with Mrs. Luttridge, and have won. Fun and Freke for
ever, huzza!' Harriot was mad with spirits, and so noisy and unmanageable,
that, as I told her, I was sure she was drunk. Lawless, in his silly way,
laughed incessantly, and I was so taken up with her oddities, that, for
some time, I did not perceive we were going the Lord knows where; till, at
last, when the 'larum of Harriot's voice ceased for an instant, I was
struck with the strange sound of the carriage. 'Where are we? not upon the
stones, I'm sure,' said I; and putting my head out of the window, I saw we
were beyond the turnpike. 'The coachman's drunk as well as you, Harriot,'
said I; and I was going to pull the string to stop him, but Harriot had
hold of it. 'The man is going very right,' said she; 'I've told him where
to go. Now don't fancy that Lawless and I are going to run away with you.
All this is unnecessary now-a-days, thank God!' To this I agreed, and
laughed for fear of being ridiculous. 'Guess where you are going,' said
Harriot, I guessed and guessed, but could not guess right; and my merry
companions were infinitely diverted with my perplexity and impatience,
more especially as, I believe, in spite of all my efforts, I grew rather
graver than usual. We went on to the end of Sloane-street, and quite out
of town; at last we stopped. It was dark; the footman's flambeau was out;
I could only just see by the lamps that we were at the door of a lone,
odd-looking house. The house door opened, and an old woman appeared with a
lantern in her hand.

"'Where is this farce, or freak, or whatever you call it, to end?' said I,
as Harriot pulled me into the dark passage along with her.

"Alas! my dear Belinda," said Lady Delacour, pausing, "I little foresaw
where or how it was to end. But I am not come yet to the tragical part of
my story, and as long as I can laugh I will. As the old woman and her
miserable light went on before us, I could almost have thought of Sir
Bertrand, or of some German _horrifications_; but I heard Lawless, who
never could help laughing at the wrong time, bursting behind me, with a
sense of his own superiority.

"'Now you will learn your destiny, Lady Delacour!' said Harriot, in a
solemn tone.

"'Yes! from the celebrated Mrs. W----, the modern dealer in art magic,'
said I, laughing, 'for, now I guess whereabouts I am. Colonel Lawless's
laugh broke the spell. Harriot Freke, never whilst you live expect to
succeed in _the sublime_.' Harriot swore at the colonel for the veriest
_spoil-sport_ she had ever seen, and she whispered to me--'The reason he
laughs is because he is afraid of our suspecting the truth of him, that he
believes _tout de bon_ in conjuration, and the devil, and all that.' The
old woman, whose cue I found was to be dumb, opened a door at the top of a
narrow staircase, and pointing to a tall figure, completely enveloped in
fur, left us to our fate. I will not trouble you with a pompous
description of all the mummery of the scene, my dear, as I despair of
being able to frighten you out of your wits. I should have been downright
angry with Harriot Freke for bringing me to such a place, but that I knew
women of the first fashion had been with Mrs. W---- before us--some in
sober sadness, some by way of frolic. So as there was no fear of being
ridiculous, there was no shame, you know, and my conscience was quite at
ease. Harriot had no conscience, so she was always at ease; and never more
so than in male attire, which she had been told became her particularly.
She supported the character of a young rake with such spirit and _truth_,
that I am sure no common conjuror could have discovered any thing feminine
about her. She rattled on with a set of nonsensical questions; and among
other things she asked, 'How soon will Lady Delacour marry again after her
lord's death?'

"'She will never marry after her lord's death,' answered the oracle. 'Then
she will marry during his lifetime,' said Harriot. 'True,' answered the
oracle. Colonel Lawless laughed; I was angry; and the colonel would have
been quiet, for he was a gentleman, but there was no such thing as
managing Mrs. Freke, who, though she had laid aside the modesty of her own
sex, had not acquired the decency of the other. 'Who is to be Lady
Delacour's second husband?' cried she; 'you'll not offend any of the
present company by naming the man.' 'Her second husband I cannot name,'
replied the oracle, 'but let her beware of a Lawless lover.' Mrs. Freke
and Colonel Lawless, encouraged by her, triumphed over me without mercy--I
may say, without shame! Well, my dear, I am in a hurry to have done with
all this: though I '_doted upon folly_,' yet I was terrified at the
thoughts of any thing worse. The idea of a divorce, the public brand of a
shameful life, shocked me in spite of all my real and all my assumed
levity. O that I had, at this instant, dared to _be myself_! But my fear
of ridicule was greater than my fear of vice. 'Bless me, my dear Lady
Delacour,' whispered Harriot, as we left this house, 'what can make you in
such a desperate hurry to get home? You gape and fidget: one would think
you had never sat up a night before in your life. I verily believe you are
afraid to trust yourself with us. Which of us are you afraid of, Lawless,
or me, or _yourself_?' There was a tone of contempt in the last words
which piqued me to the quick; and however strange it may seem, I was now
anxious only to convince Harriot that I was not afraid of myself. False
shame made me act as if I had no shame. You would not suspect me of
knowing any thing of false shame, but depend upon it, my dear, many, who
appear to have as much assurance as I have, are secretly its slaves. I
moralize, because I am come to a part of my story which I should almost be
glad to omit; but I promised you that there should be no sins of omission.
It was light, but not broad daylight, when we got to Knightsbridge.
Lawless, encouraged (for I cannot deny it) by the levity of my manner, as
well as of Harriot's, was in higher and more familiar spirits than I ever
saw him. Mrs. Freke desired me to set her down at her sister's, who lived
in Grosvenor-place: I did so, and I beg you to believe that I was in an
agony, to get rid of my colonel at the same time; but you know I could
not, before Harriot Freke, absolutely say to him, 'Get out!' Indeed, to
tell things as they were, it was scarcely possible to guess by my manner
that I was under any anxiety, I acted my part so well, or so ill. As
Harriot Freke jumped out of the coach, a cock crowed in the area of her
sister's house: 'There!' cried Harriot, 'do you hear the cock crow, Lady
Delacour? Now it's to be hoped your fear of goblins is over, else I would
not be so cruel as to leave the pretty dear all alone.' 'All alone!'
answered I: 'your friend the colonel Is much obliged to you for making
nobody of him.' 'My friend the colonel,' whispered Harriot, leaning with
her bold masculine arms on the coach door--'my friend the colonel is much
obliged to me, I'm sure, for remembering what the cunning or the knowing
woman told us just now: so when I said I left you alone, I was not guilty
of a bull, was I?' I had the grace to be heartily ashamed of this speech,
and called out, in utter confusion, 'To Berkley-square. But where shall I
set you down, colonel? Harriot, good morning: don't forget you are in
man's clothes.' I did not dare to repeat the question of 'where shall I
set you down, colonel?' at this instant, because Harriot gave me such an
arch, sneering look, as much as to say, 'Still afraid of yourself!' We
drove on: I'm persuaded that the confusion which, in spite of all my
efforts, broke through my affected levity, encouraged Lawless, who was
naturally a coxcomb and a fool, to believe that I was actually his, else
he never could have been so insolent. In short, my dear, before we had got
through the turnpike gate, I was downright obliged to say to him, 'Get
out!' which I did with a degree of indignation that quite astonished him.
He muttered something about ladies knowing their minds; and I own, though
I went off with flying colours, I secretly blamed myself as much as I did
him, and I blamed Harriot more than I did either. I sent for her the next
day, as soon as I could, to consult her. She expressed such astonishment,
and so much concern at this catastrophe of our night's frolic, and blamed
herself with so many oaths, and execrated Lawless for a coxcomb, so much
to the ease and satisfaction of my conscience, that I was confirmed in my
good opinion of her, and indeed felt for her the most lively affection and
esteem; for observe, with me esteem ever followed affection, instead of
affection following esteem. Woe be to all who in morals preposterously put
the cart before the horse! But to proceed with my history: all fashionable
historians stop to make reflections, supposing that no one else can have
the sense to make any. My _esteemed_ friend agreed with me that it would
be best for all parties concerned to hush up this business; that as
Lawless was going out of town in a few days, to be elected for a borough,
we should get rid of him in the best way possible, without 'more last
words;' that he had been punished sufficiently on the spot, and that to
punish twice for the same offence, once in private and once in public,
would be contrary to the laws of Englishmen and Englishwomen, and in my
case would be contrary to the evident dictates of prudence, because I
could not complain without calling upon Lord Delacour to call Lawless out;
this I could not do without acknowledging that his lordship had been in
the right, in warning me about his _honour and my own_, which old phrase I
dreaded to hear for the ninety-ninth time: besides, Lord Delacour was the
last man in the world I should have chosen for my knight, though unluckily
he was my lord; besides, all things considered, I thought the whole story
might not tell so well in the world for me, tell it which way I would: we
therefore agreed that it would be most expedient to hold our tongues. We
took it for granted that Lawless would hold his, and as for my people,
they knew nothing, I thought, or if they did, I was sure of them. How the
thing got abroad I could not at the time conceive, though now I am well
acquainted with the baseness and treachery of the woman I called my
friend. The affair was known and talked of every where the next day, and
the story was told especially at odious Mrs. Luttridge's, with such
exaggerations as drove me almost mad. I was enraged, inconceivably enraged
with Lawless, from whom I imagined the reports originated.

"I was venting my indignation against him in a room full of company, where
I had just made my story good, when a gentleman, to whom I was a stranger,
came in breathless, with the news that Colonel Lawless was killed in a
duel by Lord Delacour; that they were carrying him home to his mother's,
and that the body was just going by the door. The company all crowded to
the windows immediately, and I was left standing alone till I could stand
no longer. What was said or done after this I do not remember; I only know
that when I came to myself, the most dreadful sensation I ever experienced
was the certainty that I had the blood of a fellow-creature to answer for.
--I wonder," said Lady Delacour, breaking off at this part of her history,
and rising suddenly, "I wonder what is become of Marriott!--surely it is
time for me to have my drops. Miss Portman, have the goodness to ring, for
I _must_ have something immediately." Belinda was terrified at the
wildness of her manner. Lady Delacour became more composed, or put more
constraint upon herself, at the sight of Marriott. Marriott brought from
the closet in her lady's room the drops, which Lady Delacour swallowed
with precipitation. Then she ordered coffee, and afterward chasse-cafe,
and at last, turning to Belinda, with a forced smile, she said--

"Now shall the Princess Scheherazade go on with her story?"




CHAPTER IV.

LADY DELACOUR'S HISTORY CONTINUED.


"I Left off with the true skill of a good story-teller, at the most
interesting part--a duel; and yet duels are so common now that they are
really vulgar incidents.

"But we think that a duel concerning ourselves must be more extraordinary
than any other. We hear of men being shot in duels about nothing every
day, so it is really a weakness in me to think so much about poor
Lawless's death, as Harriot Freke said to me at the time. She expected to
see me show sorrow in _public_; but very fortunately for me, she roused my
pride, which was always stronger than my reason; and I behaved myself upon
the occasion as became a fine lady. There were some things, however, I
could hardly stand. You must know that Lawless, fool and coxcomb as he
was, had some magnanimity, and showed it--as some people do from whom it
is least expected--on his death-bed. The last words he said were, 'Lady
Delacour is innocent--I charge you, don't prosecute Lord Delacour.' This
he said to his mother, who, to complete my misery, is one of the most
respectable women in England, and was most desperately fond of Lawless,
who was an only son. She never has recovered his loss. Do you remember
asking me who a tall elderly lady in mourning was, that you saw getting
into her carriage one day, at South Audley-street chapel, as we passed by
in our way to the park? That was Lady Lawless: I believe I didn't answer
you at the time. I meet her every now and then--to me a spectre of dismay.
But, as Harriot Freke said, certainly such a man as poor Lawless was a
useless being in society, however he may be regretted by a doting mother.
We should see things in a philosophical light, if we can. I should not
have suffered half as much as I did if he had been a man of a stronger
understanding; but he was a poor, vain, weak creature, that I actually
drew on and duped with my own coquetry, whilst all the time I was
endeavouring only to plague Lord Delacour. I was punished enough by the
airs his lordship doubly gave himself, upon the strength of his valour and
his judgment--they roused me completely; and I blamed him with all my
might, and got an enormous party of my friends, I mean my acquaintance, to
run him down full cry, for having fought for me. It was absurd--it was
rash--it was want of proper confidence in his wife; _thus we_ said. Lord
Delacour had his partisans, it is true; amongst whom the loudest was
odious Mrs. Luttridge. I embraced the first opportunity I met with of
retaliation. You must know that Mrs. Luttridge, besides being a great
faro-player, was a great dabbler in politics; for she was almost as fond
of power as of money: she talked loud and fluently, and had, somehow or
other, partly by intriguing, partly by relationship, connected herself
with some of the leading men in parliament. There was to be a contested
election in our country: Mr. Luttridge had a good estate there next to
Lord Delacour's, and being of an ancient family, and keeping a good table,
the Luttridges were popular enough. At the first news of an election, out
comes a flaming advertisement from Mr. Luttridge; away posted Mrs.
Luttridge to begin her canvass, and away posted Lady Delacour after her,
to canvass for a cousin of Harriot Freke. This was a new scene for me; but
I piqued myself on the versatility of my talents, and I laid myself out in
please all the squires, and, what was more difficult, all the squires'
ladies, in ----shire. I was ambitious to have it said of me, 'that I was
the finest figure that ever appeared upon a canvass.' O, ye ----shireians,
how hard did I work to obtain your praise! All that the combined force of
vanity and hatred could inspire I performed, and with success. You have
but little curiosity, I presume, to know how many hogsheads of port went
down the throat of John Bull, or how many hecatombs were offered up to the
genius of English liberty. My hatred to Mrs. Luttridge was, of course,
called love of my country. Lady Delacour was deified by all _true_
patriots; and, luckily, a handsome legacy left me for my spirit, by an
uncle who died six weeks before the election, enabled us to sustain the
expense of my apotheosis. The day of election came; Harriot Freke and I
mad our appearance on the hustings, dressed in splendid party uniforms;
and before us our knights and squires held two enormous panniers full of
ribands and cockades, which we distributed with a grace that won all
hearts, if not all votes Mrs. Luttridge thought the panniers would carry
the election; and forthwith she sent off an express for a pair of panniers
twice as large as ours. I took out my pencil, and drew a caricature of
_the ass and her panniers_; wrote an epigram at the bottom of it; and the
epigram and the caricature were soon in the hands of half ----shire. The
verses were as bad as impromptus usually are, and the drawing was not much
better than the writing; but the _good-will_ of the critics supplied all
my deficiencies; and never was more praise bestowed upon the pen of Burke,
or the pencil of Reynolds, than was lavished upon me by my honest friends.
My dear Belinda, if you will not quarrel with the quality, you may have
what quantity of praise you please. Mrs. Luttridge, as I hoped and
expected, was beyond measure enraged at the sight of the caricature and
epigram. She was, besides being a gamester and a politician--what do you
think?--an excellent shot! She wished, she said, to be a man, that she
might be qualified to take proper notice of my conduct. The same kind
friends who showed her my epigram repeated to me her observation upon it.
Harriot Freke was at my elbow, and offered to take any _message_ I might
think proper to Mrs. Luttridge. I scarcely thought her in earnest till she
added, that the only way left now-a-days for a woman to distinguish
herself was by spirit; as every thing else was grown 'cheap and vulgar in
the eyes of men;' that she knew one of the cleverest young men in England,
and a man of fashion into the bargain, who was just going to publish a
treatise 'upon the Propriety and Necessity of Female Duelling;' and that
he had demonstrated, beyond a possibility of doubt, that civilized society
could not exist half a century longer without this necessary improvement.
I had prodigious deference for the masculine superiority, as I thought it,
of Harriot's understanding. She was a philosopher, and a fine lady--I was
only a fine lady; I had never fired a pistol in my life, and I was a
little inclined to cowardice; but Harriot offered to bet any wager upon
the steadiness of my hand, and assured me that I should charm all
beholders in male attire. In short, as my second, if I would furnish her
with proper credentials, she swore she would undertake to furnish me with
clothes, and pistols, and courage, and every thing I wanted. I sat down to
pen my challenge. When I was writing it, my hand did not tremble
_much_--not more than my Lord Delacour's always does. The challenge was
very prettily worded: I believe I can repeat it.

"'Lady Delacour presents her compliments to Mrs. Luttridge--she is
informed that Mrs. L---- wishes she were a man, that she might be
qualified to take _proper_ notice of Lady D----'s conduct. Lady Delacour
begs leave to assure Mrs. Luttridge, that though she has the misfortune to
be a woman, she is willing to account for her conduct in any manner Mrs.
L---- may think proper, and at any hour and place she may appoint. Lady
D---- leaves the choice of the weapons to Mrs. L----. Mrs. II. Freke, who
has the honour of presenting this note, is Lady Delacour's _friend_ upon
this occasion.'

"I cannot repeat Mrs. Luttridge's answer; all I know is, it was not half
as neatly worded as my note; but the essential part of it was, that she
accepted my challenge _with pleasure_, and should do herself the honour of
meeting me at six o'clock the next morning; that Miss Honour O'Grady would
be her _friend_ upon the occasion; and that pistols were the weapons she
preferred. The place of appointment was behind an old barn, about two
miles from the town of ----. The hour was fixed to be early in the
morning, to prevent all probability of interruption. In the evening,
Harriot and I rode to the ground. There were several bullets sticking in
the posts of the barn: this was the place where Mrs. Luttridge had been
accustomed to exercise herself in firing at a mark. I own my courage
'oozed out' a little at this sight. The Duke de la Rochefoucault, I
believe, said truly, that 'many would be cowards if they dared.' There
seemed to me to be no physical and less moral necessity for my fighting
this duel; but I did not venture to reason on a point of honour with my
spirited second. I bravadoed to Harriot most magnanimously; but at night,
when Marriott was undressing me, I could not forbear giving her a hint,
which I thought might tend to preserve the king's peace, and the peace of
the county. I went to the ground in the morning in good spirits, and with
a safe conscience. Harriot was in admiration of my 'lion-port;' and, to do
her justice, she conducted herself with great coolness upon the occasion;
but then it may be observed, that it was I who was to stand fire, and not
she. I thought of poor Lawless a billion of times, at least, as we were
going to the ground; and I had my presentiments, and my confused notions
of poetic justice: but poetic justice, and all other sorts of justice,
went clear out of my head, when I saw my antagonist and her friend,
actually pistol in hand, waiting for us; they were both in men's clothes.
I secretly called upon the name of Marriott with fervency, and I looked
round with more anxiety than ever Bluebeard's wife, or 'Anne, sister
Anne!' looked to see if any body was coming: nothing was to be seen but
the grass blown by the wind--no Marriott to throw herself _toute eploree_
between the combatants--no peace-officers to bind us over to our good
behaviour--no deliverance at hand; and Mrs. Luttridge, by all the laws of
honour, as challenged, was to have the first shot. Oh, those laws of
honour! I was upon the point of making an apology, in spite of them all,
when, to my inexpressible joy, I was relieved from the dreadful
alternative of being shot through the head, or of becoming a
laughing-stock for life, by an incident, less heroic, I'll grant you, than
opportune. But you shall have the whole scene, as well as I can recollect
it; _as well_--for those who for the first time go into a field of battle
do not, as I am credibly informed and internally persuaded, always find
the clearness of their memories improved by the novelty of their
situation. Mrs. Luttridge, when we came up, was leaning, with a truly
martial negligence, against the wall of the barn, with her pistol, as I
told you, in her hand. She spoke not a word; but her second, Miss Honour
O'Grady, advanced towards us immediately, and, taking off her hat very
manfully, addressed herself to my second--'Mistress Harriot Freke, I
presume, if I mistake not.' Harriot bowed slightly, and answered, 'Miss
Honour O'Grady, I presume, if I mistake not.' 'The same, at your service,'
replied Miss Honour. 'I have a few words to suggest that may save a great
deal of noise, and bloodshed, and ill-will.' 'As to noise,' said Harriot,
'it is a thing in which I delight, therefore I beg that mayn't be spared
on my account; as to bloodshed, I beg that may not be spared on Lady
Delacour's account, for her honour, I am sure, is dearer to her than her
blood; and, as to ill-will, I should be concerned to have that saved on
Mrs. Luttridge's account, as we all know it is a thing in which she
delights, even more than I do in noise, or Lady Delacour in blood: but
pray proceed, Miss Honour O'Grady; you have a few words to suggest.' 'Yes,
I would willingly observe, as it is my duty to my _principal_,' said
Honour, 'that one who is compelled to fire her pistol with her left hand,
though ever so good a shot _naturally_, is by no means on a footing with
one who has the advantage of her light hand.' Harriot rubbed my pistol
with the sleeve of her coat, and I, recovering my wit with my hopes of
being witty with impunity, answered, 'Unquestionably, left-handed wisdom
and left-handed courage are neither of them the very best of their kinds;
but we must content ourselves with them _if_ we can have no other.' 'That
_if_,' cried Honour O'Grady, 'is not, like most of the family of the
_ifs_, a peace-maker. My Lady Delacour, I was going to observe that my
principal has met with an unfortunate accident, in the shape of a whitlow
on the fore-finger of her right hand, which incapacitates her from drawing
a trigger; but I am at your service, ladies, either of you, that can't put
up with a disappointment with good humour.' I never, during the whole
course of my existence, was more disposed to bear a disappointment with
good humour, to prove that I was incapable of bearing malice; and to
oblige the seconds, for form's sake, I agreed that we should take our
ground, and fire our pistols into the air. Mrs. Luttridge, with her
left-handed wisdom, fired first; and I, with great magnanimity, followed
her example. I must do my adversary's second, Miss Honour O'Grady, the
justice to observe, that in this whole affair she conducted herself not
only with the spirit, but with the good-nature and generosity
characteristic of her nation. We met enemies, and parted friends.

"Life is a tragicomedy! Though the critics will allow of no such thing in
their books, it is a true representation of what passes in the world; and
of all lives mine has been the most grotesque mixture, or alternation, I
should say, of tragedy and comedy. All this is apropos to something I have
not told you yet. This comic duel ended tragically for me. 'How?' you say.
Why, 'tis clear that I was not shot through the head; but it would have
been better, a hundred times better for me, if I had; I should have been
spared, in this life at least, the torments of the damned. I was not used
to priming and loading: my pistol was overcharged: when I fired, it
recoiled, and I received a blow on my breast, the consequences of which
you have seen.

"The pain was nothing at the moment compared with what I have since
experienced: but I will not complain till I cannot avoid it. I had not, at
the time I received the blow, much leisure for lamentation; for I had
scarcely discharged my pistol when we heard a loud shout on the other side
of the barn, and a crowd of town's people, country people, and haymakers,
came pouring down the lane towards us, with rakes and pitchforks in their
hands. An English mob is really a formidable thing. Marriott had
mismanaged her business most strangely: she had, indeed, spread a report
of a duel--a female duel; but the untutored sense of propriety amongst
these rustics was so shocked at the idea of a duel fought by women in
_men's clothes_, that I verily believe they would have thrown us into the
river with all their hearts. Stupid blockheads! I am convinced that they
would not have been half so much scandalized if we had boxed in
petticoats. The want of these petticoats had nearly proved our
destruction, or at least our disgrace: a peeress after being ducked, could
never have held her head above water again with any grace. The mob had
just closed round us, crying, 'Shame! shame! shame!--duck 'em--duck
'em--gentle or simple--duck 'em--duck 'em'--when their attention was
suddenly turned towards a person who was driving up the lane a large herd
of squeaking, grunting pigs. The person was clad in splendid regimentals,
and he was armed with a long pole, to the end of which hung a bladder, and
his pigs were frightened, and they ran squeaking from one side of the road
to the other; and the pig-driver in regimentals, in the midst of the
noise, could not without difficulty make his voice heard; but at last he
was understood to say, that a bet of a hundred guineas depended upon his
being able to keep these pigs ahead of a flock of turkeys that were
following them; and he begged the mob to give him and his pigs fair play.
At the news of this wager, and at the sight of the gentleman turned
pig-driver, the mob were in raptures; and at the sound of his voice,
Harriot Freke immediately exclaimed, 'Clarence Hervey! by all that's
lucky!'"

"Clarence Hervey!" interrupted Belinda. "Clarence Hervey, my dear," said
Lady Delacour, coolly: "he can do every thing, you know, even drive pigs,
better than any body else!--but let me go on.

"Harriot Freke shouted in a stentorian voice, which actually made your
pig-driver start: she explained to him in French our distress, and the
cause of it, Clarence was, as I suppose you have discovered long ago,
'that cleverest young man in England who had written on the propriety and
necessity of female duelling.' He answered Harriot in French--'To attempt
your rescue by force would be vain; but I will do better, I will make a
diversion in your favour.' Immediately our hero, addressing himself to the
sturdy fellow who held me in custody, exclaimed, 'Huzza, my boys! Old
England for ever! Yonder comes a Frenchman with a flock of turkeys. My
pigs will beat them, for a hundred guineas. Old England for ever, huzza!'

"As he spoke, the French officer, with whom Clarence Hervey had laid the
wager, appeared at the turn of the lane--his turkeys half flying--half
hobbling up the road before him. The Frenchman waved a red streamer over
the heads of his flock--Clarence shook a pole, from the top of which hung
a bladder full of beans. The pigs grunted, the turkeys gobbled, arid the
mob shouted: eager for the fame of Old England, the crowd followed
Clarence with loud acclamations. The French officer was followed with
groans and hisses. So great was the confusion, and so great the zeal of
the patriots, that even the pleasure of ducking the female duellists was
forgotten in the general enthusiasm. All eyes and all hearts were intent
upon the race; and now the turkeys got foremost, and now the pigs. But
when we came within sight of the horsepond, I heard one man cry, 'Don't
forget the ducking.' How I trembled! but our knight shouted to his
followers--'For the love of Old England, my brave boys, keep between my
pigs and the pond:--if our pigs see the water, they'll run to it, and
England's undone.'

"The whole fury of the mob was by this speech conducted away from us. 'On,
on, my boys, into town, to the market-place: whoever gains the
market-place first wins the day.' Our general shook the rattling bladder
in triumph over the heads of 'the swinish multitude,' and we followed in
perfect security in his train into the town.

"Men, women, and children, crowded to the windows and doors. 'Retreat into
the first place you can,' whispered Clarence to us: we were close to him.
Harriot Freke pushed her way into a milliner's shop: I could not get in
after her, for a frightened pig turned back suddenly, and almost threw me
down. Clarence Hervey caught me, and favoured my retreat into the shop.
But poor Clarence lost his bet by his gallantry. Whilst he was manoeuvring
in my favour, the turkeys got several yards ahead of the pigs, and
reaching the market-place first, won the race.

"The French officer found great difficulty in getting safe out of the
town; but Clarence represented to the mob that he was a prisoner on his
parole, and that it would be unlike Englishmen to insult a prisoner. So he
got off without being pelted, and they both returned in safety to the
house of General Y----, where they were to dine, and where they
entertained a large party of officers with the account of this adventure.

"Mrs. Freke and I rejoiced in our escape, and we thought that the whole
business was now over; but in this we were mistaken. The news of our duel,
which had spread in the town, raised such an uproar as had never been
heard, even at the noisiest election. Would you believe it?--The fate of
the election turned upon this duel. The common people, one and all,
declared that they would not vote either for Mr. Luttridge or Mr. Freke,
because _as how_--but I need not repeat all the _platitudes_ that they
said. In short, neither ribands nor brandy could bring them to reason.
With true English pig-headedness, they went every man of them and polled
for an independent candidate of their own choosing, whose wife, forsooth,
was a proper behaved woman.

"The only thing I had to console me for all this was Clarence Hervey's
opinion that I looked better in man's clothes than my friend Harriot
Freke. Clarence was charmed with my spirit and grace; but he had not
leisure at that time to attach himself seriously to me, or to any thing.
He was then about nineteen or twenty: he was all vivacity, presumption,
and paradox; he was enthusiastic in support of his opinions; but he was at
the same time the most candid man in the world, for there was no set of
tenets which could be called exclusively his: he adopted in liberal
rotation every possible absurdity; and, to do him justice, defended each
in its turn with the most ingenious arguments that could be devised, and
with a flow of words which charmed the ear, if not the sense. His essay on
female duelling was a most extraordinary performance; it was handed about
in manuscript till it was worn out; he talked of publishing it, and
dedicating it to me. However, this scheme, amongst a million of others, he
_talked of_, but never put into execution. Luckily for him, many of his
follies evaporated in words. I saw but little either of him or his follies
at this time. All I know about him is, that after he had lost his bet of a
hundred guineas, as a pig-driver, by his knight-errantry in rescuing the
female duellists from a mob, he wrote a very charming copy of verses upon
the occasion; and that he was so much provoked by the stupidity of some of
his brother officers who could not understand the verses, that he took a
disgust to the army, and sold his commission. He set out upon a tour to
the continent, and I returned with Harriot Freke to London, and forgot the
existence of such a person as Clarence Hervey for three or four years.
Unless people can be of some use, or unless they are actually present, let
them be ever so agreeable or meritorious, we are very apt to forget them.
One grows strangely selfish by living in the world: 'tis a perfect cure
for romantic notions of gratitude, and love, and so forth. If I had lived
in the country in an old manor-house, Clarence Hervey would have doubtless
reigned paramount in my imagination as the deliverer of my life, &c. But
in London one has no time for thinking of deliverers. And yet what I did
with my time I cannot tell you: 'tis gone, and no trace left. One day
after another went I know not how. Had I wept for every day I lost, I'm
sure I should have cried my eyes out before this time. If I had enjoyed
any amusement in the midst of this dissipation, it would all have been
very well; but I declare to you in confidence I have been tired to death.
Nothing can be more monotonous than the life of a hackneyed fine lady;--I
question whether a dray-horse, or--a horse in a mill, would willingly
exchange places with one, if they could know as much of the matter as I
do. You are surprised at hearing all this from me. My dear Belinda, how I
envy you! You are not yet tired of every thing. _The world_ has still the
gloss of novelty for you; but don't expect that can last above a season.
My first winter was certainly entertaining enough. One begins with being
charmed with the bustle and glare, and what the French call _spectacle_;
this is over, I think, in six months. I can but just recollect having been
amused at the Theatres, and the Opera, and the Pantheon, and Ranelagh, and
all those places, for their own sakes. Soon, very soon, we go out to see
people, not things: then we grow tired of seeing people; then we grow
tired of being seen by people; and then we go out merely because we can't
stay at home. A dismal story, and a true one. Excuse me for showing you
the simple truth; well-dressed falsehood is a personage much more
_presentable_. I am now come to an epoch in my history in which there is a
dearth of extraordinary events. What shall I do? Shall I invent? I would
if I could; but I cannot. Then I must confess to you that during these
last four years I should have died of ennui if I had not been kept alive
by my hatred of Mrs. Luttridge and of my husband. I don't know which I
hate most--O, yes, I do--I certainly hate Mrs. Luttridge the most; for a
woman can always hate a woman more than she can hate a man, unless she has
been in love with him, which I never was with poor Lord Delacour. Yes! I
certainly hate Mrs. Luttridge the most; I cannot count the number of
extravagant things I have done on purpose to eclipse her. We have had
rival routs, rival concerts, rival galas, rival theatres: she has cost me
more than _she's_ worth; but then I certainly have mortified her once a
month at least. My hatred to Mrs. Luttridge, my dear, is the remote cause
of my love for you; for it was the cause of my intimacy with your aunt
Stanhope.--Mrs. Stanhope is really a clever woman--she knows how to turn
the hatred of all her friends and acquaintance to her own advantage.--To
serve lovers is a thankless office compared with that of serving
_haters_--polite haters I mean. It may be dangerous, for aught I know, to
interpose in the quarrels of those who hate their neighbours, not only
with all their souls, but with all their strength--the barbarians fight it
out, kiss, and are friends. The quarrels which never come to blows are
safer for a go-between; but even these are not to be compared to such as
never come to words: your true silent hatred is that which lasts for ever.
The moment it was known that Mrs. Luttridge and I had come to the
resolution never to speak to one another, your aunt Stanhope began to
minister to my hatred so, that she made herself quite agreeable. She one
winter gave me notice that my adversary had set her heart upon having a
magnificent entertainment on a particular day. On that day I determined,
of course, to have a rival gala. Mrs. Stanhope's maid had a lover, a
gardener, who lived at Chelsea; and the gardener had an aloe, which was
expected soon to blow. Now a plant that blows but once in a hundred years
is worth having. The gardener intended to make a public exhibition of it,
by which he expected to gain about a hundred guineas. Your aunt Stanhope's
maid got it from him for me for fifty; and I had it whispered about that
an aloe in full blow would stand in the middle of one of Lady Delacour's
supper tables. The difficulty was to make Mrs. Luttridge fix upon the very
day we wanted; for you know we could not possibly put off the blowing of
our aloe. Your aunt Stanhope managed the thing admirably by means of a
_common friend_, who was not a suspected person with the Luttridges; in
short, my dear, I gained my point--every body came from Mrs. Luttridge's
to me, or to my aloe. She had a prodigiously fine supper, but scarcely a
soul stayed with her; they all came to see what could be seen but once in
a hundred years. Now the aloe, you know, is of a cumbersome height for a
supper ornament. My saloon luckily has a dome, and under the dome we
placed it. Round the huge china vase in which it was planted we placed the
most beautiful, or rather the most expensive hothouse plants we could
procure. After all, the aloe was an ugly thing; but it answered my
purpose--it made Mrs. Luttridge, as I am credibly informed, absolutely
weep with vexation. I was excessively obliged to your aunt Stanhope; and I
assured her that if ever it were in my power, she might depend upon my
gratitude. Pray, when you write, repeat the same thing to her, and tell
her that since she has introduced Belinda Portman to me, I am a hundred
times more obliged to her than ever I was before.

"But to proceed with my important history.--I will not tire you with
fighting over again all my battles in my seven years' war with Mrs.
Luttridge. I believe love is more to your taste than hatred; therefore I
will go on as fast as possible to Clarence Hervey's return from his
travels. He was much improved by them, or at least I thought so; for he
was heard to declare, that after all he had seen in France and Italy, Lady
Delacour appeared to him the most charming woman, _of her age_, in Europe.
The words, _of her age_, piqued me; and I spared no pains to make him
forget them. A stupid man cannot readily be persuaded out of his
senses--what he sees he sees, and neither more nor less; but 'tis the
easiest thing in the world to catch hold of a man of genius: you have
nothing to do but to appeal from his senses to his imagination, and then
he sees with the eyes of his imagination, and hears with the ears of his
imagination; and then no matter what the age, beauty, or wit of the
charmer may be--no matter whether it be Lady Delacour or Belinda Portman.
I think I know Clarence Hervey's character _au fin fond_, and I could lead
him where I pleased: but don't be alarmed, my dear; you know I can't lead
him into matrimony. You look at me, and from me, and you don't well know
which way to look. You are surprised, perhaps, after all that passed, all
that I felt, and all that I still feel about poor Lawless, I should not be
cured of coquetry. So am I surprised; but habit, fashion, the devil, I
believe, lead us on: and then, Lord Delacour is so obstinate and
jealous--you can't have forgotten the _polite conversation_ that passed
one morning at breakfast between his lordship and me about Clarence
Hervey; but neither does his lordship know, nor does Clarence Hervey
suspect, that my object with him is to conceal from the world what I
cannot conceal from myself--that I am a dying woman. I am, and I see you
think me, a strange, weak, inconsistent creature. I was intended for
something better, but now it is too late; a coquette I have lived, and a
coquette I shall die: I speak frankly to you. Let me have the glory of
leading Clarence Hervey about with me in public for a few months longer,
then I must quit the stage. As to love, you know with me that is out of
the question; all I ask or wish for is admiration."

Lady Delacour paused, and leaned back on the sofa; she appeared in great
pain.

"Oh!--I am sometimes," resumed she, "as you see, in terrible pain. For two
years after I gave myself that blow with the pistol, I neglected the
warning twinges that I felt from time to time; at last I was terrified.
Marriott was the only person to whom I mentioned my fears, and she was
profoundly ignorant: she flattered me with false hopes, till, alas! it was
in vain to doubt of the nature of my complaint: then she urged me to
consult a physician; that I would not do--I could not--I never will
consult a physician,--I would not for the universe have my situation
known. You stare--you cannot enter into my feelings. Why, my dear, if I
lose admiration, what have I left? Would you have me live upon pity?
Consider what a dreadful thing it must be to me, who have no friends, no
family, to be confined to a sick room--a sick bed; 'tis what I must come
to at last, but not yet--not yet. I have fortitude; I should despise
myself if I had no species of merit: besides, it is still some occupation
to me to act my part in public; and bustle, noise, nonsense, if they do
not amuse or interest me, yet they stifle reflection. May you never know
what it is to feel remorse! The idea of that poor wretch, Lawless, whom I
actually murdered as much as if I had shot him, haunts me whenever I am
alone. It is now between eight and nine years since he died, and I have
lived ever since in a constant course of dissipation; but it won't
do--conscience, conscience will be heard! Since my health has been
weakened, I believe I have acquired more conscience. I really think that
my stupid lord, who has neither ideas nor sensations, except when he is
intoxicated, is a hundred times happier than I am. But I will spare you,
Belinda; I promised that you should not have a _scene_, and I will keep my
word. It is, however, a great relief to open my mind to one who has some
feeling: Harriot Freke has none; I am convinced that she has no more
feeling than this table. I have not yet told you how she has used me. You
know that it was she who led or rather dragged me into that scrape with
Lawless; for that I never reproached her. You know it was she who
frightened me into fighting that duel with Mrs. Luttridge; for this I
never reproached her. She has cost me my peace of mind, my health, my
life; she knows it, and she forsakes, betrays, insults, and leaves me to
die. I cannot command my temper sufficiently to be coherent when I speak
of her; I cannot express in words what I feel. How could that most
treacherous of beings, for ten years, make me believe that she was my
friend? Whilst I thought she really loved me, I pardoned her all her
faults--_all_--what a comprehensive word!--All, all I forgave; and
continually said--'_but_ she has a good heart.' A good heart!--she has no
heart!--she has no feeling for any living creature but herself. I always
thought that she cared for no one but for me; but now I find she can throw
me off as easily as she would her glove. And this, too, I suppose she
calls a frolic; or, in her own vulgar language, fun. Can you believe
it?--What do you think she has done, my dear? She has gone over at last to
odious Mrs. Luttridge-actually she has gone down with the Luttridges to
----shire. The independent member having taken the Chiltern Hundreds,
vacates his seat: a new election comes on directly: the Luttridges are to
bring in Freke--not Harriot's cousin--they have cut him,--but her husband,
who is now to commence senator: he is to come in for the county, upon
condition that Luttridge shall have Freke's borough. Lord Delacour,
without saying one syllable, has promised his interest to this precious
junto, and Lady Delacour is left a miserable cipher. My lord's motives I
can clearly understand: he lost a thousand guineas to Mrs. Luttridge this
winter, and this is a convenient way of paying her. Why Harriot should be
so anxious to serve a husband whom she hates, bitterly hates, might
surprise any body who did not know _les dessous des cartes_ as well as I
do. You are but just come into the world, Belinda--the world of
wickedness, I mean, my dear, or you would have heard what a piece of work
there was a few years ago about Harriot Freke and this cousin of hers.
Without betraying her confidence, I may just tell you what is known to
every body, that she went so far, that if it had not been for me, not a
soul would have visited her: she swam in the sea of folly out of her
depth--the tide of fashion ebbed, and there was she left sticking knee
deep in the mud--a ridiculous, scandalous figure. I had the courage and
foolish good-nature to hazard myself for her, and actually dragged her to
terra firma:--how she has gone on since I _cannot_ tell you precisely,
because I am in the secret; but the catastrophe is public: to make her
peace with her husband, she gives up her friend. Well, that I could have
pardoned, if she had not been so base as to go over to Mrs. Luttridge.
Mrs. Luttridge offered (I've seen the letter, and Harriot's answer) to
bring in Freke, the husband, and to make both a county and a _family_
peace, on condition that Harriot should give up all connexion with Lady
Delacour. Mrs. Luttridge knew this would provoke me beyond measure, and
there is nothing she would not do to gratify her mean, malevolent
passions. She has succeeded for once in her life. The blame of the duel,
of course, is all thrown upon me. And (would you believe it?) Harriot
Freke, I am credibly informed, throws all the blame of Lawless's business
on me; nay, hints that Lawless's deathbed declaration of my innocence was
_very generous_. Oh, the treachery, the baseness of this woman! And it was
my fate to hear all this last night at the masquerade. I waited, and
waited, and looked every where for Harriot--she was to be the widow Brady,
I knew: at last the widow Brady made her appearance, and I accosted her
with all my usual familiarity. The widow was dumb. I insisted upon knowing
the cause of this sudden loss of speech. The widow took me into another
apartment, unmasked, and there I beheld Mr. Freke, the husband. I was
astonished--had no idea of the truth. 'Where is Harriot?' I believe, were
the first words I said. 'Gone to the country.' 'To the country!' 'Yes; to
----shire, with Mrs. Luttridge.'--Mrs. Luttridge--odious Mrs. Luttridge! I
could scarcely believe my senses. But Freke, who always hated me,
believing that I led his wife, instead of her leading me into mischief,
would have enjoyed my astonishment and my rage; so I concealed both, with
all possible presence of mind. He went on over-whelming me with
explanations and copies of letters; and declared it was at Mrs. Freke's
request he did and said all this, and that he was to follow her early the
next morning to ----shire. I broke from him, simply wishing him a good
journey, and as much family peace as his patience merited. He knows that I
know his wife's history, and though _she_ has no shame, he has some. I had
the _satisfaction_ to leave him blushing with anger, and I supported the
character of the comic muse a full hour afterwards, to convince him that
all their combined malice would fail to break my spirit in public: what I
suffer in private is known only to my own heart."

As she finished these words, Lady Delacour rose abruptly, and hummed a new
opera air. Then she retired to her boudoir, saying, with an air of levity,
to Belinda as she left the room,

"Good bye, my dear Belinda; I leave you to ruminate sweet and bitter
thoughts; to think of the last speech and confession of Lady Delacour, or
what will interest you much more, the first speech and confession
of--Clarence Hervey."




CHAPTER V.

BIRTHDAY DRESSES.


Lady Delacour's history, and the manner in which it was related, excited
in Belinda's mind astonishment, pity, admiration, and contempt:
astonishment at her inconsistency, pity for her misfortunes, admiration of
her talents, and contempt for her conduct. To these emotions succeeded the
recollection of the promise which she had made, not to leave her in her
last illness at the mercy of an insolent attendant. This promise Belinda
thought of with terror: she dreaded the sight of sufferings which she knew
must end in death: she dreaded the sight of that affected gaiety and of
that real levity which so ill became the condition of a dying woman. She
trembled at the idea of being under the guidance of one who was so little
able to conduct herself: and she could not help blaming her aunt Stanhope
severely for placing her in such a perilous situation. It was obvious that
some of Lady Delacour's history must have been known to Mrs. Stanhope; and
Belinda, the more she reflected, was the more surprised at her aunt's
having chosen such a chaperon for a young woman just entering into the
world. When the understanding is suddenly roused and forced to exert
itself, what a multitude of deductions it makes in a short time! Belinda
saw things in a new light; and for the first time in her life she reasoned
for herself upon what she saw and felt. It is sometimes safer for young
people to see than to hear of certain characters. At a distance, Lady
Delacour had appeared to Miss Portman the happiest person in the world;
upon a nearer view, she discovered that her ladyship was one of the most
miserable of human beings. To have married her niece to such a man as Lord
Delacour, Mrs. Stanhope would have thought the most fortunate thing
imaginable; but it was now obvious to Belinda, that neither the title of
viscountess, nor the pleasure of spending three fortunes, could ensure
felicity. Lady Delacour confessed, that in the midst of the utmost luxury
and dissipation she had been a constant prey to ennui; that the want of
domestic happiness could never be supplied by that public admiration of
which she was so ambitious; and that the immoderate indulgence of her
vanity had led her, by inevitable steps, into follies and imprudences
which had ruined her health, and destroyed her peace of mind. "If Lady
Delacour, with all the advantages of wealth, rank, wit, and beauty, has
not been able to make herself happy in this life of fashionable
dissipation," said Belinda to herself, "why should I follow the same
course, and expect to be more fortunate?"

It is singular, that the very means which Mrs. Stanhope had taken to make
a fine lady of her niece tended to produce an effect diametrically
opposite to what might have been expected. The result of Belinda's
reflections upon Lady Delacour's history was a resolution to benefit by
her bad example; but this resolution it was more easy to form than to
keep. Her ladyship, where she wished to please or to govern, had
fascinating manners, and could alternately use the sarcastic powers of
wit, and the fond tone of persuasion, to accomplish her purposes. It was
Belinda's intention, in pursuance of her new plans of life, to spend,
whilst she remained in London, as little money as possible upon
superfluities and dress. She had, at her own disposal, only 100l. per
annum, the interest of her fortune; but besides this, her aunt, who was
desirous that she should go to court, and make a splendid figure there,
had sent her a draught on her banker for two hundred guineas. "You will, I
trust," said her aunt, at the conclusion of the letter, "repay me when you
are established in the world; as I hope and believe, from what I hear from
Lady Delacour of the power of your charms, you will soon be, to the entire
satisfaction of all your friends. Pray do not neglect to mention my friend
Clarence Hervey particularly when you write next. I understand from one
who is well acquainted with him, and who has actually seen his rent-roll,
that he has a clear 10,000l. a year."

Belinda resolved neither to go to court, nor to touch her aunt's two
hundred guineas; and she wrote a long letter to her, in which she
explained her feelings and views at large. In this letter she meant to
have returned Mrs. Stanhope's draught, but her feelings and views changed
between the writing of this epistle and the going out of the post. Mrs.
Franks, the milliner, came in the interim, and brought home Lady
Delacour's beautiful dress: it was not the sight of this, however, which
changed Belinda's mind; but she could not resist Lady Delacour's raillery.

"Why, my dear," said her ladyship, after having listened to all Miss
Portman could say about her love of independence, and the necessity of
economy to preserve that independence, "all this is prodigiously fine--but
shall I translate it into plain English? You were mortally wounded the
other night by some random reflections of a set of foolish young
men--Clarence Hervey amongst the number; and instead of punishing them,
you sagely and generously determined to punish yourself. Then, to convince
this youth that you have not a thought of those odious nets and cages,
that you have no design whatever upon his heart, and that he has no manner
of influence on yours, you very judiciously determine, at the first hint
from him, to change your dress, your manners, and your character, and thus
to say to him, in as plain terms as possible--'You see, sir, a word to the
wise is enough; I understand you disapprove of showy dress and coquetry,
and therefore, as I dressed and coquetted only to please you, now I shall
lay aside dress and coquetry, since I find that they are not to your
taste--and I hope, sir, you like my simplicity!' Depend upon it, my dear,
Clarence Hervey understands simplicity as well as you or I do. All this
would be vastly well, if he did not know that you overheard that
conversation; but as he does know it, trust me, he will attribute any
sudden change in your manners and appearance, right or wrong, to the
motives I have mentioned. So don't, novice as you are! set about to
manoeuvre for yourself. Leave all that to your aunt Stanhope, or to me,
and then you know your conscience will be all the time as white as your
hands,--which, by-the-bye, Clarence Hervey, the other day, said were the
whitest hands he had ever seen. Perhaps all this time you have taken it
into your head that full dress will not become you; but I assure you that
it will--you look well in any thing--

   'But from the hoop's bewitching round,
   The very shoe has power to wound.'

So come down to Mrs. Franks,
and order your birthnight dress like a reasonable creature."

Like a reasonable creature, Miss Portman followed Lady Delacour, and
bespoke, or rather let her ladyship bespeak for her, fifty guineas' worth
of elegance and fashion. "You must go to the drawing-room with me next
week, and be presented," said Lady Delacour, "and then, as it is the first
time, you must be elegantly dressed, and you must not wear the same dress
on the birthnight. So, Mrs. Franks, let this be finished first, as fast as
you can, and by that time, perhaps, we shall think of something
superlatively charming for the night of nights."

Mrs. Franks departed, and Belinda sighed. "A silver penny for your
thoughts!" cried Lady Delacour. "You are thinking that you are like
Camilla, and I like Mrs. Mitten. Novel reading.--as I dare say you have
been told by your governess, as I was told by mine, and she by hers, I
suppose--novel reading for, young ladies is the most dangerous----

"Oh, Clarence Hervey, I protest!" cried Lady Delacour, as he at this
instant entered the room. "Do, pray, Clarence, help me out, for the sake
of this young lady, with a moral sentence against novel reading: but that
might go against your conscience, or your interest; so we'll spare you.
How I regret that we had not the charming serpent at the masquerade the
other night!"

The moment her ladyship mentioned the masquerade, the conversation which
had passed at Lady Singleton's came full into Clarence Hervey's
recollection, and his embarrassment was evident--not indeed to Belinda,
who had turned away to look over some new music that lay upon a stand at
the farthest end of the room; and she found this such a wonderfully
interesting occupation, that she did not for some minutes hear, or appear
to hear, one word of the conversation which was going on between Mr.
Hervey and Lady Delacour. At last, her ladyship tapped her upon the
shoulder, saying, in a playful tone, "Miss Portman, I arrest your
attention at the suit of Clarence Hervey: this gentleman is passionately
fond of music--to my curse--for he never sees my harp but he worries me
with reproaches for having left off playing upon it. Now he has just given
me his word that he will not reproach me again for a month to come if you
will favour us with one air. I assure you, Clarence, that Belinda touches
a harp divinely--she would absolutely charm----" "Your ladyship should not
waste such valuable praise," interrupted Belinda. "Do you forget that
Belinda Portman and her accomplishments have already been as well
advertised as Packwood's razor-strops?"

The manner in which these words were pronounced made a great impression
upon Clarence Hervey, and he began to believe it was possible that a niece
of the match-making Mrs. Stanhope might not be "a compound of art and
affectation." "Though her aunt has advertised her," said he to himself,
"she seems to have too much dignity to advertise herself, and it would be
very unjust to blame her for the faults of another person. I will see more
of her."

Some morning visitors were announced, who for the time suspended Clarence
Hervey's reflections: the effect of them, however, immediately appeared;
for as his good opinion of Belinda increased, his ambition to please her
was strongly excited. He displayed all his powers of wit and humour; and
not only Lady Delacour but every body present observed, "that Mr. Hervey,
who was always the most entertaining man in the world, this morning
surpassed himself, and was absolutely the most entertaining man in the
universe." He was mortified, notwithstanding; for he distinctly perceived,
that whilst Belinda joined with ease and dignity in the general
conversation, her manner towards him was grave and reserved. The next
morning he called earlier than usual; but though Lady Delacour was always
at home to him, she was then unluckily dressing to go to court: he
inquired whether Miss Portman would accompany her ladyship, and he learnt
from his friend Marriott that she was not to be presented this day,
because Mrs. Franks had not brought home her dress. Mr. Hervey called
again two hours afterwards.--Lady Delacour was gone to court. He asked for
Miss Portman. "Not at home," was the mortifying answer; though, as he had
passed by the windows, he had heard the delightful sound of her harp. He
walked up and down in the square impatiently, till he saw Lady Delacour's
carriage appear.

"The drawing-room has lasted an unconscionable time this morning," said
he, as he handed her ladyship out of her coach, "Am not I the most
virtuous of virtuous women," said Lady Delacour, "to go to court such a
day as this? But," whispered she, as she went up stairs, "like all other
amazingly good people, I have amazingly good reasons for being good. The
queen is soon to give a charming breakfast at Frogmore, and I am paying my
court with all my might, in hopes of being asked; for Belinda must see one
of their galas before we leave town, _that_ I'm determined upon.--But
where is she?" "Not at home," said Clarence, smiling. "Oh, not at home is
nonsense, you know. Shine out, appear, be found, my lovely Zara!" cried
Lady Delacour, opening the library door. "Here she is--what doing I know
not--studying Hervey's Meditations on the Tombs, I should guess, by the
sanctification of her looks. If you be not totally above all sublunary
considerations, admire my lilies of the valley, and let me give you a
lecture, not upon heads, or upon hearts, but on what is of much more
consequence, upon hoops. Every body wears hoops, but how few--'tis a
melancholy consideration--how very few can manage them! There's my friend
Lady C----; in an elegant undress she passes for very genteel, but put her
into a hoop and she looks as pitiable a figure, as much a prisoner, and as
little able to walk, as a child in a go-cart. She gets on, I grant you,
and so does the poor child; but, getting on, you know, is not walking. Oh,
Clarence, I wish you had seen the two Lady R.'s sticking close to one
another, their father pushing them on together, like two decanters in a
bottle-coaster, with such magnificent diamond labels round their necks!"

Encouraged by Clarence Hervey's laughter, Lady Delacour went on to mimic
what she called the hoop awkwardness of all her acquaintance; and if these
could have failed to divert Belinda, it was impossible for her to be
serious when she heard Clarence Hervey declare that he was convinced he
could manage a hoop as well as any woman in England, except Lady Delacour.

"Now here," said he, "is the purblind dowager, Lady Boucher, just at the
door, Lady Delacour; she would not know my face, she would not see my
beard, and I will bet fifty guineas that I come into a room in a hoop, and
that she does not find me out by my air--that I do not betray myself, in
short, by my masculine awkwardness."

"I hold you to your word, Clarence," cried Lady Delacour. "They have let
the purblind dowager in; I hear her on the stairs. Here--through this way
you can go: as you do every thing quicker than any body else in the world,
you will certainly be full dressed in a quarter of an hour; I'll engage to
keep the dowager in scandal for that time. Go! Marriott has old hoops and
old finery of mine, and you have all-powerful influence, I know, with
Marriott: so go and use it, and let us see you in all your glory--though I
vow I tremble for my fifty guineas."

Lady Delacour kept the dowager in scandal, according to her engagement,
for a good quarter of an hour; then the dresses at the drawing-room took
up another quarter; and, at last, the dowager began to give an account of
sundry wonderful cures that had been performed, to her certain knowledge,
by her favourite concentrated extract or anima of quassia. She entered
into the history of the negro slave named Quassi, who discovered this
medical wood, which he kept a close secret till Mr. Daghlberg, a
magistrate of Surinam, wormed it out of him, brought a branch of the tree
to Europe, and communicated it to the great Linnaeus--when Clarence Hervey
was announced by the title of "The Countess de Pomenars."

"An emigree--a charming woman!" whispered Lady Delacour "she was to have
been at the drawing-room to-day but for a blunder of mine: ready dressed
she was, and I didn't call for her! Ah, Mad. de Pomenars, I am actually
ashamed to see you," continued her ladyship; and she went forward to meet
Clarence Hervey, who really made his entree with very composed assurance
and grace. He managed his hoop with such skill and dexterity, that he well
deserved the praise of being a universal genius. The Countess de Pomenars
spoke French and broken English incomparably well, and she made out that
she was descended from the Pomenars of the time of Mad. de Sevigne: she
said that she had in her possession several original letters of Mad. de
Sevigne, and a lock of Mad. de Grignan's fine hair.

"I have sometimes fancied, but I believe it is only my fancy," said Lady
Delacour, "that this young lady," turning to Belinda, "is not unlike your
Mad. de Grignan. I have seen a picture of her at Strawberry-hill."

Mad. de Pomenars acknowledged that there was a resemblance, but added,
that it was flattery in the extreme to Mad. de Grignan to say so.

"It would be a sin, undoubtedly, to waste flattery upon the dead, my dear
countess," said Lady Delacour; "but here, without flattery to the living,
as you have a lock of Mad. de Grignan's hair, you can tell us whether _la
belle chevelure_, of which Mad. de Sevigne talked so much, was any thing
to be compared to my Belinda's." As she spoke, Lady Delacour, before
Belinda was aware of her intentions, dexterously let down her beautiful
tresses; and the Countess de Pomenars was so much struck at the sight,
that she was incapable of paying the necessary compliments. "Nay, touch
it," said Lady Delacour--"it is so fine and so soft."

At this dangerous moment her ladyship artfully let drop the comb. Clarence
Hervey suddenly stooped to pick it up, totally forgetting his hoop and his
character. He threw down the music-stand with his hoop. Lady Delacour
exclaimed "Bravissima!" and burst out a-laughing. Lady Boucher, in
amazement, looked from one to another for an explanation, and was a
considerable time before, as she said, she could believe her own eyes.
Clarence Hervey acknowledged he had lost his bet, joined in the laugh, and
declared that fifty guineas was too little to pay for the sight of the
finest hair that he had ever beheld. "I declare he deserves a lock of _la
belle chevelure_ for that speech, Miss Portman," cried Lady Delacour;
"I'll appeal to all the world--Mad. de Pomenars must have a lock to
measure with Mad. de Grignan's? Come, a second rape of the lock, Belinda."

Fortunately for Belinda, "the glittering forfex" was not immediately
produced, as fine ladies do not now, as in former times, carry any such
useless implements about with them.

Such was the modest, graceful dignity of Miss Portman's manners, that she
escaped without even the charge of prudery. She retired to her own
apartment as soon as she could.

"She passes on in unblenched majesty," said Lady Delacour.

"She is really a charming woman," said Clarence Hervey, in a low voice, to
Lady Delacour, drawing her into a recessed window: he in the same low
voice continued, "Could I obtain a private audience of a few minutes when
your ladyship is at leisure?--I have--" "I am never at leisure,"
interrupted Lady Delacour; "but if you have any thing particular to say to
me-as I guess you have, by my skill in human nature--come here to my
concert to-night, before the rest of the world. Wait patiently in the
music-room, and perhaps I may grant you a private audience, as you had the
grace not to call it a _tete-a-tete_. In the mean time, my dear Countess
de Pomenars, had we not better take off our hoops?" In the evening,
Clarence Hervey was in the music-room a considerable time before Lady
Delacour appeared: how patiently he waited is not known to any one but
himself.

"Have not I given you time to compose a charming speech?" said Lady
Delacour as she entered the room; "but make it as short as you can, unless
you wish that Miss Portman should hear it, for she will be down stairs in
three minutes."

"In one word, then, my dear Lady Delacour, can you, and will you, make my
peace with Miss Portman?--I am much concerned about that foolish
razor-strop dialogue which she overheard at Lady Singleton's."

"You are concerned that she overheard it, no doubt."

"No," said Clarence Hervey, "I am rejoiced that she overheard it, since it
has been the means of convincing me of my mistake; but I am concerned that
I had the presumption and injustice to judge of Miss Portman so hastily. I
am convinced that, though she is a niece of Mrs. Stanhope's, she has
dignity of mind and simplicity of character. Will you, my dear Lady
Delacour, tell her so?"

"Stay," interrupted Lady Delacour; "let me get it by heart. I should have
made a terrible bad messenger of the gods and goddesses, for I never in my
life could, like Iris, repeat a message in the same words in which it was
delivered to me. Let me see--'Dignity of mind and simplicity of
character,' was not it? May not I say at once, 'My dear Belinda, Clarence
Hervey desires me to tell you that he is convinced you are an angel?' That
single word _angel_ is so expressive, so comprehensive, so comprehensible,
it contains, believe me, all that can be said or imagined on these
occasions, _de part et d'autre_."

"But," said Mr. Hervey, "perhaps Miss Portman has heard the song of--

    'What know we of angels?--
    I spake it in jest.'"

"Then you are not in jest, but in downright sober earnest?--Ha!" said Lady
Delacour, with an arch look, "I did not know it was already come to _this_
with you."

And her ladyship, turning to her piano-forte, played--

    "There was a young man in Ballinacrasy,
    Who wanted a wife to make him un_asy_,
    And thus in gentle strains he spoke her,
    Arrah, will you marry me, my dear Ally Croker?"

"No, no," exclaimed Clarence, laughing, "it is not come to _that_ with me
yet, Lady Delacour, I promise you; but is not it possible to say that a
young lady has dignity of mind and simplicity of character without having
or suggesting any thoughts of marriage?"

"You make a most proper, but not sufficiently emphatic difference between
having or suggesting such thoughts," said Lady Delacour. "A gentleman
sometimes finds it for his interest, his honour, or his pleasure, to
suggest what he would not for the world promise,--I mean perform."

"A scoundrel," cried Clarence Hervey, "not a gentleman, may find it for
his honour, or his interest, or his pleasure, to promise what he would not
perform; but I am not a scoundrel. I never made any promise to man or
woman that I did not keep faithfully. I am not a swindler in love."

"And yet," said Lady Delacour, "you would have no scruple to trifle or
flatter a woman out of her heart."

_"Cela est selon!"_ said Clarence smiling; "a fair exchange, you know, is
no robbery. When a fine woman robs me of my heart, surely Lady Delacour
could not expect that I should make no attempt upon hers."--"Is this part
of my message to Miss Portman?" said Lady Delacour. "As your ladyship
pleases," said Clarence; "I trust entirely to your discretion."

"Why I really have a great deal of discretion," said Lady Delacour; "but
you trust too much to it when you expect that I should execute, both with
propriety and success, the delicate commission of telling a young lady,
who is under my protection, that a young gentleman, who is a professed
admirer of mine, is in love with her, but has no thoughts, and wishes to
suggest no thoughts, of marriage."

"In love!" exclaimed Clarence Hervey; "but when did I ever use the
expression? In speaking of Miss Portman, I simply expressed esteem and
ad--------"

"No additions," said Lady Delacour; "content yourself with
esteem--simply,--and Miss Portman is safe, and you too, I presume.
Apropos; pray, Clarence, how do your esteem and _admiration_ (I may go as
far as that, may not I?) of Miss Portman agree with your admiration of
Lady Delacour?"

"Perfectly well," replied Clarence; "for all the world must be sensible
that Clarence Hervey is a man of too much taste to compare a country
novice in wit and accomplishments to Lady Delacour. He might, as men of
genius sometimes do, look forward to the idea of forming a country novice
for a wife. A man must marry some time or other--but my hour, thank
Heaven, is not come yet."

"Thank Heaven!" said Lady Delacour; "for you know a married man is lost to
the world of fashion and gallantry."

"Not more so, I should hope, than a married woman," said Clarence Harvey.
Here a loud knocking at the door announced the arrival of company to the
concert. "You will make my peace, you promise me, with Miss Portman,"
cried Clarence eagerly.

"Yes, I will make your peace, and you shall see Belinda smile upon you
once more, upon condition," continued Lady Delacour, speaking very
quickly, as if she was hurried by the sound of people coming up
stairs--"but we'll talk of that another time."

"Nay, nay, my dear Lady Delacour, now, now," said Clarence, seizing her
hand.--"Upon condition! upon what condition?"

"Upon condition that you do a little job for me--indeed for Belinda. She
is to go with me to the birth-night, and she has often hinted to me that
our horses are shockingly shabby for people of our condition. I know she
wishes that upon such an occasion--her first appearance at court, you
know--we should go in style. Now my dear positive lord has _said_ he will
not let us have a pair of the handsomest horses I ever saw, which are at
Tattersal's, and on which Belinda, I know, has secretly set her heart, as
I have openly, in vain."

"Your ladyship and Miss Portman cannot possibly set your hearts on any
thing in vain--especially on any thing that it is in the power of Clarence
Hervey to procure. Then," added he, gallantly kissing her hand, "may I
thus seal my treaty of peace?"

"What audacity!--don't you see these people coming in?" cried Lady
Delacour; and she withdrew her hand, but with no great precipitation. She
was evidently, "at this moment, as in all the past," neither afraid nor
ashamed that Mr. Hervey's devotions to her should be paid in public. With
much address she had satisfied herself as to his views with respect to
Belinda. She was convinced that he had no immediate thoughts of matrimony;
but that if he were condemned to marry, Miss Portman would be his wife. As
this did not interfere with her plans, Lady Delacour was content.




CHAPTER VI.

WAYS AND MEANS.


When Lady Delacour repeated to Miss Portman the message about "simplicity
of mind and dignity of character," she frankly said--

"Belinda, notwithstanding all this, observe, I'm determined to retain
Clarence Hervey among the number of my public worshippers during my
life--which you know cannot last long. After I am gone, my dear, he'll be
all your own, and of that I give you joy. Posthumous fame is a silly
thing, but posthumous jealousy detestable."

There was one part of the conversation between Mr. Hervey and her ladyship
which she, in her great discretion, did not immediately repeat to Miss
Portman--that part which related to the horses. In this transaction
Belinda had no farther share than having once, when her ladyship had the
handsome horses brought for her to look at, assented to the opinion that
they were the handsomest horses she ever beheld. Mr. Hervey, however
gallantly he replied to her ladyship, was secretly vexed to find that
Belinda had so little delicacy as to permit her name to be employed in
such a manner. He repented having used the improper expression of _dignity
of mind_, and he relapsed into his former opinion of Mrs. Stanhope's
niece. A relapse is always more dangerous than the first disease. He sent
home the horses to Lady Delacour the next day, and addressed Belinda, when
he met her, with the air of a man of gallantry, who thought that his peace
had been cheaply made. But in proportion as his manners became more
familiar, hers grew more reserved. Lady Delacour rallied her upon _her
prudery_, but in vain. Clarence Hervey seemed to think that her ladyship
had not fulfilled her part of the bargain.--"Is not _smiling_," said he,
"the epithet always applied to peace? yet I have not been able to obtain
one smile from Miss Portman since I have been promised peace." Embarrassed
by Mr. Hervey's reproaches, and provoked to find that Belinda was proof
against all her raillery, Lady Delacour grew quite ill-humoured towards
her. Belinda, unconscious of having given any just cause of offence, was
unmoved; and her ladyship's embarrassment increased. At last, resuming all
her former appearance of friendship and confidence, she suddenly exclaimed
one night after she had flattered Belinda into high spirits--

"Do you know, my dear, that I have been so ashamed of ashamed of myself
for this week past, that I have hardly dared to look you in the face. I am
sensible I was downright rude and cross to you one day, and ever since I
have been penitent; and, as all penitents are, very stupid and
disagreeable, I am sure: but tell me you forgive my caprice, and Lady
Delacour will be herself again."

It was not difficult to obtain Belinda's forgiveness.

"Indeed," continued Lady Delacour, "you are too good; but then in my own
justification I must say, that I have more things to make me ill-humoured
than most people have. Now, my dear, that most obstinate of human beings,
Lord Delacour, has reduced me to the most terrible situation--I have made
Clarence Hervey buy a pair of horses for me, and I cannot make my Lord
Delacour pay for them; but I forgot to tell you that I took your name--not
in vain indeed--in this business. I told Clarence, that upon condition he
would do this _job_ for me, you would forgive him for all his sins,
and--nay, my dear, why do you look as if I had stabbed you to the
heart?--after all, I only drew upon your pretty mouth for a few smiles.
Pray let me see whether it has actually forgotten _how_ to smile."

Belinda was too much vexed at this instant to understand raillery. She was
inspired by anger with unwonted courage, and, losing all fear of Lady
Delacour's wit, she very seriously expostulated with her ladyship upon
having thus used her name without her consent or knowledge. Belinda felt
she was now in danger of being led into a situation which might be fatal
to her reputation and her happiness; and she was the more surprised at her
ladyship, when she recollected the history she had so lately heard of
Harriot Freke and Colonel Lawless.

"You cannot but be sensible, Lady Delacour," said Belinda, "that after the
contempt I have heard Mr. Hervey express for match-making with Mrs.
Stanhope's nieces, I should degrade myself by any attempts to attract his
attention. No wit, no eloquence, can change my opinion upon this
subject--I cannot endure contempt."

"Very likely--no doubt"--interrupted Lady Delacour; "but if you would only
open your eyes, which heroines make it a principle never to do--or else
there would be an end of the novel--if you would only open your eyes, you
would see that this man is in love with you; and whilst you are afraid of
his contempt, he is a hundred times more afraid of yours; and as long as
you are each of you in such fear of you know not what, you must excuse me
if I indulge myself in a little wholesome raillery."--Belinda
smiled.--"There now; one such smile as that for Clarence Hervey, and I'm
out of debt and danger," said Lady Delacour.

"O Lady Delacour, why, why will you try your power over me in this
manner?" said Belinda. "You know that I ought not to be persuaded to do
what I am conscious is wrong. But a few days ago you told me yourself that
Mr. Hervey is--is not a marrying man; and a woman of your penetration must
see that--that he only means to flirt with me. I am not a match for Mr.
Hervey in any respect. He is a man of wit and gallantry--I am unpractised
in the ways of the world. I was not educated by my aunt Stanhope--I have
only been with her a few years--I wish I had never been with her in my
life."

"I'll take care Mr. Hervey shall know that," said Lady Delacour; "but in
the mean time I do think any fair appraiser of delicate distresses would
decide that I am, all the circumstances considered, more to be pitied at
this present moment than you are: for the catastrophe of the business
evidently is, that I must pay two hundred guineas for the horses somehow
or other."

"I can pay for them," exclaimed Belinda, "and will with the greatest
pleasure. I will not go to the birthnight--my dress is not bespoke. Will
two hundred guineas pay for the horses? Oh, take the money--pay Mr.
Hervey, dear Lady Delacour, and it will all be right."

"You are a charming girl," said Lady Delacour, embracing her; "but how can
I answer for it to my conscience, or to your aunt Stanhope, if you don't
appear on the birthnight? That cannot be, my dear; besides, you know Mrs.
Franks will send home your drawing-room dress to-day, and it would be so
foolish to be presented for nothing--not to go to the birthnight
afterwards. If you say _a_ you must say _b."_

"Then," said Belinda, "I will not go to the drawing-room."--"Not go, my
dear! What! throw away fifty guineas for nothing! Really I never saw any
one so lavish of her money, and so economic of her smiles."

"Surely," said Miss Portman, "it is better for me to throw away fifty
guineas, poor as I am, than to hazard the happiness of my life. Your
ladyship knows that if I say _a_ to Mr. Hervey, I must say _b_. No, no, my
dear Lady Delacour; here is the draught for two hundred guineas: pay Mr.
Hervey, for Heaven's sake, and there is an end of the business."

"What a positive child it is! Well, then, it shall not be forced to say
the a, b, c, of Cupid's alphabet, to that terrible pedagogue, Clarence
Hervey, till it pleases: but seriously, Miss Portman, I am concerned that
you will make me take this draught: it is absolutely robbing you. But Lord
Delacour's the person you must blame--it is all his obstinacy: having once
said he would not pay for the horses, he would see them and me and the
whole human race expire before he would change his silly mind.--Next month
I shall have it in my power, my dear, to repay you with a thousand thanks;
and in a few months more we shall have another birthday, and a new star
shall appear in the firmament of fashion, and it shall be called Belinda.
In the mean time, my dear, upon second thoughts, perhaps we can get Mrs.
Franks to dispose of your drawing-room dress to some person of taste, and
you may keep your fifty guineas for the next occasion. I'll see what can
be done.--Adieu! a thousand thanks, silly child as you are."

Mrs. Franks at first declared that it would be an impossibility to dispose
of Miss Portman's dress, though she would do any thing upon earth to
oblige Lady Delacour; however, ten guineas made every thing possible.
Belinda rejoiced at having, as she thought, extricated herself at so cheap
a rate; and well pleased with her own conduct, she wrote to her aunt
Stanhope, to inform her of as much of the transaction as she could
disclose, without betraying Lady Delacour. "Her ladyship," she said, "had
immediate occasion for two hundred guineas, and to accommodate her with
this sum she had given up the idea of going to court."

The tenor of Miss Portman's letter will be sufficiently apparent from Mrs.
Stanhope's answer.

MRS. STANHOPE TO MISS PORTMAN.

"Bath, June 2nd.

"I cannot but feel some astonishment, Belinda, at your very extraordinary
conduct, and more extraordinary letter. What you can mean by principles
and delicacy I own I don't pretend to understand, when I see you not only
forget the respect that is due to the opinions and advice of the aunt to
whom you owe every thing; but you take upon yourself to lavish her money,
without common honesty. I send you two hundred guineas, and desire you to
go to court--you lend my two hundred guineas to Lady Delacour, and inform
me that as you think yourself bound in honour to her ladyship, you cannot
explain all the particulars to me, otherwise you are sure I should approve
of the reasons which have influenced you. Mighty satisfactory, truly! And
then, to mend the matter, you tell me that you do not think that in your
situation in life it is necessary that you should go to court. Your
opinions and mine, you add, differ in many points. Then I must say that
you are as ungrateful as you are presumptuous; for I am not such a novice
in the affairs of the world as to be ignorant that when a young lady
professes to be of a different opinion from her friends, it is only a
prelude to something worse. She begins by saying that she is determined to
think for herself, and she is determined to act for herself--and then it
is all over with her: and all the money, &c. that has been spent upon her
education is so much dead loss to her friends.

"Now I look upon it that a young girl who has been brought up, and brought
forward in the world as you have been by connexions, is bound to be guided
implicitly by them in all her conduct. What should you think of a man who,
after he had been brought into parliament by a friend, would go and vote
against that friend's opinions? You do not want sense, Belinda--you
perfectly understand me; and consequently your errors I must impute to the
defect of your heart, and not of your judgment. I see that, on account of
the illness of the princess, the king's birthday is put off for a
fortnight. If you manage properly, and if (unknown to Lady ----, who
certainly has not used you well in this business, and to whom therefore
you owe no peculiar delicacy) you make Lord ---- sensible how much your
aunt Stanhope is disappointed and displeased (as I most truly am) at your
intention of missing this opportunity of appearing at court; it is ten to
one but his lordship--who has not made it a point to refuse your request,
I suppose--will pay you your two hundred guineas. You of course will make
proper acknowledgments; but at the same time entreat that his lordship
will not _commit_ you with his lady, as she might be offended at your
application to him. I understand from an intimate acquaintance of his,
that you are a great favourite of his lordship; and though an obstinate,
he is a good-natured man, and can have no fear of being governed by you;
consequently he will do just as you would have him.

"Then you have an opportunity of representing the thing in the prettiest
manner imaginable to Lady ----, as an instance of her lord's consideration
for her: so you will oblige all parties (a very desirable thing) without
costing yourself one penny, and go to the birthnight after all: and this
only by using a little address, without which nothing is to be done in
this world.

"Yours affectionately (if you follow my advice),

"SELINA STANHOPE."

Belinda, though she could not, consistently with what she thought right,
follow the advice so artfully given to her in this epistle, was yet
extremely concerned to find that she had incurred the displeasure of an
aunt to whom she thought herself under obligations. She resolved to lay by
as much as she possibly could, from the interest of her fortune, and to
repay the two hundred guineas to Mrs. Stanhope. She was conscious that she
had no right to lend this money to Lady Delacour, if her aunt had
expressly desired that she should spend it only on her court-dress; but
this had not distinctly been expressed when Mrs. Stanhope sent her niece
the draft. That lady was in the habit of speaking and writing ambiguously,
so that even those who knew her best were frequently in doubt how to
interpret her words. Yet she was extremely displeased when her hints and
her half-expressed wishes were not understood. Beside the concern she felt
from the thoughts of having displeased her aunt, Belinda was both vexed
and mortified to perceive that in Clarence Hervey's manner towards her
there was not the change which she had expected that her conduct would
naturally produce.

One day she was surprised at his reproaching her for caprice in having
given up her intentions of going to court. Lady Delacour's embarrassment
whilst Mr. Hervey spoke, Belinda attributed to her ladyship's desire that
Clarence should not know that she had been obliged to borrow the money to
pay him for the horses. Belinda thought that this was a species of mean
pride; but she made it a point to keep her ladyship's secret--she
therefore slightly answered Mr. Hervey, "that she wondered that a man who
was so well acquainted with the female sex should be surprised at any
instance of caprice from a woman." The conversation then took another
turn, and whilst they were talking of indifferent subjects, in came Lord
Delacour's man, Champfort, with Mrs. Stanhope's draft for two hundred
guineas, which the coachmaker's man had just brought hack because Miss
Portman had forgotten to endorse it. Belinda's astonishment was almost as
great at this instant as Lady Delacour's confusion.

"Come this way, my dear, and we'll find you a pen and ink. You need not
wait, Champfort; but tell the man to wait for the draft--Miss Portman will
endorse it immediately."--And she took Belinda into another room.

"Good Heavens! Has not this money been paid to Mr. Hervey?" exclaimed
Belinda.

"No, my dear; but I will take all the blame upon myself, or, which will do
just as well for you, throw it all upon my better half. My Lord Delacour
would not pay for my new carriage. The coachmaker, insolent animal, would
not let it out of his yard without two hundred guineas in ready money. Now
you know I had the horses, and what could I do with the horses without the
carriage? Clarence Hervey, I knew, could wait for his money better than a
poor devil of a coachmaker; so I paid the coachmaker, and a few months
sooner or later can make no difference to Clarence, who rolls in gold, my
dear--if that will be any comfort to you, as I hope it will."

"Oh, what will he think of me!" said Belinda.

"Nay, what will he think of _me_, child!"

"Lady Delacour," said Belinda, in a firmer tone than she had ever before
spoken, "I must insist upon this draft being given to Mr. Hervey."

"Absolutely impossible, my dear.--I cannot take it from the coachmaker; he
has sent home the carriage: the thing's done, and cannot be undone. But
come, since I know nothing else will make you easy, I will take this
mighty favour from Mr. Hervey entirely upon my own conscience: you cannot
object to that, for you are not the keeper of my conscience. I will tell
Clarence the whole business, and do you honour due, my dear: so endorse
the check, whilst I go and sound both the praises of your dignity of mind,
and simplicity of character, &c. &c. &c. &c."

Her ladyship broke away from Belinda, returned to Clarence Hervey, and
told the whole affair with that peculiar grace with which she knew how to
make a good story of a bad one. Clarence was as favourable an auditor at
this time as she could possibly have found; for no human being could value
money less than he did, and all sense of her ladyship's meanness was lost
in his joy at discovering that Belinda was worthy of his esteem. Now he
felt in its fullest extent all the power she had over his heart, and he
was upon the point of declaring his attachment to her, when
_malheureusement_ Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort announced themselves
by the noise they made on the staircase. These were the young men who had
spoken in such a contemptuous manner at Lady Singleton's of the
match-making Mrs. Stanhope and her nieces. Mr. Hervey was anxious that
they should not penetrate into the state of his heart, and he concealed
his emotion by instantly assuming that kind of rattling gaiety which
always delighted his companions, who were ever in want of some one to set
their stagnant ideas in motion. At last they insisted upon carrying
Clarence away with them to taste some wines for Sir Philip Baddely.




CHAPTER VII.

THE SERPENTINE RIVER.


In his way to St. James's street, where the wine-merchant lived, Sir
Philip Baddely picked up several young men of his acquaintance, who were
all eager to witness a trial of _taste_, of epicurean taste, between the
baronet and Clarence Hervey. Amongst his other accomplishments our hero
piqued himself upon the exquisite accuracy of his organs of taste. He
neither loved wine, nor was he fond of eating; but at fine dinners, with
young men who were real epicures, Hervey gave himself the airs of a
connoisseur, and asserted superiority even in judging of wine and sauces.
Having gained immortal honour at an entertainment by gravely protesting
that some turtle would have been excellent if it had not been done _a
bubble too much_, he presumed, elate as he was with the applauses of the
company, to assert, that no man in England had a more correct taste than
himself.--Sir Philip Baddely could not passively submit to this arrogance;
he loudly proclaimed, that though he would not dispute Mr. Hervey's
judgment as far as eating was concerned, yet he would defy him as a
connoisseur in wines, and he offered to submit the competition to any
eminent wine-merchant in London, and to some common friend of acknowledged
taste and experience.--Mr. Rochfort was chosen as the common friend of
acknowledged taste and experience; and a fashionable wine-merchant was
pitched upon to decide with him the merits of these candidates for
bacchanalian fame. Sir Philip, who was just going to furnish his cellars,
was a person of importance to the wine-merchant, who produced accordingly
his choicest treasures. Sir Philip and Clarence tasted of all in their
turns; Sir Philip with real, and Clarence with affected gravity; and they
delivered their opinions of the positive and comparative merits of each.
The wine-merchant evidently, as Mr. Hervey thought, leaned towards Sir
Philip. "Upon my word, Sir Philip, you are right--that wine is the best I
have--you certainly have a most discriminating taste," said the
complaisant wine-merchant.

"I'll tell you what," cried Sir Philip, "the thing is this: by Jove! now,
there's no possibility now--no possibility now, by Jove! of imposing upon
me."

"Then," said Clarence Hervey, "would you engage to tell the differences
between these two wines ten times running, blind-fold?"

"Ten times! that's nothing," replied Sir Philip: "yes, fifty times, I
would, by Jove!"

But when it came to the trial, Sir Philip had nothing left but oaths in
his own favour. Clarence Hervey was victorious; and his sense of the
importance of this victory was much increased by the fumes of the wine,
which began to operate upon his brain. His triumph was, as he said it
ought to be, bacchanalian: he laughed and sang with anacreontic spirit,
and finished by declaring that he deserved to be crowned with vine-leaves.

"Dine with me, Clarence," said Rochfort, "and we'll crown you with three
times three; and," whispered he to Sir Philip, "we'll have another trial
after dinner."

"But as it's not near dinner-time yet--what shall we do with ourselves
till dinner-time?" said Sir Philip, yawning pathetically.

Clarence not being used to drink in a morning, though all his companions
were, was much affected by the wine, and Rochfort proposed that they
should take a turn in the park to cool Hervey's head. To Hyde-park they
repaired; Sir Philip boasting, all the way they walked, of the superior
strength of his head.

Clarence protested that his own was stronger than any man's in England,
and observed, that at this instant he walked better than any person in
company, Sir Philip Baddely not excepted. Now Sir Philip Baddely was a
noted pedestrian, and he immediately challenged our hero to walk with him
for any money he pleased. "Done," said Clarence, "for ten guineas--for any
money you please:" and instantly they set out to walk, as Rochfort cried
"one, two, three, and away; keep the path, and whichever reaches that elm
tree first has it."

They were exactly even for some yards, then Clarence got ahead of Sir
Philip, and he reached the elm tree first; but as he waved his hat,
exclaiming, "Clarence has won the day," Sir Philip came up with his
companions, and coolly informed him that he had lost his wager--"Lost!
lost! lost! Clarence--fairly lost."

"Didn't I reach the tree first?" said Clarence.

"Yes," answered his companions; "but you didn't keep the path. You turned
out of the way when you met that crowd of children yonder."

"Now _I_," said Sir Philip, "dashed fairly through them--kept the path,
and won my bet."

"But," said Hervey, "would you have had me run over that little child, who
was stooping down just in my way?"

"_I_!' not I," said Sir Philip; "but I would have you go through with your
civility: if a man will be polite, he must pay for his politeness
sometimes.--You said you'd lay me _any money_ I pleased, recollect--now
I'm very moderate--and as you are a particular friend, Clarence, I'll only
take your ten guineas."

A loud laugh from his companions provoked Clarence; they were glad "to
have a laugh against him," because he excited universal envy by the real
superiority of his talents, and by his perpetually taking the lead in
those trifles which were beneath his ambition, and exactly suited to
engage the attention of his associates.

"Be it so, and welcome; I'll pay ten guineas for having better manners
than any of you," cried Hervey, laughing; but remember, though I've lost
this bet, I don't give up my pedestrian fame.--Sir Philip, there are no
women to throw golden apples in my way now, and no children for me to
stumble over: I dare you to another trial--double or quit."

"I'm off, by Jove!" said Sir Philip. "I'm too hot, damme, to walk with you
any more--but I'm your man if you've a mind for a swim--here's the
Serpentine river, Clarence--hey? damn it!--hey?"

Sir Philip and all his companions knew that Clarence had never learned to
swim.

"You may wink at one another, as wisely as you please," said Clarence,
"but come on, my boys--I am your man for a swim--hundred guineas upon it!

    ----'Darest thou, Rochfort, now
    Leap in with me into this weedy flood,
    And swim to yonder point?'"

and instantly Hervey, who had in his confused head some recollection of an
essay of Dr. Franklin on swimming, by which he fancied that he could
ensure at once his safety and his fame, threw off his coat and jumped into
the river--luckily he was not in boots. Rochfort, and all the other young
men stood laughing by the river side.

"Who the devil are these two that seem to be making up to us?" said Sir
Philip, looking at two gentlemen who were coming towards them; "St.
George, hey? you know every body."

"The foremost is Percival, of Oakly-park, I think, 'pon my honour,"
replied Mr. St. George, and he then began to settle how many thousands a
year Mr. Percival was worth. This point was not decided when the gentlemen
came up to the spot where Sir Philip was standing.

The child for whose sake Clarence Hervey had lost his bet was Mr.
Percival's, and he came to thank him for his civility.--The gentleman who
accompanied Mr. Percival was an old friend of Clarence Hervey's; he had
met him abroad, but had not seen him for some years.

"Pray, gentlemen," said he to Sir Philip and his party, "is Mr. Clarence
Hervey amongst you? I think I saw him pass by me just now."

"Damn it, yes--where is Clary, though?" exclaimed Sir Philip, suddenly
recollecting himself.--Clarence Hervey at this instant was drowning: he
had got out of his depth, and had struggled in vain to recover himself.

"Curse me, if it's not all over with Clary," continued Sir Philip. "Do any
of you see his head any where? Damn you, Rochfort, yonder it is."

"Damme, so it is," said Rochfort; "but he's so heavy in his clothes, he'd
pull me down along with him to Davy's locker:--damme, if I'll go after
him."

"Damn it, though, can't some of ye swim? Can't some of ye jump in?" cried
Sir Philip, turning to his companions: "damn it, Clarence will go to the
bottom."

And so he inevitably would have done, had not Mr. Percival at this instant
leaped into the river, and seized hold of the drowning Clarence. It was
with great difficulty that he dragged him to the shore.--Sir Philip's
party, as soon as the danger was over, officiously offered their
assistance. Clarence Hervey was absolutely senseless. "Damn it, what shall
we do with him now?" said Sir Philip: "Damn it, we must call some of the
people from the boat-house--he's as heavy as lead: damn me, if I know what
to do with him." [2]

Whilst Sir Philip was damning himself, Mr. Percival ran to the boat-house
for assistance, and they carried the body into the house. The elderly
gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Percival now made his way through the
midst of the noisy crowd, and directed what should be done to restore Mr.
Hervey's suspended animation. Whilst he was employed in this benevolent
manner, Clarence's worthy friends were sneering at him, and whispering to
one another; "Ecod, he talks as if he was a doctor," said Rochfort.

"'Pon honour, I do believe," said St. George, "he is the famous Dr. X----;
I met him at a circulating library t'other day."

"Dr. X---- the writer, do you mean?" said Sir Philip; "then, damn me, we'd
better get out of his way as fast as we can, or he'll have some of us down
in black and white; and curse me, if I should choose to meet with myself
in a book."

"No danger of that," said Rochfort; "for how can one meet with oneself in
a book, Sir Philip, if one never opens one?--By Jove, that's the true
way."

"But, 'pon my honour," said St. George, "I should like of all things to
see myself in print; 'twould make one famously famous."

"Damn me, if I don't flatter myself, though, one can make oneself famous
enough to all intents and purposes without having any thing to say to
these author geniuses. You're a famous fellow, faith! to want to see
yourself in print--I'll publish this in Bond-street: damn it, in point of
famousness, I'd sport my Random against all the books that ever were read
or written, damn me! But what are we doing here?"

"Hervey's in good hands," said Rochfort, "and this here's a cursed stupid
lounge for us--besides, it's getting towards dinner-time; so my voice is,
let's be off, and we can leave St. George (who has such a famous mind to
be in the doctor's hook) to bring Clary after us, when he's ready for
dinner and good company again, you know--ha! ha! ha!"

Away the faithful friends went to the important business of their day.

When Clarence Hervey came to his senses he started up, rubbed his eyes,
and looked about, exclaiming--"What's all this?--Where am I?--Where's
Baddely?--Where's Rochfort?--Where are they all?"

"Gone home to dinner," answered Mr. St. George, who was a hanger-on of Sir
Philip's; "but they left me to bring you after them. Faith, Clary, you've
had a squeak for your life! 'Pon my honour, we thought at one time it was
all over with you--but you're a rough one: we shan't have to 'pour over
your grave a full bottle of red' as yet, my boy--you'll do as well as
ever. So I'll step and call a coach for you, Clary, and we shall be at
dinner as soon as the best of 'em after all, by jingo! I leave you in good
hands with the doctor here, that brought you to life, and the gentleman
that dragged you out of the water. Here's a note for you," whispered Mr.
St. George, as he leaned over Clarence Hervey--"here's a note for you from
Sir Philip and Rochfort: read it, do you mind, to _yourself_."

"If I can," said Clarence; "but Sir Philip writes a _bloody bad
hand_." [3]

"Oh, he's a _baronet_," said St. George, "ha! ha! ha!" and, charmed with
his own wit, he left the boat-house.

Clarence with some difficulty deciphered the note, which contained these
words:

"Quiz the doctor, Clary, as soon as you are up to it--he's an author--so
fair game--quiz the doctor, and we'll drink your health with three times
three in Rochfort's burgundy.

"Yours, &c.

"PHIL. BADDELY.

"P.S. Burn this when read."

With the request contained in the postscript Clarence immediately
complied; he threw the note into the fire with indignation the moment that
he had read it, and turning towards the gentleman to whom it alluded, he
began to express, in the strongest terms, his gratitude for their
benevolence. But he stopped short in the midst of his acknowledgments,
when he discovered to whom he was speaking.

"Dr. X----!" cried he. "Is it possible? How rejoiced I am to see you, and
how rejoiced I am to be obliged to you! There is not a man in England to
whom I would rather be obliged."

"You are not acquainted with Mr. Percival, I believe," said Dr. X----:
"give me leave, Mr. Percival, to introduce to you the young gentleman
whose life you have saved, and whose life--though, by the company in which
you found him, you might not think so--is worth saving. This, sir, is no
less a man than Mr. Clarence Hervey, of whose universal genius you have
just had a specimen; for which he was crowned with sedges, as he well
deserved, by the god of the Serpentine river. Do not be so unjust as to
imagine that he has any of the presumption which is sometimes the chief
characteristic of a man of universal genius. Mr. Clarence Hervey is,
without exception, the most humble man of my acquaintance; for whilst all
good judges would think him fit company for Mr. Percival, he has the
humility to think himself upon a level with Mr. Rochfort and Sir Philip
Baddely."

"You have lost as little of your satirical wit, Dr. X------, as of your
active benevolence, I perceive," said Clarence Hervey, "since I met you
abroad. But as I cannot submit to your unjust charge of humility, will you
tell me where you are to be found in town, and to-morrow------"

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," said Dr. X------: "why not
to-day?"

"I am engaged," said Clarence, hesitating and laughing---"I am
unfortunately engaged to-day to dine with Mr. Rochfort and Sir Philip
Baddely, and in the evening I am to be at Lady Delacour's."

"Lady Delacour! Not the same Lady Delacour whom four years ago, when we
met at Florence, you compared to the Venus de Medici--no, no, it cannot be
the same--a goddess of four years' standing!--Incredible!"

"Incredible as it seems," said Clarence, "it is true: I admire her
ladyship more than ever I did."

"Like a true connoisseur," said Dr. X------, "you admire a fine picture
the older it grows: I hear that her ladyship's face is really one of the
finest pieces of painting extant, with the advantage of

    'Ev'ry grace which time alone can grant.'"

"Come, come, Dr. X------," cried Mr. Percival, "no more wit at Lady
Delacour's expense: I have a fellow-feeling for Mr. Hervey."

"Why, you are not in love with her ladyship, are you?" said Dr. X----. "I
am not in love with Lady Delacour's picture of herself," replied Mr.
Percival, "but I was once in love with the original."

"How?--When?--Where?" cried Clarence Hervey, in a tone totally different
from that in which he had first addressed Mr. Percival.

"To-morrow you shall know the how, the when, and the where," said Mr.
Percival: "here's your friend, Mr. St. George, and his coach."

"The deuce take him!" said Clarence: "but tell me, is it possible that you
are not in love with her still?--and why?"

"Why?" said Mr. Percival--"why? Come to-morrow, as you have promised, to
Upper Grosvenor-street, and let me introduce you to Lady Anne Percival;
she can answer your question better than I can--if not entirely to your
satisfaction, at least entirely to mine, which is more surprising, as the
lady is my wife."

By this time Clarence Hervey was equipped in a dry suit of clothes; and by
the strength of an excellent constitution, which he had never injured,
even amongst his dissipated associates, he had recovered from the effects
of his late imprudence.--"Clary, let's away, here's the coach," said Mr.
St. George. "Why, my boy--that's a famous fellow, faith!--why, you look
the better for being drowned. 'Pon honour, if I were you, I would jump
into the Serpentine river once a day."

"If I could always be sure of such good friends to pull me out," said
Hervey.--"Pray, St. George, by-the-bye, what were you, and Rochfort, and
Sir Philip, and all the rest of my friends doing, whilst I was drowning?"

"I can't say particularly, upon my soul," replied Mr. St. George; "for my
own part, I was in boots, so you know I was out of the question. But what
signifies all that now? Come, come, we had best think of looking after our
dinners."

Clarence Hervey, who had very quick feelings, was extremely hurt by the
indifference which his dear friends had shown when his life was in danger:
he was apt to believe that he was really an object of affection and
admiration amongst his companions; and that though they were neither very
wise, nor very witty, they were certainly very good-natured. When they had
forfeited, by their late conduct, these claims to his regard, his
partiality for them was changed into contempt.

"You had better come home and dine with me, Mr. Hervey," said Mr.
Percival, "if you be not absolutely engaged; for here is your physician,
who tells me that temperance is necessary for a man just recovered from
drowning, and Mr. Rochfort keeps too good a table, I am told, for one in
your condition."

Clarence accepted of this invitation with a degree of pleasure which
perfectly astonished Mr. St. George.

"Every man knows his own affairs best," said he to Clarence, as he stepped
into his hackney coach; "but for my share, I will do my friend Rochfort
the justice to say that no one lives as well as he does."

"If to live well mean nothing but to eat," said Clarence.

"Now," said Dr. X----, looking at his watch, "it will be eight o'clock by
the time we get to Upper Grosvenor-street, and Lady Anne will probably
have waited dinner for us about two hours, which I apprehend is sufficient
to try the patience of any woman but Griselda. Do not," continued he,
turning to Clarence Hervey, "expect to see an old-fashioned, spiritless,
patient Griselda, in Lady Anne Percival: I can assure you that she is--but
I will neither tell you what she is, nor what she is not. Every man who
has any abilities, likes to have the pleasure and honour of finding out a
character by his own penetration, instead of having it forced upon him at
full length in capital letters of gold, finely emblazoned and illuminated
by the hand of some injudicious friend: every child thinks the violet of
his own finding the sweetest. I spare you any farther allusion and
illustrations," concluded Dr. X----, "for here we are, thank God, in Upper
Grosvenor-street."




CHAPTER VIII.

A FAMILY PARTY.


They found Lady Anne Percival in the midst of her children, who all turned
their healthy, rosy, intelligent faces towards the door, the moment that
they heard their father's voice. Clarence Hervey was so much struck with
the expression of happiness in Lady Anne's countenance, that he absolutely
forgot to compare her beauty with Lady Delacour's. Whether her eyes were
large or small, blue or hazel, he could not tell; nay, he might have been
puzzled if he had been asked the colour of her hair. Whether she were
handsome by the rules of art, he knew not; but he felt that she had the
essential charm of beauty, the power of prepossessing the heart
immediately in her favour. The effect of her manners, like that of her
beauty, was rather to be felt than described. Every body was at ease in
her company, and none thought themselves called upon to admire her. To
Clarence Hervey, who had been used to the brilliant and _exigeante_ Lady
Delacour, this respite from the fatigue of admiration was peculiarly
agreeable. The unconstrained cheerfulness of Lady Anne Percival spoke a
mind at ease, and immediately imparted happiness by exacting sympathy; but
in Lady Delacour's wit and gaiety there was an appearance of art and
effort, which often destroyed the pleasure that she wished to communicate.
Mr. Hervey was, perhaps unusually, disposed to reflection, by having just
escaped from drowning; for he had made all these comparisons, and came to
this conclusion, with the accuracy of a metaphysician, who has been
accustomed to study cause and effect--indeed there was no species of
knowledge for which he had not taste and talents, though, to please fools,
he too often affected "the bliss of ignorance."

The children at Lady Anne Percival's happened to be looking at some gold
fish, which were in a glass globe, and Dr. X------, who was a general
favourite with the younger as well as with the elder part of the family,
was seized upon the moment he entered the room: a pretty little girl of
five years old took him prisoner by the flap of the coat, whilst two of
her brothers assailed him with questions about the ears, eyes, and fins of
fishes. One of the little boys filliped the glass globe, and observed,
that the fish immediately came to the surface of the water, and seemed to
hear the noise very quickly; but his brother doubted whether the fish
heard the noise, and remarked, that they might be disturbed by seeing or
feeling the motion of the water, when the glass was struck.

Dr. X---- observed, that this was a very learned dispute, and that the
question had been discussed by no less a person than the Abbe Nollet; and
he related some of the ingenious experiments tried by that gentleman, to
decide whether fishes can or cannot hear. Whilst the doctor was speaking,
Clarence Hervey was struck with the intelligent countenance of one of the
little auditors, a girl of about ten or twelve years old; he was surprised
to discover in her features, though not in their expression, a singular
resemblance to Lady Delacour. He remarked this to Mr. Percival, and the
child, who overheard him, blushed as red as scarlet. Dinner was announced
at this instant, and Clarence Hervey thought no more of the circumstance,
attributing the girl's blush to confusion at being looked at so earnestly.
One of the little boys whispered as they were going down to dinner,
"Helena, I do believe that this is the good-natured gentleman who went out
of the path to make room for us, instead of running over us as the other
man did." The children agreed that Clarence Hervey certainly was the
_good-natured gentleman_, and upon the strength of this observation, one
of the boys posted himself next to Clarence at dinner, and by all the
little playful manoeuvres in his power endeavoured to show his gratitude,
and to cultivate a friendship which had been thus auspiciously commenced.
Mr. Hervey, who piqued himself upon being able always to suit his
conversation to his companions, distinguished himself at dinner by an
account of the Chinese fishing-bird, from which he passed to the various
ingenious methods of fishing practised by the Russian Cossacks. From
modern he went to ancient fish, and he talked of that which was so much
admired by the Roman epicures for exhibiting a succession of beautiful
colours whilst it is dying; and which was, upon that account, always
suffered to die in the presence of the guests, as part of the
entertainment.--Clarence was led on by the questions of the children from
fishes to birds; he spoke of the Roman aviaries, which were so constructed
as to keep from the sight of the prisoners that they contained, "the
fields, woods, and every object which might remind them of their former
liberty."--From birds he was going on to beasts, when he was nearly struck
dumb by the forbidding severity with which an elderly lady, who sat
opposite to him, fixed her eyes upon him. He had not, till this instant,
paid the smallest attention to her; but her stern countenance was now so
strongly contrasted with the approving looks of the children who sat next
to her, that he could not help remarking it. He asked her to do him the
honour to drink a glass of wine with him. She declined doing him that
honour; observing that she never drank more than one glass of wine at
dinner, and that she had just taken one with Mr. Percival. Her manner was
well-bred, but haughty in the extreme; and she was so passionate, that her
anger sometimes conquered even her politeness. Her dislike to Clarence
Hervey was apparent, even in her silence. "If the old gentlewoman has
taken an antipathy to me at first sight, I cannot help it," thought he,
and he went on to the beasts. The boy, who sat next him, had asked some
questions about the proboscis of the elephant, and Mr. Hervey mentioned
Ives's account of the elephants in India, who have been set to watch young
children, and who draw them back gently with their trunks, when they go
out of bounds. He talked next of the unicorn; and addressing himself to
Dr. X---- and Mr. Percival, he declared that in his opinion Herodotus did
not deserve to be called the father of lies; he cited the mammoth to prove
that the apocryphal chapter in the history of beasts should not be
contemned--that it would in all probability be soon established as true
history. The dessert was on the table before Clarence had done with the
mammoth.

As the butler put a fine dish of cherries upon the table, he said,

"My lady, these cherries are a present from the old gardener to Miss
Delacour."

"Set them before Miss Delacour then," said Lady Anne. "Helena, my dear,
distribute your own cherries."

At the name of Delacour, Clarence Hervey, though his head was still half
full of the mammoth, looked round in astonishment; and when he saw the
cherries placed before the young lady, whose resemblance to Lady Delacour
he had before observed, he could not help exclaiming,

"That young lady then is not a daughter of your ladyship's?"

"No; but I love her as well as if she were," replied Lady Anne.--"What
were you saying about the mammoth?"

"That the mammoth is supposed to be------------" but interrupting himself,
Clarence said in an inquiring tone--"A _niece_ of Lady Delacour's?"

"Her ladyship's _daughter_, sir," said the severe old lady, in a voice
more terrific than her looks.

"Shall I give you some strawberries, Mr. Hervey," said lady Anne, "or will
you let Helena help you to some cherries?"

"Her ladyship's _daughter!_" exclaimed Clarence Hervey in a tone of
surprise.

"Some cherries, sir?" said Helena; but her voice faltered so much, that
she could hardly utter the words.

Clarence perceived that he had been the cause of her agitation, though he
knew not precisely by what means; and he now applied himself in silence to
the picking of his strawberries with great diligence.

The ladies soon afterwards withdrew, and as Mr. Percival did not touch
upon the subject again, Clarence forbore to ask any further questions,
though he was considerably surprised by this sudden discovery. When he
went into the drawing-room to tea, he found his friend, the stern old
lady, speaking in a high declamatory tone. The words which he heard as he
came into the room were--

"If there were no Clarence Herveys, there would be no Lady
Delacours."--Clarence bowed as if he had received a high compliment--the
old lady walked away to an antechamber, fanning herself with great energy.

"Mrs. Margaret Delacour," said Lady Anne, in a low voice to Hervey, "is an
aunt of Lord Delacour's. A woman whose heart is warmer than her temper."

"And that is never cool," said a young lady, who sat next to Lady Anne. "I
call Mrs. Margaret Delacour the volcano; I'm sure I am never in her
company without dreading an eruption. Every now and then out comes with a
tremendous noise, fire, smoke, and rubbish."

"And precious minerals," said Lady Anne, "amongst the rubbish."

"But the best of it is," continued the young lady, "that she is seldom in
a passion without making a hundred mistakes, for which she is usually
obliged afterwards to ask a thousand pardons."

"By that account," said Lady Anne, "which I believe to be just, her
contrition is always ten times as great as her offence."

"Now you talk of contrition, Lady Anne," said Mr. Hervey, "I should think
of my own offences: I am very sorry that my indiscreet questions gave Miss
Delacour any pain--my head was so full of the mammoth, that I blundered on
without seeing what I was about till it was too late."

"Pray, sir," said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who now returned, and took her
seat upon a sofa, with the solemnity of a person who was going to sit in
judgment upon a criminal, "pray, sir, may I ask how long you have been
acquainted with my Lady Delacour?"

Clarence Hervey took up a book, and with great gravity kissed it, as if he
had been upon his oath in a court of justice, and answered,

"To the best of my recollection, madam, it is now four years since I had
first the pleasure and honour of seeing Lady Delacour."

"And in that time, intimately as you have had the pleasure of being
acquainted with her ladyship, you have never discovered that she had a
daughter?"

"Never," said Mr. Hervey.

"There, Lady Anne!--There!" cried Mrs. Delacour, "will you tell me after
this, that Lady Delacour is not a monster?"

"Every body says that she's a prodigy," said Lady Anne; "and prodigies and
monsters are sometimes thought synonymous terms."

"Such a mother was never heard of," continued Mrs. Delacour, "since the
days of Savage and Lady Macclesfield. I am convinced that she _hates_ her
daughter. Why she never speaks of her--she never sees her--she never
thinks of her!"

"Some mothers speak more than they think of their children, and others
think more than they speak of them," said Lady Anne.

"I always thought," said Mr. Hervey, "that Lady Delacour was a woman of
great sensibility."

"Sensibility!" exclaimed the indignant old lady, "she has no sensibility,
sir--none--none. She who lives in a constant round of dissipation, who
performs no one duty, who exists only for herself; how does she show her
sensibility?--Has she sensibility for her husband--for her daughter--for
any one useful purpose upon earth?--Oh, how I hate the cambric
handkerchief sensibility that is brought out only to weep at a
tragedy!--Yes; Lady Delacour has sensibility enough, I grant ye, when
sensibility is the fashion. I remember well her performing the part of a
nurse with vast applause; and I remember, too, the sensibility she showed,
when the child that she nursed fell a sacrifice to her dissipation. The
second of her children, that she killed--"

"Killed!--Oh! surely, my dear Mrs. Delacour, that is too strong a word,"
said Lady Anne: "you would not make a Medea of Lady Delacour!"

"It would have been better if I had," cried Mrs. Delacour, "I can
understand that there may be such a thing in nature as a jealous wife, but
an unfeeling mother I cannot comprehend--that passes my powers of
imagination."

"And mine, so much," said Lady Anne, "that I cannot believe such a being
to exist in the world--notwithstanding all the descriptions I have heard
of it: as you say, my dear Mrs. Delacour, it passes my powers of
imagination. Let us leave it in Mr. Hervey's apocryphal chapter of
animals, and he will excuse us if I never admit it into true history, at
least without some better evidence than I have yet heard."

"Why, my dear, dear Lady Anne," cried Mrs. Delacour--I've made this coffee
so sweet, there's no drinking it--what evidence would you have?"

"None," said Lady Anne, smiling, "I would have none." "That is to say, you
will take none," said Mrs. Delacour: "but can any thing be stronger
evidence than her ladyship's conduct to _my_ poor Helen--to _your_ Helen,
I should say--for you have educated, you have protected her, you have been
a mother to her. I am an infirm, weak, ignorant, passionate old woman--I
could not have been what you have been to that child--God bless you!--God
will bless you!"

She rose as she spoke, to set down her coffee-cup on the table. Clarence
Hervey took it from her with a look which said much, and which she was
perfectly capable of understanding.

"Young man," said she, "it is very unfashionable to treat age and
infirmity with politeness. I wish that your friend, Lady Delacour, may at
my time of life meet with as much respect, as she has met with admiration
and gallantry in her youth. Poor woman, her head has absolutely been
turned with admiration--and if fame say true, Mr. Hervey has had his share
in turning that head by his flattery."

"I am sure her ladyship has turned mine by her charms," said Clarence;
"and I certainly am not to be blamed for admiring what all the world
admires."

"I wish," said the old lady, "for her own sake, for the sake of her
family, and for the sake of her reputation, that my Lady Delacour had
fewer admirers, and more friends."

"Women who have met with so many admirers, seldom meet with many friends,"
said Lady Anne.

"No," said Mrs. Delacour, "for they seldom are wise enough to know their
value."

"We learn the value of all things, but especially of friends, by
experience," said Lady Anne; "and it is no wonder, therefore, that those
who have little experience of the pleasures of friendship should not be
wise enough to know their value."

"This is very good-natured sophistry; but Lady Delacour is too vain ever
to have a friend," said Mrs. Delacour. "My dear Lady Anne, you don't know
her as well as I do--she has more vanity than ever woman had."

"That is certainly saying a great deal," said Lady Anne; "but then we must
consider, that Lady Delacour, as an heiress, a beauty, and a wit, has a
right to a triple share at least."

"Both her fortune and her beauty are gone; and if she had any wit left, it
is time it should teach her how to conduct herself, I think," said Mrs.
Delacour: "but I give her up--I give her up."

"Oh, no," said Lady Anne, "you must not give her up yet, I have been
informed, and upon _the best authority_, that Lady Delacour was not always
the unfeeling, dissipated fine lady that she now appears to be. This is
only one of the transformations of fashion--the period of her enchantment
will soon be at an end, and she will return to her natural character. I
should not be at all surprised, if Lady Delacour were to appear at once
_la femme comme il y en a pen_."

"Or _la bonne mere_?" said Mrs. Delacour, sarcastically, "after thus
leaving her daughter----"

"_Pour bonne bouche_," interrupted Lady Anne, "when she is tired of the
insipid taste of other pleasures, she will have a higher relish for those
of domestic life, which will be new and fresh to her."

"And so you really think, my dear Lady Anne, that my Lady Delacour will
end by being a domestic woman. Well," said Mrs. Margaret, after taking two
pinches of snuff, "some people believe in the millennium; but I confess I
am not one of them--are you, Mr. Hervey?"

"If it were foretold to me by a good angel," said Clarence, smiling, as
his eye glanced at Lady Anne; "if it were foretold to me by a good angel,
how could I doubt it?"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of one of Lady
Anne's little boys, who came running eagerly up to his mother, to ask
whether he might have "the sulphurs to show to Helena Delacour. I want to
show her Vertumnus and Pomona, mamma," said he. "Were not the cherries
that the old gardener sent very good?"

"What is this about the cherries and the old gardener, Charles?" said the
young lady who sat beside Lady Anne: "come here and tell me the whole
story."

"I will, but I should tell it you a great deal better another time," said
the boy, "because now Helena's waiting for Vertumnus and Pomona."

"Go then to Helena," said Lady Anne, "and I will tell the story for you."

Then turning to the young lady she began--"Once upon a time there lived an
old gardener at Kensington; and this old gardener had an aloe, which was
older than himself; for it was very near a hundred years of age, and it
was just going to blossom, and the old gardener calculated how much he
might make by showing his aloe, when it should be in full blow, to the
generous public--and he calculated that he might make a 100l.; and with
this 100l. he determined to do more than was ever done with a 100l.
before: but, unluckily, as he was thus reckoning his blossoms before they
were blown, he chanced to meet with a fair damsel, who ruined all his
calculations."

"Ay, Mrs. Stanhope's maid, was not it?" interrupted Mrs. Margaret
Delacour. "A pretty damsel she was, and almost as good a politician as her
mistress. Think of that jilt's tricking this poor old fellow out of his
aloe, and--oh, the meanness of Lady Delacour, to accept of that aloe for
one of her extravagant entertainments!"

"But I always understood that she paid fifty guineas for it," said Lady
Anne.

"Whether she did or not," said Mrs. Delacour, "her ladyship and Mrs.
Stanhope between them were the ruin of this poor old man. He was taken in
to marry that jade of a waiting-maid; she turned out just as you might
expect from a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope's--the match-making Mrs.
Stanhope--you know, sir." (Clarence Hervey changed colour.) "She turned
out," continued Mrs. Delacour, "every thing that was bad--ruined her
husband--ran away from him--and left him a beggar."

"Poor man!" said Clarence Hervey.

"But now," said Lady Anne, "let's come to the best part of the story--mark
how good comes out of evil. If this poor man had not lost his aloe and his
wife, I probably should never have been acquainted with Mrs. Delacour, or
with my little Helena. About the time that the old gardener was left a
beggar, as I happened to be walking one fine evening in Sloane-street, I
met a procession of school-girls--an old man begged from them in a most
moving voice; and as they passed, several of the young ladies threw
halfpence to him. One little girl, who observed that the old man could not
stoop without great difficulty, stayed behind the rest of her companions,
and collected the halfpence which they had thrown to him, and put them
into his hat. He began to tell his story over again to her, and she stayed
so long listening to it, that her companions had turned the corner of the
street, and were out of sight. She looked about in great distress; and I
never shall forget the pathetic voice with which she said, 'Oh! what will
become of me? every body will be angry with me.' I assured her that nobody
should be angry with her, and she gave me her little hand with the utmost
innocent confidence. I took her home to her schoolmistress, and I was so
pleased with the beginning of this acquaintance, that I was determined to
cultivate it. One good acquaintance I have heard always leads to another.
Helena introduced me to her aunt Delacour as her best friend. Mrs.
Margaret Delacour has had the goodness to let her little niece spend the
holidays and all her leisure time with me, so that our acquaintance has
grown into friendship. Helena has become quite one of my family."

"And I am sure she has become quite a different creature since she has
been so much with you," cried Mrs. Delacour; "her spirits were quite
broken by her mother's neglect of her: young as she is, she has a great
deal of real sensibility; but as to her mother's sensibility--"

At the recollection of Lady Delacour's neglect of her child, Mrs. Delacour
was going again to launch forth into indignant invective, but Lady Anne
stopped her, by whispering--

"Take care what you say of the mother, for here is the daughter coming,
and she has, indeed, a great deal of real sensibility."

Helena and her young companions now came into the room, bringing with them
the sulphurs at which they had been looking.

"Mamma," said little Charles Percival, "we have brought the sulphurs to
you, because there are some of them that I don't know."

"Wonderful!" said Lady Anne; "and what is not quite so wonderful, there
are some of them that I don't know."

The children spread the sulphurs upon a little table, and all the company
gathered round it.

"Here are all the nine muses for you," said the least of the boys, who had
taken his seat by Clarence Hervey at dinner; "here are all the muses for
you, Mr. Hervey: which do you like best?--Oh, that's the tragic muse that
you have chosen!--You don't like the tragic better than the comic muse, do
you?"

Clarence Hervey made no answer, for he was at that instant recollecting
how Belinda looked in the character of the tragic muse.

"Has your ladyship ever happened to meet with the young lady who has spent
this winter with Lady Delacour?" said Clarence to Lady Anne.

"I sat near her one night at the opera," said Lady Anne: "she has a
charming countenance."

"Who?--Belinda Portman, do you mean?" said Mrs. Delacour. "I am sure if I
were a young man, I would not trust to the charming countenance of a young
lady who is a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope's, and a friend of--Helena, my dear,
shut the door--the most dissipated woman in London."

"Indeed," said Lady Anne, "Miss Portman is in a dangerous situation; but
some young people learn prudence by being placed in dangerous situations,
as some young horses, I have heard Mr. Percival say, learn to be
sure-footed, by being left to pick their own way on bad roads."

Here Mr. Percival, Dr. X----, and some other gentlemen, came up stairs to
tea, and the conversation took another turn. Clarence Hervey endeavoured
to take his share in it with his usual vivacity, but he was thinking of
Belinda Portman, dangerous situations, stumbling horses, &c; and he made
several blunders, which showed his absence of mind.

"What have you there, Mr. Hervey?" said Dr. X----, looking over his
shoulder--"the tragic muse? This tragic muse seems to rival Lady Delacour
in your admiration."

"Oh," said Clarence, smiling, "you know I was always a votary of the
muses."

"And a favoured votary," said Dr. X----. "I wish for the interests of
literature, that poets may always be lovers, though I cannot say that I
desire lovers should always be poets. But, Mr. Hervey, you must never
marry, remember," continued Dr. X----, "never--for your true poet must
always be miserable. You know Petrarch tells us, he would not have been
happy if he could; he would not have married his mistress if it had been
in his power; because then there would have been an end of his beautiful
sonnets."

"Every one to his taste," said Clarence; "for my part I have even less
ambition to imitate the heroism than hope of being inspired with the
poetic genius of Petrarch. I have no wish to pass whole nights composing
sonnets. I would (am I not right, Mr. Percival?) infinitely rather be a
slave of the ring than a slave of the lamp."

Here the conversation ended; Clarence took his leave, and Mrs. Margaret
Delacour said, the moment he had left the room, "Quite a different sort of
young man from what I had expected to see!"




CHAPTER IX.

ADVICE.


The next morning Mr. Hervey called on Dr. X------, and begged that he
would accompany him to Lady Delacour's.

"To be introduced to your tragic muse?" said the doctor.

"Yes," said Mr. Hervey: "I must have your opinion of her before I devote
myself."

"My opinion! but of whom?--Of Lady Delacour?"

"No; but of a young lady whom you will see with her."

"Is she handsome?"

"Beautiful!"

"And young?"

"And young."

"And graceful?"

"The most graceful person you ever beheld."

"Young, beautiful, graceful; then the deuce take me," said Dr. X------,
"if I give you my opinion of her: for the odds are, that she has a
thousand faults, at least, to balance these perfections."

"A thousand faults! a charitable allowance," said Clarence, smiling.

"There now," said Dr. X------

    'Touch him, and no minister's so sore.'

To punish you for wincing at my first setting out, I promise you, that
if the lady have a million of faults, each of them high as huge Olympus, I
will see them as with the eye of a flatterer-not of a friend."

"I defy you to be so good or so bad as your word, doctor," said Hervey.
"You have too much wit to make a good flatterer."

"And perhaps you think too much to make a good friend," said Dr. X----.

"Not so," said Clarence: "I would at any time rather be cut by a sharp
knife than by a blunt one. But, my dear doctor, I hope you will not be
prejudiced against Belinda, merely because she is with Lady Delacour; for
to my certain knowledge, she in not under her ladyship's influence. She
judges and acts for herself, of which I have had an instance."

"Very possibly!" interrupted Dr. X----. "But before we go any farther,
will you please to tell me of what Belinda you are talking?"

"Belinda Portman. I forgot that I had not told you."

"Miss Portman, a niece of Mrs. Stanhope's?"

"Yes, but do not be prejudiced against her on that account," said
Clarence, eagerly, "though I was at first myself."

"Then you will excuse my following your example instead of your precepts."

"No," said Clarence, "for my precepts are far better than my example."

Lady Delacour received Dr. X---- most courteously, and thanked Mr. Hervey
for introducing to her a gentleman with whom she had long desired to
converse. Dr. X---- had a great literary reputation, and she saw that he
was a perfectly well-bred man; consequently she was ambitious of winning
his admiration. She perceived also that he had considerable influence with
Clarence Hervey, and this was a sufficient reason to make her wish for his
good opinion. Belinda was particularly pleased with his manners and
conversation; she saw that he paid her much attention, and she was
desirous that he should think favourably of her; but she had the good
sense and good taste to avoid a display of her abilities and
accomplishments. A sensible man, who has any knowledge of the world and
talents for conversation, can easily draw out the knowledge of those with
whom he converses. Dr. X------possessed this power in a superior degree?

"Well," cried Clarence, when their visit was over, "what is your opinion
of Lady Delacour?"

"I am 'blasted with excess of light,'" said the doctor.

"Her ladyship is certainly very brilliant," said Clarence, "but I hope
that Miss Portman did not overpower you."

"No--I turned my eyes from Lady Delacour upon Miss Portman, as a painter
turns his eyes upon mild green, to rest them, when they have been dazzled
by glaring colours.

   'She yields her charms of mind with sweet delay.'"

"I was afraid," said Hervey, "that you might think her manners too
reserved and cold: they are certainly become more so than they used to be.
But so much the better; by and by we shall find beautiful flowers spring
up from beneath the snow.'"

"A very poetical hope," said Dr. X------; "but in judging of the human
character, we must not entirely trust to analogies and allusions taken
from the vegetable creation."

"What!" cried Clarence Hervey, looking eagerly in the doctor's eyes, "what
do you mean? I am afraid you do not approve of Belinda."

"Your fears are almost as precipitate as your hopes, my good sir: but to
put you out of pain, I will tell you, that I approve of all I have seen of
this young lady, but that it is absolutely out of my power to form a
decisive judgment of a woman's temper and character in the course of a
single morning visit. Women, you know, as well as men, often speak with
one species of enthusiasm, and act with another. I must see your Belinda
act, I must study her, before I can give you my final judgment. Lady
Delacour has honoured me with her commands to go to her as often as
possible. For your sake, my dear Hervey, I shall obey her ladyship most
punctually, that I may have frequent opportunities of seeing your Miss
Portman."

Clarence expressed his gratitude with much energy, for this instance of
the doctor's friendship. Belinda, who had been entertained by Dr.
X------'s conversation during this first visit, was more and more
delighted with his company as she became more acquainted with his
understanding and character. She felt that he unfolded her powers, and
that with the greatest politeness and address he raised her confidence in
herself, without ever descending to flattery. By degrees she learned to
look upon him as a friend; she imparted to him with great ingenuousness
her opinions on various subjects, and she was both amused and instructed
by his observations on the characters and manners of the company who
frequented Lady Delacour's assemblies. She did not judge of the doctor's
sincerity merely by the kindness he showed her, but by his conduct towards
others.

One night, at a select party at Lady Delacour's, a Spanish gentleman was
amusing the company with some anecdotes, to prove the extraordinary
passion which some of his countrymen formerly showed for the game of
chess. He mentioned families, in which unfinished games, bequeathed by
will, had descended from father to son, and where victory was doubtful for
upwards of a century.

Mr. Hervey observed, that gaining a battle was, at that time, so common to
the court of Spain, that a victory at chess seemed to confer more _eclat_;
for that an abbe, by losing adroitly a game at chess to the Spanish
minister, obtained a cardinal's hat.

The foreigner was flattered by the manner in which Hervey introduced this
slight circumstance, and he directed to him his conversation, speaking in
French and Italian successively; he was sufficiently skilled in both
languages, but Clarence spoke them better. Till he appeared, the foreigner
was the principal object of attention, but he was soon eclipsed by Mr.
Hervey. Nothing amusing or instructive that could be said upon the game of
chess escaped him, and the literary ground, which the slow Don would have
taken some hours to go regularly over, our hero traversed in a few
minutes. From Twiss to Vida, from Irwin to Sir William Jones, from Spain
to India, he passed with admirable celerity, and seized all that could
adorn his course from Indian Antiquities or Asiatic Researches.

By this display of knowledge he surprised even his friend Dr. X----. The
ladies admired his taste as a poet, the gentlemen his accuracy as a
critic; Lady Delacour loudly applauded, and Belinda silently approved.
Clarence was elated. The Spanish gentleman, to whom he had just quoted a
case in point from Vida's Scacchia, asked him if he were as perfect in the
practice as in the theory of the game. Clarence was too proud of excelling
in every thing to decline the Spaniard's challenge. They sat down to
chess. Lady Delacour, as they ranged the pieces on the board, cried,
"Whoever wins shall be my knight; and a silver chess-man shall be his
prize. Was it not Queen Elizabeth who gave a silver chess-man to one of
her courtiers as a mark of her royal favour? I am ashamed to imitate such
a pedantic coquet--but since I have said it, how can I retract?"

"Impossible! impossible!" cried Clarence Hervey: "a silver chess-man be
our prize; and if I win it, like the gallant Raleigh, I will wear it in my
cap; and what proud Essex shall dare to challenge it?"

The combat now began--the spectators were silent. Clarence made an error
in his first move, for his attention was distracted by seeing Belinda
behind his adversary's chair. The Spaniard was deceived by this mistake
into a contemptuous opinion of his opponent--Belinda changed her
place--Clarence recovered his presence of mind, and convinced him that he
was not a man to be despised. The combat was long doubtful, but at length
to the surprise of all present, Clarence Hervey was victorious.

Exulting in his success, he looked round for Lady Delacour, from whom he
expected the honours of his triumph. She had left the room, but soon she
returned, dressed in the character of Queen Elizabeth, in which she had
once appeared at a masquerade, with a large ruff, and all the costume of
the times.

Clarence Hervey, throwing himself at her feet, addressed her in that
high-flown style which her majesty was wont to hear from the gallant
Raleigh, or the accomplished Essex.

Soon the coquetry of the queen entirely conquered her prudery; and the
favoured courtier, evidently elated by his situation, was as enthusiastic
as her majesty's most insatiable vanity could desire. The characters were
well supported; both the actor and actress were highly animated, and
seemed so fully possessed by their parts as to be insensible to the
comments that were made upon the scene. Clarence Hervey was first recalled
to himself by the deep blush which he saw on Belinda's cheek, when Queen
Elizabeth addressed her as one of her maids of honour, of whom she
affected to be jealous. He was conscious that he had been hurried by the
enthusiasm of the moment farther than he either wished or intended. It was
difficult to recede, when her majesty seemed disposed to advance; but Sir
Walter Raleigh, with much presence of mind, turned to the foreigner, whom
he accosted as the Spanish ambassador.

"Your excellency sees," said he, "how this great queen turns the heads of
her faithful subjects, and afterwards has the art of paying them with
nothing but words. Has the new world afforded you any coin half so
valuable?"

The Spanish gentleman's grave replies to this playful question gave a new
turn to the conversation, and relieved Clarence Hervey from his
embarrassment. Lady Delacour, though still in high spirits, was easily
diverted to other objects. She took the Spaniard with her to the next
room, to show him a picture of Mary, Queen of Scots. The company followed
her--Clarence Hervey remained with Dr. X---- and Belinda, who had just
asked the doctor, to teach her the moves at chess.

"Lady Delacour has charming spirits," said Clarence Hervey; "they inspire
every body with gaiety."

"Every body! they incline me more to melancholy than mirth," said Dr.
X----. "These high spirits do not seem quite natural. The vivacity of
youth and of health, Miss Portman, always charms me; but this gaiety of
Lady Delacour's does not appear to me that of a sound mind in a sound
body."

The doctor's penetration went so near the truth, that Belinda, afraid of
betraying her friend's secrets, never raised her eyes from the chess-board
whilst he spoke, but went on setting up the fallen castles, and bishops,
and kings, with expeditious diligence.

"You are putting the bishop into the place of the knight," said Clarence.

"Lady Delacour," continued the doctor, "seems to be in a perpetual fever,
either of mind or body--I cannot tell which--and as a professional man, I
really have some curiosity to determine the question. If I could feel her
pulse, I could instantly decide; but I have heard her say that she has a
horror against having her pulse felt, and a lady's horror is invincible,
by reason--"

"But not by address," said Clarence. "I can tell you a method of counting
her pulse, without her knowing it, without her seeing you, without your
seeing her."

"Indeed!" said Dr. X----, smiling; "that may be a useful secret in my
profession; pray impart it to me--you who excel in every thing."

"Are you in earnest, Mr. Hervey?" said Belinda.

"Perfectly in earnest--my secret is quite simple. Look through the door at
the shadow of Queen Elizabeth's ruff--observe how it vibrates; the motion
as well as the figure is magnified in the shadow. Cannot you count every
pulsation distinctly?"

"I can," said Dr. X----, "and I give you credit for making an ingenious
use of a trifling observation." The doctor paused and looked round. "Those
people cannot hear what we are saying, I believe?"

"Oh, no," said Belinda, "they are intent upon themselves." Doctor X----
fixed his eyes mildly upon Clarence Hervey, and exclaimed in an earnest
friendly tone--"What a pity, Mr. Hervey, that a young man of your talents
and acquirements, a man who might be any thing, should--pardon the
expression--choose to be--nothing; should waste upon petty objects powers
suited to the greatest; should lend his soul to every contest for
frivolous superiority, when the same energy concentrated might ensure
honourable pre-eminence among the first men in his country. Shall he who
might not only distinguish himself in any science or situation, who might
not only acquire personal fame, but, oh, far more noble motive! who might
be permanently useful to his fellow-creatures, content himself with being
the evanescent amusement of a drawing-room?--Shall one, who might be great
in public, or happy in private life, waste in this deplorable manner the
best years of his existence--time that can never be recalled?--This is
declamation!--No: it is truth put into the strongest language that I have
power to use, in the hope of making some impression: I speak from my
heart, for I have a sincere regard for you, Mr. Hervey, and if I have been
impertinent, you must forgive me."

"Forgive you!" cried Clarence Hervey, taking Dr. X---- by the hand, "I
think you a real friend; you shall have the best thanks not in words, but
in actions: you have roused my ambition, and I will pursue noble ends by
noble means. A few years have been sacrificed; but the lessons that they
have taught me remain. I cannot, presumptuous as lam, flatter myself that
my exertions can be of any material utility to my fellow-creatures, but
what I can do I will, my excellent friend! If I be hereafter either
successful in public, or happy in private life, it is to you I shall owe
it."

Belinda was touched by the candour and good sense with which Clarence
Hervey spoke. His character appeared in a new light: she was proud of her
own judgment, in having discerned his merit, and for a moment she
permitted herself to feel "unreproved pleasure in his company."

The next morning, Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort called at Lady
Delacour's--Mr. Hervey was present--her ladyship was summoned to Mrs.
Franks, and Belinda was left with these gentlemen."

"Why, damme, Clary! you have been a lost man," cried Sir Philip, "ever
since you were drowned. Damme, why did not you come to dine with us that
day, now I recollect it? We were all famously merry; but for your comfort,
Clarence, we missed you cursedly, and were damned sorry you ever took that
unlucky jump into the Serpentine river--damned sorry, were not we,
Rochfort?"

"Oh," said Clarence, in an ironical tone, "you need no vouchers to
convince me of the reality of your sorrow. You know I can never forget
your jumping so courageously into the river, to save the life of your
friend."

"Oh, pooh! damn it," said Sir Philip, "what signifies who pulled you out,
now you are safe and sound? By-the-bye, Clary, did you ever quiz that
doctor, as I desired you? No, that I'm sure you didn't; but I think he has
made a quiz of you: for, damme, I believe you have taken such a fancy to
the old quizzical fellow, that you can't live without him. Miss Portman,
don't you admire Hervey's taste?"

"In this instance I certainly do admire Mr. Hervey's taste," said Belinda,
"for the best of all possible reasons, because it entirely agrees with my
own."

"Very extraordinary, faith," said Sir Philip.

"And what the devil can you find to like in him, Clary?" continued Mr.
Rochfort, "for one wouldn't be so rude to put that question to a lady.
Ladies, you know, are never to be questioned about their likings and
dislikings. Some have pet dogs, some have pet cats: then why not a _pet
quiz?_"

"Ha! ha! ha! that's a good one, Rochfort--a pet quiz!--Ha! ha! ha! Dr.
X---- shall be Miss Portman's pet quiz. Put it about, put it about,
Rochfort," continued the witty baronet, and be and his facetious companion
continued to laugh as long as they possibly could at this happy hit.

Belinda, without being in the least discomposed by their insolent folly,
as soon as they had finished laughing, very coolly observed, that she
could have no objection to give her reasons for preferring Dr. X-----'s
company but for fear they might give offence to Sir Philip and his
friends. She then defended the doctor with so much firmness, and yet with
so much propriety, that Clarence Hervey was absolutely enchanted with her,
and with his own penetration in having discovered her real character,
notwithstanding her being Mrs. Stanhope's niece.

"I never argue, for my part," cried Mr. Rochfort: "'pon honour, 'tis a
deal too much trouble. A lady, a handsome lay, I mean, is always in the
right with me."

"But as to you, Hervey," said Sir Philip, "damme, do you know, my boy,
that our club has come to a determination to black-ball you, if you keep
company with this famous doctor?"

"Your club, Sir Philip, will do me honour by such an ostracism."

"Ostracism!" repeated Sir Philip.--"In plain English, does that mean that
you choose to be black-balled by us? Why, damn it, Clary, you'll be
nobody. But follow your own genius--damn me, if I take it upon me to
understand your men of genius--they are in the Serpentine river one day,
and in the clouds the next: so fare ye well, Clary. I expect to see you a
doctor of physic, or a methodist parson, soon, damn me if I don't: so fare
ye well, Clary. Is black-ball your last word? or will you think better
on't, and give up the doctor?"

"I can never give up Dr. X----'s friendship--I would sooner be
black-balled by every club in London. The good lesson you gave me, Sir
Philip, the day I was fool enough to jump into the Serpentine river, has
made me wiser for life. I know, for I have felt, the difference between
real friends and fashionable acquaintance. Give up Dr. X----! Never!
never!"

"Then fare you well, Clary," said Sir Philip, "you're no longer one of
us."

"Then fare ye well, Clary, you're no longer the man for me," said
Rochfort.

"_Tant pis_, and _tant mieux_" said Clarence, and so they parted.

As they left the room, Clarence Hervey involuntarily turned to Belinda,
and he thought that he read in her ingenuous, animated countenance, full
approbation of his conduct.

"Hist! are they gone? quite gone?" said Lady Delacour, entering the room
from an adjoining apartment; "they have stayed an unconscionable time. How
much I am obliged to Mrs. Franks for detaining me! I have escaped their
vapid impertinence; and in truth, this morning I have such a multiplicity
of business, that I have scarcely a moment even for wit and Clarence
Hervey. Belinda, my dear, will you have the charity to look over some of
these letters for me, which, as Marriott tells me, have been lying in my
writing-table this week--expecting, most unreasonably, that I should have
the grace to open them? We are always punished for our indolence, as your
friend Dr. X---- said the other day: if we suffer business to accumulate,
it drifts with every ill wind like snow, till at last an avalanche of it
comes down at once, and quite overwhelms us. Excuse me, Clarence,"
continued her ladyship, as she opened her letters, "this is very rude: but
I know I have secured my pardon from you by remembering your friend's
wit--wisdom, I should say: how seldom are wit and wisdom joined! They
might have been joined in Lady Delacour, perhaps--there's vanity!--if she
had early met with such a friend as Dr. X----; but it's too late now,"
said she, with a deep sigh.

Clarence Hervey heard it, and it made a great impression upon his
benevolent imagination. "Why too late?" said he to himself. "Mrs. Margaret
Delacour is mistaken, if she thinks this woman wants sensibility."

"What have you got there, Miss Portman?" said Lady Delacour, taking from
Belinda's hand one of the letters which she had begged her to look over:
"something wondrous pathetic, I should guess, by your countenance.
'_Helena Delacour_.' Oh! read it to yourself, my dear--a school-girl's
letter is a thing I abominate--I make it a rule never to read Helena's
epistles."

"Let me prevail upon your ladyship to make an exception to the general
rule then," said Belinda; "I can assure you this is not a common
school-girl's letter: Miss Delacour seems to inherit her mother's
'_eloquence de billet_.'"

"Miss Portman seems to possess, by inheritance, by instinct, by magic, or
otherwise, powers of persuasion, which no one can resist. There's
compliment for compliment, my dear. Is there any thing half so well turned
in Helena's letter? Really, 'tis vastly well," continued her ladyship, as
she read the letter: "where did the little gipsy learn to write so
charmingly? I protest I should like of all things to have her at home with
me this summer--the 21st of June--well, after the birthday, I shall have
time to think about it. But then, we shall be going out of town, and at
Harrowgate I should not know what to do with her; she had better, much
better, go to her humdrum Aunt Margaret's, as she always does--she is a
fixture in Grosvenor-square. These stationary good people, these zoophite
friends, are sometimes very convenient; and Mrs. Margaret Delacour is the
most unexceptionable zoophite in the creation. She has, it is true, an
antipathy to me, because I'm of such a different nature from herself; but
then her antipathy does not extend to my offspring: she is kind beyond
measure to Helena, on purpose, I believe, to provoke me. Now I provoke her
in my turn, by never being provoked, and she saves me a vast deal of
trouble, for which she is overpaid by the pleasure of abusing me. This is
the way of the world, Clarence. Don't look so serious--you are not come
yet to daughters and sons, and schools and holidays, and all the evils of
domestic life."

"Evils!" repeated Clarence Hervey, in a tone which surprised her ladyship.
She looked immediately with a significant smile at Belinda. "Why do not
you echo _evils_, Miss Portman?"

"Pray, Lady Delacour," interrupted Clarence Hervey, "when do you go to
Harrowgate?"

"What a sudden transition!" said Lady Delacour. "What association of ideas
could just at that instant take you to Harrowgate?  When do I go to
Harrowgate? Immediately after the birthday, I believe we shall--I advise
you to be of the party."

"Your ladyship does me a great deal of honour," said Hervey: "I shall, if
it be possible, do myself the honour of attending you."

And soon after this arrangement was made, Mr. Hervey took his leave.

"Well, my dear, are you still poring over that letter of Helena's?" said
Lady Delacour to Miss Portman.

"I fancy your ladyship did not quite finish it," said Belinda.

"No; I saw something about the Leverian Museum, and a swallow's nest in a
pair of garden-shears; and I was afraid I was to have a catalogue of
curiosities, for which I have little taste and less time."

"You did not see, then, what Miss Delacour says of the lady who took her
to that Museum?"

"Not I. What lady? her Aunt Margaret?"

"No; Mrs. Margaret Delacour, she says, has been so ill for some time past,
that she goes no where but to Lady Anne Percival's."

"Poor woman," said Lady Delacour, "she will die soon, and then I shall
have Helena upon my hands, unless some other kind friend takes a fancy to
her. Who is this lady that has carried her to the Leverian Museum?"

"Lady Anne Percival; of whom she speaks with so much gratitude and
affection, that I quite long----"

"Lord bless me!" interrupted Lady Delacour, "Lady Anne Percival! Helena
has mentioned this Lady Anne Percival to me before, I recollect, in some
of her letters."

"Then you did read some of her letters?"

"Half!--I never read more than half, upon my word," said Lady Delacour,
laughing.

"Why will you delight in making yourself appear less good than you are, my
dear Lady Delacour?" said Belinda, taking her hand.

"Because I hate to be like other people," said her ladyship, "who delight
in making themselves appear better than they are. But I was going to tell
you, that I do believe I did provoke Percival by marrying Lord Delacour: I
cannot tell you how much this Mea delights me--I am sure that the man has
a lively remembrance of me, or else he would never make his wife take so
much notice of my daughter."

"Surely, your ladyship does not think," said Belinda, "that a wife is a
being whose actions are necessarily governed by a husband."

"Not necessarily--but accidentally. When a lady accidentally sets up for
being a good wife, she must of course love, honour, and obey. Now, you
understand, I am not in the least obliged to Lady Anne for her kindness to
Helena, because it all goes under the head of obedience, in my
imagination; and her ladyship is paid for it by an accession of character:
she has the reward of having it said, 'Oh, Lady Anne Percival is the best
wife in the world!'--'Oh, Lady Anne Percival is quite a pattern woman!' I
hate pattern women. I hope I may never see Lady Anne; for I'm sure I
should detest her beyond all things living--Mrs. Luttridge not excepted."

Belinda was surprised and shocked at the malignant vehemence with which
her ladyship uttered these words; it was in vain, however, that she
remonstrated on the injustice of predetermining to detest Lady Anne,
merely because she had shown kindness to Helena, and because she bore a
high character. Lady Delacour was a woman who never listened to reason, or
who listened to it only that she might parry it by wit. Upon this
occasion, her wit had not its usual effect upon Miss Portman; instead of
entertaining, it disgusted her.

"You have called me your friend, Lady Delacour," said she; "I should but
ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to
you--if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong."

"But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear," said Lady Delacour,
stopping her ears. "So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose
that you have said every thing that is wise, and good, and proper, and
sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends; you shall
enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it
is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any
extent you please. You sigh--for my folly. Alas! my dear, 'tis hardly
worth while--my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the
wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not
force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must _keep it up_ with incessant
dissipation--the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us
talk of the birthnight, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or
the ridiculous figure Lady H---- made at the concert; or let us talk of
Harrowgate, or what you will."

Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure in Belinda's mind, and she could
hardly refrain from tears, whilst she saw this unhappy creature, with
forced smiles, endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul: she could
only say, "But, my dear Lady Delacour, do not you think that your little
Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to
your happiness at home?"

"Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me," said Lady Delacour.

Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour's
lap.

"Can you wonder," continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear
which she had let fall; "can you wonder that I should talk of detesting
Lady Anne Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections of my
child. Helena asks to come home: yes, but how does she ask it? Coldly,
formally,--as a duty. But look at the end of her letter; I have read it
all--every bitter word of it I have tasted. How differently she
writes--look even at the flowing hand--the moment she begins to speak of
Lady Anne Percival; then her soul breaks out: 'Lady Anne has offered to
take her to Oakly-park--she should be extremely happy to go, if I please.'
Yes, let her go; let her go as far from me as possible; let her never,
never see her wretched mother more!--Write," said Lady Delacour, turning
hastily to Belinda, "write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-park,
and to be happy."

"But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with
you?" said Belinda. "Let us see her--let us try the experiment."

"No," said Lady Delacour; "no--it is too late: I will never condescend in
my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I
have forfeited my natural claim."

Pride, anger, and sorrow, struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She
turned her face from Belinda, and walked out of the room with dignity.

Nothing remains for me to do, thought Belinda, but to sooth this haughty
spirit: all other hope, I see, is vain.

At this moment Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay,
brilliant Lady Delacour was sinking into the grave, had formed a design
worthy of his ardent and benevolent character. The manner in which her
ladyship had spoken of his friend Dr. X------, the sigh which she gave at
the reflection that she might have been a very different character if she
had early had a sensible friend, made a great impression upon Mr. Hervey.
Till then, he had merely considered her ladyship as an object of
amusement, and an introduction to high life; but he now felt so much
interested for her, that he determined to exert all his influence to
promote her happiness. He knew _that_ influence to be considerable: not
that he was either coxcomb or dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacour
was in love with him; he was perfectly sensible that her only wish was to
obtain his admiration, and he resolved to show her that it could no longer
be secured without deserving his esteem. Clarence Hervey was a thoroughly
generous young man: capable of making the greatest sacrifices, when
encouraged by the hope of doing good, he determined to postpone the
declaration of his attachment to Belinda, that he might devote himself
entirely to his new project. His plan was to wean Lady Delacour by degrees
from dissipation, by attaching her to her daughter, and to Lady Anne
Percival. He was sanguine in all his hopes, and rapid, but not unthinking,
in all his decisions. From Lady Delacour he went immediately to Dr.
X------, to whom he communicated his designs.

"I applaud your benevolent intentions," said the doctor: "but have you
really the presumption to hope, that an ingenuous young man of
four-and-twenty can reform a veteran coquet of four-and-thirty?"

"Lady Delacour is not yet thirty," said Clarence; "but the older she is,
the better the chance of her giving up a losing game. She has an admirable
understanding, and she will soon--I mean as soon as she is acquainted with
Lady Anne Percival--discover that she has mistaken the road to happiness.
All the difficulty will be to make them fairly acquainted with each other;
for this, my dear doctor, I must trust to you. Do you prepare Lady Anne to
tolerate Lady Delacour's faults, and I will prepare Lady Delacour to
tolerate Lady Anne's virtues."

"You have generously taken the more difficult task of the two," replied
Dr. X----. "Well, we shall see what can be done. After the birthday, Lady
Delacour talks of going to Harrowgate: you know, Oakly-park is not far
from Harrowgate, so they will have frequent opportunities of meeting. But,
take my word for it, nothing can be done till after the birthday; for Lady
Delacour's head is at present full of crape petticoats, and horses, and
carriages, and a certain Mrs. Luttridge, whom she hates with a hatred
passing that of women."




CHAPTER X.

THE MYSTERIOUS BOUDOIR.


Accustomed to study human nature, Dr. X---- had acquired peculiar sagacity
in judging of character. Notwithstanding the address with which Lady
Delacour concealed the real motives for her apparently thoughtless
conduct, he quickly discovered that the hatred of Mrs. Luttridge was her
ruling passion. Above nine years of continual warfare had exasperated the
tempers of both parties, and no opportunities of manifesting their mutual
antipathy were ever neglected. Extravagantly as Lady Delacour loved
admiration, the highest possible degree of positive praise was insipid to
her taste, if it did not imply some superiority over the woman whom she
considered as a perpetual rival.

Now it had been said by the coachmaker, that Mrs. Luttridge would sport a
most elegant new vis-a-vis on the king's birthday. Lady Delacour was
immediately ambitious to outshine her in equipage; and it was this paltry
ambition that made her condescend to all the meanness of the transaction
by which she obtained Miss Portman's draft, and Clarence Hervey's two
hundred guineas. The great, the important day, at length arrived--her
ladyship's triumph in the morning at the drawing-room was complete. Mrs.
Luttridge's dress, Mrs. Luttridge's vis-a-vis, Mrs. Luttridge's horses
were nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison with Lady Delacour's: her
ladyship enjoyed the full exultation of vanity; and at night she went in
high spirits to the ball.

"Oh, my dearest Belinda," said she, as she left her dressing-room, "how
terrible a thing it is that you cannot go with me!--None of the joys of
this life are without alloy!--'Twould be too much to see in one night Mrs.
Luttridge's mortification, and my Belinda's triumph. Adieu! my love: we
shall live to see another birthday, it is to be hoped. Marriott, my drops.
Oh, I have taken them."

Belinda, after her ladyship's departure, retired to the library. Her time
passed so agreeably during Lady Delacour's absence, that she was surprised
when she heard the clock strike twelve.

"Is it possible," thought she, "that I have spent two hours by myself in a
library without being tired of my existence?--How different are my
feelings now from what they would have been in the same circumstances six
months ago!--I should then have thought the loss of a birthnight ball a
mighty trial of temper. It is singular, that my having spent a winter with
one of the most dissipated women in England should have sobered my mind so
completely. If I had never seen the utmost extent of the pleasures of the
world, as they are called, my imagination might have misled me to the end
of my life; but now I can judge from my own experience, and I am convinced
that the life of a fine lady would never make me happy. Dr. X---- told me,
the other day, that he thinks me formed for something better, and he is
incapable of flattery."

The idea of Clarence Hervey was so intimately connected with that of his
friend, that Miss Portman could seldom separate them in her imagination;
and she was just beginning to reflect upon the manner in which Clarence
looked, whilst he declared to Sir Philip Baddely, that he would never give
up Dr. X----, when she was startled by the entrance of Marriott.

"Oh, Miss Portman, what shall we do? what shall we do?-My lady! my poor
lady!" cried she.

"What is the matter?" said Belinda.

"The horses--the young horses!--Oh, I wish my lady had never seen them.
Oh, my lady, my poor lady, what will become of her?"

It was some minutes before Belinda could obtain from Marriott any
intelligible account of what had happened.

"All I know, ma'am, is what James has just told me," said Marriott. "My
lady gave the coachman orders upon no account to let Mrs. Luttridge's
carriage get before hers. Mrs. Luttridge's coachman would not give up the
point either. My lady's horses were young and ill broke, they tell me, and
there was no managing of them no ways. The carriages got somehow across
one another, and my lady was overturned, and all smashed to atoms. Oh,
ma'am," continued Marriott, "if it had not been for Mr. Hervey, they say,
my lady would never have been got out of the crowd alive. He's bringing
her home in his own carriage, God bless him!"

"But is Lady Delacour hurt?" cried Belinda.

"She _must_,--to be sure, she must, ma'am," cried Marriott, putting her
hand upon her bosom. "But let her be ever so much hurt, my lady will keep
it to herself: the footmen swear she did not give a scream, not a single
scream; so it's their opinion she was no ways hurt--but that, I know,
can't be--and, indeed, they are thinking so much about the carriage, that
they can't give one any rational account of any thing; and, as for myself,
I'm sure I'm in such a flutter. Lord knows, I advised my lady not to go
with the young horses, no later than--"

"Hark!" cried Belinda, "here they are." She ran down stairs instantly. The
first object that she saw was Lady Delacour in convulsions--the
street-door was open--the hall was crowded with servants. Belinda made her
way through them, and, in a calm voice, requested that Lady Delacour might
immediately be brought to her own dressing-room, and that she should there
be left to Marriott's care and hers. Mr. Hervey assisted in carrying Lady
Delacour--she came to her senses as they were taking her up stairs. "Set
me down, set me down," she exclaimed: "I am not hurt--I am quite
well,--Where's Marriott? Where's Miss Portman?"

"Here we are--you shall be carried quite safely--trust to me," said
Belinda, in a firm tone, "and do not struggle."

Lady Delacour submitted: she was in agonizing pain, but her fortitude was
so great that she never uttered a groan. It was the constraint which she
had put upon herself, by endeavouring not to scream, which threw her into
convulsions. "She is hurt--I am sure she is hurt, though she will not
acknowledge it," cried Clarence Hervey. "My ankle is sprained, that's
all," said Lady Delacour--"lay me on this sofa, and leave me to Belinda."

"What's all this?" cried Lord Delacour, staggering into the room: he was
much intoxicated, and in this condition had just come home, as they were
carrying Lady Delacour up stairs: he could not be made to understand the
truth, but as soon as he heard Clarence Hervey's voice, he insisted upon
going up to _his wife's_ dressing-room. It was a very unusual thing, but
neither Champfort nor any one else could restrain him, the moment that he
had formed this idea; he forced his way into the room.

"What's all this?--Colonel Lawless!" said he, addressing himself to
Clarence Hervey, whom, in the confusion of his mind, he mistook for the
colonel, the first object of his jealousy. "Colonel Lawless," cried his
lordship, "you are a villain. I always knew it."

"Softly!--she's in great pain, my lord," said Belinda, catching Lord
Delacour's arm, just as he was going to strike Clarence Hervey. She led
him to the sofa where Lady Delacour lay, and uncovering her ankle, which
was much swelled, showed it to him. His lordship, who was a humane man,
was somewhat moved by this appeal to his remaining senses, and he began
roaring as loud as he possibly could for arquebusade.

Lady Delacour rested her head upon the back of the sofa, her hands moved
with convulsive twitches--she was perfectly silent. Marriott was in a
great bustle, running backwards and forwards for she knew not what, and
continually repeating, "I wish nobody would come in here but Miss Portman
and me. My lady says nobody must come in. Lord bless me! my lord here
too!"

"Have you any arquebusade, Marriott? Arquebusade, for your lady,
directly!" cried his lordship, following her to the door of the boudoir,
where she was going for some drops.

"Oh, my lord, you can't come in, I assure you, my lord, there's nothing
here, my lord, nothing of the sort," said Marriott, setting her back
against the door. Her terror and embarrassment instantly recalled all the
jealous suspicions of Lord Delacour. "Woman!" cried he, "I _will_ see whom
you have in this room!--You have some one concealed there, and I _will_ go
in." Then with brutal oaths he dragged Marriott from the door, and
snatched the key from her struggling hand.

Lady Delacour started up, and gave a scream of agony. "My lord!--Lord
Delacour," cried Belinda, springing forward, "hear me."

Lord Delacour stopped short. "Tell me, then," cried Lord Delacour, "is not
a lover of Lady Delacour's concealed there?" "No!--No!--No!" answered
Belinda. "Then a lover of Miss Portman?" said Lord Delacour. "Gad! we have
hit it now, I believe."

"Believe whatever you please, my lord," said Belinda, hastily, "but give
me the key."

Clarence Hervey drew the key from Lord Delacour's hand, gave it to Miss
Portman without looking at her, and immediately withdrew. Lord Delacour
followed him with a sort of drunken laugh; and no one remained in the room
but Marriott, Belinda, and Lady Delacour. Marriott was so much
_fluttered_, as she said, that she could do nothing. Miss Portman locked
the room door, and began to undress Lady Delacour, who lay motionless.
"Are we by ourselves?" said Lady Delacour, opening her eyes.

"Yes--are you much hurt?" said Belinda. "Oh, you are a charming girl!"
said Lady Delacour. "Who would have thought you had so much presence of
mind and courage--have you the key safe?" "Here it is," said Belinda,
producing it; and she repeated her question, "Are you much hurt?" "I am
not in pain now," said Lady Delacour, "but I _have_ suffered terribly. If
I could get rid of all this finery, if you could put me to bed, I could
sleep perhaps."

Whilst Belinda was undressing Lady Delacour, she shrieked several times;
but between every interval of pain she repeated, "I shall be better
to-morrow." As soon as she was in bed, she desired Marriott to give her
double her usual quantity of laudanum; for that all the inclination which
she had felt to sleep was gone, and that she could not endure the shooting
pains that she felt in her breast.

"Leave me alone with your lady, Marriott," said Miss Portman, taking the
bottle of laudanum from her trembling hand, "and go to bed; for I am sure
you are not able to sit up any longer."

As she spoke, she took Marriott into the adjoining dressing-room. "Oh,
dear Miss Portman," said Marriott, who was sincerely attached to her lady,
and who at this instant forgot all her jealousies, and all her love of
power, "I'll do any thing you ask me; but pray let me stay in the room,
though I know I'm quite helpless. It will be too much for you to be here
all night by yourself. The convulsions may take my lady. What shrieks she
gives every now and then!--and nobody knows what's the matter but
ourselves; and every body in the house is asking me why a surgeon is not
sent for, if my lady is so much hurt. Oh, I can't answer for it to my
conscience, to have kept the matter secret so long; for to be sure a
physician, if had in time, might have saved my lady--but now nothing can
save her!" And here Marriott burst into tears.

"Why don t you give me the laudanum?" cried Lady Delacour, in a loud
peremptory voice; "Give it to me instantly."--"No," said Miss Portman,
firmly.--"Hear me, Lady Delacour--you must allow me to judge, for you know
that you are not in a condition to judge for yourself, or rather you must
allow me to send for a physician, who may judge for us both."

"A physician!" cried Lady Delacour, "Never--never. I charge you let no
physician be sent for. Remember your promise: you _cannot_ betray me--you
_will_ not betray me."

"No," said Belinda, "of that I have given sufficient proof--but you will
betray yourself: it is already known by your servants that you have been
hurt by the overturn of your carriage; if you do not let either a surgeon
or physician see you it will excite surprise and suspicion. It is not in
your power, when violent pain seizes you, to refrain from---------"

"It is," interrupted Lady Delacour; "not another scream shall you
hear--only do not, do not, my dear Belinda, send for a physician."

"You will throw yourself again into convulsions," said Belinda. "Marriott,
you see, has lost all command of herself--I shall not have strength to
manage you---perhaps I may lose my presence of mind--I cannot answer for
myself--your husband may desire to see you."

"No danger of that," said Lady Delacour: "tell him my ankle is
sprained--tell him I am bruised all over--tell him any thing you will--he
will not trouble himself any more about me--he will forget all that passed
to-night by the time he is sober. Oh! give me the laudanum, dearest
Belinda, and say no more about physicians."

It was in vain to reason with Lady Delacour. Belinda attempted to persuade
her: "For my sake, dear Lady Delacour," said she, "let me send for Dr.
X------; he is a man of honour, your secret will be perfectly safe with
him."

"He will tell it to Clarence Hervey," said Lady Delacour: "of all men
living, I would not send for Dr. X------; I will not see him if he comes."

"Then," said Belinda, calmly, but with a fixed determination of
countenance, "I must leave you to-morrow morning--I must return to Bath."

"Leave me! remember your promise."

"Circumstances have occurred, about which I have made no promise," said
Belinda; "I must leave you, unless you will now give me your permission to
send for Dr. X------."

Lady Delacour hesitated. "You see," continued Belinda, "that I am in
earnest: when I am gone, you will have no friend left; when I am gone,
your secret will inevitably be discovered; for without me, Marriott will
not have sufficient strength of mind to keep it."

"Do you think we might trust Dr. X------?" said Lady Delacour.

"I am sure you may trust him," said Belinda, with energy; "I will pledge
my life upon his honour."

"Then send for him, since it must be so," said Lady Delacour.

No sooner had the words passed Lady Delacour's lips than Belinda flew to
execute her orders. Marriott recovered her senses when she heard that her
ladyship had consented to send for a physician; but she declared that she
could not conceive how any thing less than the power of magic could have
brought her lady to such a determination.

Belinda had scarcely despatched a servant for Dr. X----, when Lady
Delacour repented of the permission she had given, and all that could be
said to pacify only irritated her temper. She became delirious; Belinda's
presence of mind never forsook her, she remained quietly beside the bed
waiting for the arrival of Dr. X----, and she absolutely refused
admittance to the servants, who, drawn by their lady's outrageous cries,
continually came to her door with offers of assistance.

About four o'clock the doctor arrived, and Miss Portman was relieved from
some of her anxiety. He assured her that there was no immediate danger,
and he promised that the secret which she had entrusted to him should be
faithfully kept. He remained with her some hours, till Lady Delacour
became more quiet and fell asleep, exhausted with delirious exertions.--"I
think I may now leave you," said Dr. X----; but as he was going through
the dressing-room, Belinda stopped him.--"Now that I have time to think of
myself," said she, "let me consult you as my friend: I am not used to act
entirely for myself, and I shall be most grateful if you will assist me
with your advice. I hate all mysteries, but I feel myself bound in honour
to keep the secret with which Lady Delacour has entrusted me. Last night I
was so circumstanced, that I could not extricate her ladyship without
exposing myself to--to suspicion."

Miss Portman then related all that had passed about the mysterious door,
which Lord Delacour, in his fit of drunken jealousy, had insisted upon
breaking open.

"Mr. Hervey," continued Belinda, "was present when all this happened--he
seemed much surprised: I should be sorry that he should remain in an error
which might be fatal to my reputation--you know a woman ought not even to
be suspected; yet how to remove this suspicion I know not, because I
cannot enter into any explanation, without betraying Lady Delacour--she
has, I know, a peculiar dread of Mr. Hervey's discovering the truth."

"And is it possible," cried Dr. X----, "that any woman should be so meanly
selfish, as thus to expose the reputation of her friend merely to preserve
her own vanity from mortification?"

"Hush--don't speak so loud," said Belinda, "you will awaken her; and at
present she is certainly more an object of pity than of indignation.--If
you will have the goodness to come with me, I will take you by a back
staircase up to the _mysterious boudoir_. I am not too proud to give
positive proofs of my speaking truth; the key of that room now lies on
Lady Delacour's bed--it was that which she grasped in her hand during her
delirium--she has now let it fall--it opens both the doors of the
boudoir--you shall see," added Miss Portman, with a smile, "that I am not
afraid to let you unlock either of them."

"As a polite man," said Dr. X----, "I believe that I should absolutely
refuse to take any external evidence of a lady's truth; but demonstration
is unanswerable even by enemies, and I will not sacrifice your interests
to the foppery of my politeness--so I am ready to follow you. The
curiosity of the servants may have been excited by last night's
disturbance, and I see no method so certain as that which you propose of
preventing busy rumour. That goddess (let Ovid say what he pleases) was
born and bred in a kitchen, or a servants' hall.--But," continued Dr.
X----, "my dear Miss Portman, you will put a stop to a number of charming
stories by this prudence of yours--a romance called the Mysterious
Boudoir, of nine volumes at least, might he written on this subject, if
you would only condescend to act like almost all other heroines, that is
to say, without common sense."

The doctor now followed Belinda, and satisfied himself by ocular
demonstration, that this cabinet was the retirement of disease, and not of
pleasure.

It was about eight o'clock in the morning when Dr. X---- got home; he
found Clarence Hervey waiting for him. Clarence seemed to be in great
agitation, though he endeavoured, with all the power which he possessed
over himself, to suppress his emotion.

"You have been to see Lady Delacour," said he, calmly: "is she much
hurt?--It was a terrible accident."

"She has been much hurt," said Dr. X----, "and she has been for some hours
delirious; but ask me no more questions now, for I am asleep, and must go
to bed, unless you have any thing to say that can waken me: you look as if
some great misfortune had befallen you; what is the matter?"

"Oh, my dear friend," said Hervey, taking his hand, "do not jest with me;
I am not able to bear your raillery in my present temper--in one word, I
fear that Belinda is unworthy of my esteem: I can tell you no more, except
that I am more miserable than I thought any woman could make me."

"You are in a prodigious hurry to be miserable," said Dr. X----. "Upon my
word I think you would make a mighty pretty hero in a novel; you take
things very properly for granted, and, stretched out upon that sofa, you
act the distracted lover vastly well--and to complete the matter, you
cannot tell me why you are more miserable than ever man or hero was
before. I must tell you, then, that you have still more cause for jealousy
than you suspect. Ay, start--every jealous man starts at the sound of the
word jealousy--a certain symptom this of the disease."

"You mistake me," cried Clarence Hervey; "no man is less disposed to
jealousy than I am--but----"

"But your mistress--no, not your mistress, for you have never yet declared
to her your attachment--but the lady you admire will not let a drunken man
unlock a door, and you immediately suppose--"

"She has mentioned the circumstance to you!" exclaimed Hervey, in a joyful
tone: "then she _must_ be innocent."

"Admirable reasoning!--I was going to have told you just now, if you would
have suffered me to speak connectedly, that you have more reason for
jealousy than you suspect, for Miss Portman has actually unlocked for
me--for me! look at me--the door, the mysterious door--and whilst I live,
and whilst she lives, we can neither of us ever tell you the cause of the
mystery. All I can tell you is, that no lover is in the case, upon my
honour--and now, if you should ever mistake curiosity in your own mind
for jealousy, expect no pity from me."

"I should deserve none," said Clarence Hervey; "you have made me the
happiest of men."

"The happiest of men!--No, no; keep that superlative exclamation for a
future occasion. But now you behave like a reasonable creature, you
deserve to hear the praises of your Belinda--I am so much charmed with
her, that I wish--"

"When can I see her?" interrupted Hervey; "I'll go to her this instant."

"Gently," said Dr. X----, "you forget what time of the day it is--you
forget that Miss Portman has been up all night--that Lady Delacour is
extremely ill--and that this would be the most unseasonable opportunity
you could possibly choose for your visit."

To this observation Clarence Hervey assented; but he immediately seized a
pen from the doctor's writing table, and began a letter to Belinda. The
doctor threw himself upon the sofa, saying, "Waken me when you want me,"
and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

"Doctor, upon second thoughts," said Clarence, rising suddenly, and
tearing his letter down the middle, "I cannot write to her yet--I forgot
the reformation of Lady Delacour: how soon do you think she will be well?
Besides, I have another reason for not writing to Belinda at present--you
must know, my dear doctor, that I have, or had, another mistress."

"Another mistress, indeed!" cried Dr. X----, trying to waken himself.

"Good Heavens! I do believe you've been asleep."

"I do believe I have."

"But is it possible that you could fall sound asleep in that time?"

"Very possible," said the doctor: "what is there so extraordinary in a
man's falling asleep? Men are apt to sleep sometime within the
four-and-twenty hours, unless they have half-a-dozen mistresses to keep
them awake, as you seem to have, my good friend."

A servant now came into the room with a letter, that had just arrived
express from the country for Dr. X----.

"This is another affair," cried he, rousing himself.

The letter required the doctor's immediate attendance. He shook hands with
Clarence Hervey: "My dear friend, I am really concerned that I cannot stay
to hear the history of your six mistresses; but you see that this is an
affair of life and death."

"Farewell," said Clarence: "I have not six, I have only three goddesses;
even if you count Lady Delacour for one. But I really wanted your advice
in good earnest."

"If your case be desperate, you can write, cannot you? Direct to me at
Horton-hall, Cambridge. In the mean time, as far as general rules go, I
can give you my advice gratis, in the formula of an old Scotch song----

    "'Tis good to be merry and wise,
    'Tis good to be honest and true,
    'Tis good to be off with the old love
    Before you be on with the new.'"




CHAPTER XI.

DIFFICULTIES.


Before he left town, Dr. X---- called in Berkeley-square, to see Lady
Delacour; he found that she was out of all immediate danger. Miss Portman
was sorry that he was obliged to quit her at this time, but she felt the
necessity for his going; he was sent for to attend Mr. Horton, an intimate
friend of his, a gentleman of great talents, and of the most active
benevolence, who had just been seized with a violent fever, in consequence
of his exertions in saving the poor inhabitants of a village in his
neighbourhood from the effects of a dreadful fire, which broke out in the
middle of the night.

Lady Delacour, who heard Dr. X---- giving this account to Belinda, drew
back her curtain, and said, "Go this instant, doctor--I am out of all
immediate danger, you say; but if I were not--I must die in the course of
a few months, you know-and what is my life, compared with the chance of
saving your excellent friend! He is of some use in the world--I am of
none-go this instant, doctor."

"What a pity," said Dr. X------, as he left the room, "that a woman who is
capable of so much magnanimity should have wasted her life on petty
objects!"

"Her life is not yet at an end--oh, sir, if you _could_ save her!" cried
Belinda.

Doctor X---- shook his head; but returning to Belinda, after going half
way down stairs, he added, "when you read this paper, you will know all
that I can tell you upon the subject."

Belinda, the moment the doctor was gone, shut herself up in her own room
to read the paper which he had given to her. Dr. X---- first stated that
he was by no means certain that Lady Delacour really had the complaint
which she so much dreaded; but it was impossible for him to decide without
farther examination, to which her ladyship could not be prevailed upon to
submit. Then he mentioned all that he thought would be most efficacious in
mitigating the pain that Lady Delacour might feel, and all that could be
done, with the greatest probability of prolonging her life. And he
concluded with the following words: "These are all temporizing expedients:
according to the usual progress of the disease, Lady Delacour may live a
year, or perhaps two.

"It is possible that her life might be saved by a _skilful_ surgeon. By a
few words that dropped from her ladyship last night, I apprehend that she
has some thoughts of submitting to an operation, which will be attended
with much pain and danger, even if she employ the most experienced surgeon
in London; but if she put herself, from a vain hope of secrecy, into
ignorant hands, she will inevitably destroy herself."

After reading this paper, Belinda had some faint hopes that Lady
Delacour's life might be saved; but she determined to wait till Dr. X----
should return to town, before she mentioned his opinion to his patient;
and she earnestly hoped that no idea of putting herself into ignorant
hands would recur to her ladyship.

Lord Delacour, in the morning, when he was sober, retained but a confused
idea of the events of the preceding night; but he made an awkwardly
good-natured apology to Miss Portman for his intrusion, and for the
disturbance he had occasioned, which, he said, must be laid to the blame
of Lord Studley's admirable burgundy. He expressed much concern for Lady
Delacour's terrible accident; but he could not help observing, that if his
advice had been taken, the thing could not have happened--that it was the
consequence of her ladyship's self-willedness about the young horses.

"How she got the horses without paying for them, or how she got money to
pay for them, I know not," said his lordship; "for I said I would have
nothing to do with the business, and I have kept to my resolution."

His lordship finished his morning visit to Miss Portman, by observing that
"the house would now be very dull for her: that the office of a nurse was
ill-suited to so young and beautiful a lady, but that her undertaking it
with so much cheerfulness was a proof of a degree of good-nature that was
not always to be met with in the young and handsome."

The manner in which Lord Delacour spoke convinced Belinda that he was in
reality attached to his wife, however the fear of being, or of appearing
to be, governed by her ladyship might have estranged him from her, and
from home. She now saw in him much more good sense, and symptoms of a more
amiable character, than his lady had described, or than she ever would
allow that he possessed.

The reflections, however, which Miss Portman made upon the miserable life
this ill-matched couple led together, did not incline her in favour of
marriage in general; great talents on one side, and good-nature on the
other, had, in this instance, tended only to make each party unhappy.
Matches of interest, convenience, and vanity, she was convinced,
diminished instead of increasing happiness. Of domestic felicity she had
never, except during her childhood, seen examples--she had, indeed, heard
from Dr. X----- descriptions of the happy family of Lady Anne Percival,
but she feared to indulge the romantic hope of ever being loved by a man
of superior genius and virtue, with a temper and manners suited to her
taste. The only person she had seen, who at all answered this description,
was Mr. Hervey; and it was firmly fixed in her mind, that he was not a
marrying man, and consequently not a man of whom any prudent woman would
suffer herself to think with partiality. She could not doubt that he liked
her society and conversation; his manner had sometimes expressed more than
cold esteem. Lady Delacour had assured her that it expressed love; but
Lady Delacour was an imprudent woman in her own conduct, and not
scrupulous as to that of others. Belinda was not guided by _her_ opinions
of propriety; and now that her ladyship was confined to her bed, and not
in a condition to give her either advice or protection, she felt that it
was peculiarly incumbent on her to guard, not only her conduct from
reproach, but her heart from the hopeless misery of an ill-placed
attachment. She examined herself with firm impartiality; she recollected
the excessive pain that she had endured, when she first heard Clarence
Hervey say, that Belinda Portman was a compound of art and affectation;
but this she thought was only the pain of offended pride--of proper pride.
She recollected the extreme anxiety she had felt, even within the last
four-and-twenty hours, concerning the opinion which he might form of the
transaction about the key of the boudoir--but this anxiety she justified
to herself; it was due, she thought, to her reputation; it would have been
inconsistent with female delicacy to have been indifferent about the
suspicions that necessarily arose from the circumstances in which she was
placed. Before Belinda had completed her self-examination, Clarence Hervey
called to inquire after Lady Delacour. Whilst he spoke of her ladyship,
and of his concern for the dreadful accident of which he believed himself
to be in a great measure the cause, his manner and language were animated
and unaffected; but the moment that this subject was exhausted, he became
embarrassed; though he distinctly expressed perfect confidence and esteem
for her, he seemed to wish, and yet to be unable, to support the character
of a friend, contradistinguished to an admirer. He seemed conscious that
he could not, with propriety, advert to the suspicions and jealousy which
he had felt the preceding night; for a man who has never declared love
would be absurd and impertinent, were he to betray jealousy. Clarence was
destitute neither of address nor presence of mind; but an accident
happened, when he was just taking leave of Miss Portman, which threw him
into utter confusion. It surprised, if it did not confound, Belinda. She
had forgotten to ask Dr. X---- for his direction; and as she thought it
might be necessary to write to him concerning Lady Delacour's health, she
begged of Mr. Hervey to give it to her. He took a letter out of his
pocket, and wrote the direction with a pencil; but as he opened the paper,
to tear off the outside, on which he had been writing, a lock of hair
dropped out of the letter; he hastily stooped for it, and as he took it up
from the ground the lock unfolded. Belinda, though she cast but one
involuntary, hasty glance at it, was struck with the beauty of its colour,
and its uncommon length. The confusion of Clarence Hervey convinced her
that he was extremely interested about the person to whom the hair
belonged, and the species of alarm which she had felt at this discovery
opened her eyes effectually to the state of her own heart. She was
sensible that the sight of a lock of hair, however long, or however
beautiful, in the hands of any man but Clarence Hervey, could not possibly
have excited any emotion in her mind. "Fortunately," thought she, "I have
discovered that he is attached to another, whilst it is yet in my power to
command my affections; and he shall see that I am not so weak as to form
any false expectations from what I must now consider as mere common-place
flattery." Belinda was glad that Lady Delacour was not present at the
discovery of the lock of hair, as she was aware that she would have
rallied her unmercifully upon the occasion; and she rejoiced that she had
not been prevailed upon to give _Madame la Comtesse de Pomenars_ a lock of
her _belle chevelure_. She could not help thinking, from the recollection
of several minute circumstances, that Clarence Hervey had endeavoured to
gain an interest in her affections, and she felt that there would be great
impropriety in receiving his ambiguous visits during Lady Delacour's
confinement to her room. She therefore gave orders that Mr. Hervey should
not in future be admitted, till her ladyship should again see company.
This precaution proved totally superfluous, for Mr. Hervey never called
again, during the whole course of Lady Delacour's confinement, though his
servant regularly came every morning with inquiries after her ladyship's
health. She kept her room for about ten days; a confinement to which she
submitted with extreme impatience: bodily pain she bore with fortitude,
but constraint and ennui she could not endure.

One morning as she was sitting up in bed, looking over a large collection
of notes, and cards of inquiry after her health, she exclaimed--

"These people will soon be tired of[4] bidding their footman put it into
their heads to inquire whether I am alive or dead--I must appear amongst
them again, if it be only for a few minutes, or they will forget me. When
I am fatigued, I will retire, and you, my dear Belinda, shall represent
me; so tell them to open my doors, and unmuffle the knocker: let me hear
the sound of music and dancing, and let the house be filled again, for
Heaven's sake. Dr. Zimmermann should never have been my physician, for he
would have prescribed solitude. Now solitude and silence are worse for me
than poppy and mandragora. It is impossible to tell how much silence
tires the ears of those who have not been used to it. For mercy's sake,
Marriott," continued her ladyship, turning to Marriott, who just then
came softly into the room, "for mercy's sake, don't walk to all eternity
on tiptoes: to see people gliding about like ghosts makes me absolutely
fancy myself amongst the shades below. I would rather be stunned by the
loudest peal that ever thundering footman gave at my door, than hear
Marriott lock that boudoir, as if my life depended on my not hearing the
key turned."

"Dear me! I never knew any lady that was ill, except my lady, complain of
one's not making a noise to disturb her," said Marriott.

"Then to please you, Marriott, I will complain of the only noise that
does, or ever did disturb me--the screaming of your odious macaw."

Now Marriott had a prodigious affection for this macaw, and she defended
it with as much eagerness as if it had been her child.

"Odious! O dear, my lady! to call my poor macaw odious!--I didn't expect
it would ever have come to this--I am sure I don't deserve it--I'm sure I
don't deserve that my lady should have taken such a dislike to me."

And here Marriott actually burst into tears. "But, my dear Marriott," said
Lady Delacour, "I only object to your macaw--may not I dislike your macaw
without disliking you?--I have heard of 'love me, love my dog;' but I
never heard of 'love me, love my bird'--did you, Miss Portman?"

Marriott turned sharply round upon Miss Portman, and darted a fiery look
at her through the midst of her tears. "Then 'tis plain," said she, "who
I'm to thank for this;" and as she left the room her lady could not
complain of her shutting the door after her too gently.

"Give her three minutes' grace and she will come to her senses," said Lady
Delacour, "for she is not a bankrupt in sense. Oh, three minutes won't do;
I must allow her three days' grace, I perceive," said Lady Delacour when
Marriott half an hour afterward reappeared, with a face which might have
sat for the picture of ill-humour. Her ill-humour, however, did not
prevent her from attending her lady as usual; she performed all her
customary offices with the most officious zeal but in profound silence,
except every now and then she would utter a sigh, which seemed to say,
"See how much I'm attached to my lady, and yet my lady hates my macaw!"
Her lady, who perfectly understood the language of sighs, and felt the
force of Marriott's, forbore to touch again on the tender subject of the
macaw, hoping that when her house was once more filled with company, she
should be relieved by more agreeable noises from continually hearing this
pertinacious tormentor.

As soon as it was known that Lady Delacour was sufficiently recovered to
receive company, her door was crowded with carriages; and as soon as it
was understood that balls and concerts were to go on as usual at her
house, her "troops of friends" appeared to congratulate her, and to amuse
themselves.

"How stupid it is," said Lady Delacour to Belinda, "to hear congratulatory
speeches from people, who would not care if I were in the black hole at
Calcutta this minute; but we must take the world as it goes--dirt and
precious stones mixed together. Clarence Hervey, however, _n'a pas une ame
de boue_; he, I am sure, has been really concerned for me: he thinks that
his young horses were the sole cause of the whole evil, and he blames
himself so sincerely, and so unjustly, that I really was half tempted to
undeceive him; but that would have been doing him an injury, for you know
great philosophers tell us that there is no pleasure in the world equal to
that of being well deceived, especially by the fair sex. Seriously,
Belinda, is it my fancy, or is not Clarence wonderfully changed? Is not he
grown pale, and thin, and serious, not to say melancholy? What have you
done to him since I have been ill?"

"Nothing--I have never seen him."

"No! then the thing is accounted for very naturally--he is in despair
because he has been banished from your divine presence."

"More likely because he has been in anxiety about your ladyship," said
Belinda.

"I will find out the cause, let it be what it may," said Lady Delacour:
"luckily my address is equal to my curiosity, and that is saying a great
deal."

Notwithstanding all her ladyship's address, her curiosity was baffled; she
could not discover Clarence Hervey's secret, and she began to believe that
the change which she had noticed in his looks and manner was imaginary or
accidental. Had she seen more of him at this time, she would not have so
easily given up her suspicions; but she saw him only for a few minutes
every day, and during that time he talked to her with all his former
gaiety; besides, Lady Delacour had herself a daily part to perform, which
occupied almost her whole attention. Notwithstanding the vivacity which
she affected, Belinda perceived that she was now more seriously alarmed
than she had ever been about her health. It was all that her utmost
exertions could accomplish, to appear for a short time in the day--some
evenings she came into company only for half an hour, on other days only
for a few minutes, just walked through the rooms, paid her compliments to
every body, complained of a nervous head-ache, left Belinda to do the
honours for her, and retired.

Miss Portman was now really placed in a difficult and dangerous situation,
and she had ample opportunities of learning and practising prudence. All
the fashionable dissipated young men in London frequented Lady Delacour's
house, and it was said that they were drawn thither by the attractions of
her fair representative. The gentlemen considered a niece of Mrs. Stanhope
as their lawful prize. The ladies wondered that the men could think
Belinda Portman a beauty; but whilst they affected to scorn, they
sincerely feared her charms. Thus left entirely to her own discretion, she
was exposed at once to the malignant eye of envy, and the insidious voice
of flattery--she had no friend, no guide, and scarcely a protector: her
aunt Stanhope's letters, indeed, continually supplied her with advice, but
with advice which she could not follow consistently with her own feelings
and principles. Lady Delacour, even if she had been well, was not a person
on whose counsels she could rely; our heroine was not one of those daring
spirits, who are ambitious of acting for themselves; she felt the utmost
diffidence of her own powers, yet at the same time a firm resolution not
to be led even by timidity into follies which the example of Lady Delacour
had taught her to despise. Belinda's prudence seemed to increase with the
necessity for its exertion. It was not the mercenary wily prudence of a
young lady, who has been taught to think it virtue to sacrifice the
affections of her heart to the interests of her fortune--it was not the
prudence of a cold and selfish, but of a modest and generous woman. She
found it most difficult to satisfy herself in her conduct towards Clarence
Hervey: he seemed mortified and miserable if she treated him merely as a
common acquaintance, yet she felt the danger of admitting him to the
familiarity of friendship. Had she been thoroughly convinced that he was
attached to some other woman, she hoped that she could freely converse
with him, and look upon him as a married man; but notwithstanding the lock
of beautiful hair, she could not entirely divest herself of the idea that
she was beloved, when she observed the extreme eagerness with which
Clarence Hervey watched all her motions, and followed her with his eye as
if his fate depended upon her. She remarked that he endeavoured as much as
possible to prevent this species of attention from being noticed, either
by the public or by herself; his manner towards her every day became more
distant and respectful, more constrained and embarrassed; but now and then
a different look and expression escaped. She had often heard of Mr.
Hervey's great _address_ in affairs of gallantry, and she was sometimes
inclined to believe that he was trifling with her, merely for the glory of
a conquest over her heart; at other times she suspected him of deeper
designs upon her, such as would deserve contempt and detestation; but upon
the whole she was disposed to believe that he was entangled by some former
attachment from which he could not extricate himself with honour; and upon
this supposition she thought him worthy of her esteem, and of her pity.

About this time Sir Philip Baddely began to pay a sort of lounging
attention to Belinda: he knew that Clarence Hervey liked her, and this was
the principal cause of his desire to attract her attention. "Belinda
Portman" became his favourite toast, and amongst his companions he gave
himself the air of talking of her with rapture.

"Rochfort," said he, one day, to his friend, "damme, if I was to think of
Belinda Portman in _any way_--you take me--Clary would look damned
blue--hey?--damned blue, and devilish small, and cursed silly too--hey?"

"'Pon honour, I should like to see him," said Rochfort: "'pon honour, he
deserves it from us, Sir Phil, and I'll stand your friend with the girl,
and it will do no harm to give her a hint of Clary's Windsor flame, as a
dead secret--'pon honour, he deserves it from us."

Now it seems that Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, during the time of
Clarence Hervey's intimacy with them, observed that he paid frequent
visits at Windsor, and they took it into their heads that he kept a
mistress there. They were very curious to see her: and, unknown to
Clarence, they made several attempts for this purpose: at last one
evening, when they were certain that he was not at Windsor, they scaled
the high garden wall of the house which he frequented, and actually
obtained a sight of a beautiful young girl and an elderly lady, whom they
took for her gouvernante. This adventure they kept a profound secret from
Clarence, because they knew that he would have quarrelled with them
immediately, and would have called them to account for their intrusion.
They now determined to avail themselves of their knowledge, and of his
ignorance of this circumstance: but they were sensible that it was
necessary to go warily to work, lest they should betray themselves.
Accordingly they began by dropping distant mysterious hints about Clarence
Hervey to Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. Such for instance as--"Damme, we
all know Clary's a perfect connoisseur in beauty--hey, Rochfort?--one
beauty at a time is not enough for him--hey, damme? And it is not fashion,
nor wit, nor elegance, and all that, that he looks for _always_."

These observations were accompanied with the most significant looks.
Belinda heard and saw all this in painful silence, but Lady Delacour often
used her address to draw some farther explanation from Sir Philip: his
regular answer was, "No, no, your ladyship must excuse me there; I can't
peach, damme-hey, Rochfort?"

He was in hopes, from the reserve with which Miss Portman began to treat
Clarence, that he should, without making any distinct charge, succeed in
disgusting her with his rival. Mr. Hervey was about this time less
assiduous than formerly in his visits at Lady Delacour's; Sir Philip was
there every day, and often for Miss Portman's entertainment exerted
himself so far as to tell the news of the town. One morning, when Clarence
Hervey happened to be present, the baronet thought it incumbent upon him
to eclipse his rival in conversation, and he began to talk of the last
fete champetre at Frogmore.

"What a cursed unlucky overturn that was of yours, Lady Delacour, with
those famous young horses! Why, what with this sprain, and this nervous
business, you've not been able to stir out since the birthday, and you've
missed the breakfast, and all that, at Frogmore--why, all the world stayed
broiling in town on purpose for it, and you that had a card too--how
damned provoking!"

"I regret extremely that my illness prevented me from being at this
charming fete; I regret it more on Miss Portman's account than on my own,"
said her ladyship. Belinda assured her that she felt no mortification from
the disappointment.

"O, damme! but I would have driven you in my curricle," said Sir Philip:
"it was the finest sight and best conducted I ever saw, and only wanted
Miss Portman to make it complete. We had gipsies, and Mrs. Mills the
actress for the queen of the gipsies; and she gave us a famous good song,
Rochfort, you know--and then there _was_ two children upon an
_ass_--damme, I don't know how they came there, for they're things one
sees every day--and belonged only to two of the soldiers' wives--for we
had the whole band of the Staffordshire playing at dinner, and we had some
famous glees--and Fawcett gave us his laughing song, and then we had the
launching of the ship, and only it was a boat, it would have been well
enough--but damme, the song of Polly Oliver was worth the whole--except
the Flemish Hercules, Ducrow, you know, dressed in light blue and silver,
and--Miss Portman, I wish you had seen this--three great coach-wheels on
his chin, and a ladder and two chairs and two children on them--and after
that, he sported a musquet and bayonet with the point of the bayonet on
his chin--faith! that was really famous! But I forgot the Pyrrhic dance,
Miss Portman, which was damned fine too---danced in boots and spurs by
those Hungarian fellows--they jump and turn about, and clap their knees
with their hands, and put themselves in all sorts of ways--and then we had
that song of Polly Oliver, as I told you before, and Mrs. Mills gave
us--no, no--it was a drummer of the Staffordshire dressed as a gipsy girl,
gave us _the cottage on the moor_, the most charming thing, and would suit
your voice, Miss Portman--damme, you'd sing it like an angel----But where
was I?--Oh, then they had tea--and fireplaces built of brick, out in the
air--and then the entrance to the ball-room was all a colonnade done with
lamps and flowers, and that sort of thing--and there was some bon-mot (but
that was in the morning) amongst the gipsies about an orange and the
stadtholder--and then there was a Turkish dance, and a Polonese dance, all
very fine, but nothing to come up to the Pyrrhic touch, which was a great
deal the most knowing, in boots and spurs--damme, now, I can't describe
the thing to you, 'tis a cursed pity you weren't there, damme."

Lady Delacour assured Sir Philip that she had been more entertained by the
description than she could have been by the reality.--"Clarence, was not
it the best description you ever heard? But pray favour us with _a touch_
of the Pyrrhic dance, Sir Philip."

Lady Delacour spoke with such polite earnestness, and the baronet had so
little penetration and so much conceit, that he did not suspect her of
irony: he eagerly began to exhibit the Pyrrhic dance, but in such a manner
that it was impossible for human gravity to withstand the sight--Rochfort
laughed first, Lady Delacour followed him, and Clarence Hervey and Belinda
could no longer restrain themselves.

"Damme, now I believe you've all been quizzing me," cried the baronet, and
he fell into a sulky silence, eyeing Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman from
time to time with what he meant for a _knowing_ look. His silence and
sulkiness lasted till Clarence took his leave. Soon afterward Belinda
retired to the music-room. Sir Philip then begged to speak a few words to
Lady Delacour, with a face of much importance: and after a preamble of
nonsensical expletives, he said that his regard for her ladyship and Miss
Portman made him wish to explain hints which had been dropped from him at
times, and which he could not explain to her satisfaction, without a
promise of inviolable secresy. "As Hervey is or was a sort of a friend, I
can't mention this sort of thing without such a preliminary."--Lady
Delacour gave the preliminary promise, and Sir Philip informed her, that
people began to take notice that Hervey was an admirer of Miss Portman,
and that it might be a disadvantage to the young lady, as Mr. Hervey could
have no serious intentions, because he had an attachment, to his certain
knowledge, elsewhere.

"A matrimonial attachment?" said Lady Delacour.

"Why, damme, as to matrimony, I can't say; but the girl's so famously
beautiful, and Clary has been constant to her so many years----"

"Many years! then she is not young?"

"Oh, damme, yes, she is not more than seventeen,--and, let her be what
else she will, she's a famous fine girl. I had a sight of her once at
Windsor, by stealth."

And then the baronet described her after his manner.--"Where Clary keeps
her now, I can't make out; but he has taken her away from Windsor. She was
then with a gouvernante, and is as proud as the devil, which smells like
matrimony for Clary."

"And do you know this peerless damsel's name?"

"I think the old Jezebel called her Miss St. Pierre--ay, damme, it was
Virginia too--Virginia St. Pierre."

"Virginia St. Pierre, a pretty romantic name," said Lady Delacour: "Miss
Portman and I are extremely obliged by your attention to the preservation
of our hearts, and I promise you we shall keep your counsel and our own."

Sir Philip then, with more than his usual complement of oaths, pronounced
Miss Portman to be the finest girl he had ever seen, and took his leave.

When Lady Delacour repeated this story to Belinda, she concluded by
saying, "Now, my dear, you know Sir Philip Baddely has his own views in
telling us all this--in telling _you_, all this; for evidently he admires
you, and consequently hates Clarence. So I believe only half the man says;
and the other half, though it has made you turn so horribly pale, my love,
I consider as a thing of no manner of consequence to you."

"Of no manner of consequence to me, I assure your ladyship," said Belinda;
"I have always considered Mr. Hervey as--"

"Oh, as a common acquaintance, no doubt--but we'll pass over all those
pretty speeches: I was going to say that this 'mistress in the wood' can
be of no consequence to your happiness, because, whatever that fool Sir
Philip may think, Clarence Hervey is not a man to go and marry a girl who
has been his mistress for half a dozen years. Do not look so shocked, my
dear--I really cannot help laughing. I congratulate you, however, that the
thing is no worse--it is all in rule and in course--when a man marries, he
sets up new equipages, and casts off old mistresses; or if you like to see
the thing as a woman of sentiment rather than as a woman of the world,
here is the prettiest opportunity for your lover's making a sacrifice. I
am sorry I cannot make you smile, my dear; but consider, as nobody knows
this naughty thing but ourselves, we are not called upon to bristle up our
morality, and the most moral ladies in the world do not expect men to be
as moral as themselves: so we may suit the measure of our external
indignation to our real feelings. Sir Philip cannot stir in the business,
for he knows Clarence would call him out if his secret viz to Virginia
were to come to light. I advise you _d'aller votre train_ with Clarence,
without seeming to suspect him in the least; there is nothing like
innocence in these cases, my dear: but I know by the Spanish haughtiness
of your air at this instant, that you would sooner die the death of the
sentimental-than follow my advice."

Belinda, without any haughtiness, but with firm gentleness, replied, that
she had no designs whatever upon Mr. Hervey, and that therefore there
could be no necessity for any manoeuvring on her part;--that the ambiguity
of his conduct towards her had determined her long since to guard her
affections, and that she had the satisfaction to feel that they were
entirely under her command.

"That is a great satisfaction, indeed, my dear," said Lady Delacour. "It
is a pity that your countenance, which is usually expressive enough,
should not at this instant obey your wishes and express perfect felicity.
But though you feel no pain from disappointed affection, doubtless the
concern that you show arises from the necessity you are under of
withdrawing a portion of your esteem from Mr. Hervey--this is the style
for you, is it not? After all, my dear, the whole maybe a quizzification
of Sir Philip's--and yet he gave me such a minute description of her
person! I am sure the man has not invention or taste enough to produce
such a fancy piece."

"Did he mention," said Belinda, in a low voice, "the colour of her hair?"

"Yes, light brown; but the colour of this hair seems to affect you more
than all the rest."

Here, to Belinda's great relief, the conversation was interrupted by the
entrance of Marriott. From all she had heard, but especially from the
agreement between the colour of the hair which dropped from Hervey's
letter with Sir Philip's description of Virginia's, Miss Portman was
convinced that Clarence had some secret attachment; and she could not help
blaming him in her own mind for having, as she thought, endeavoured to
gain her affections, whilst he knew that his heart was engaged to another.
Mr. Hervey, however, gave her no farther reason to suspect him of any
design to win her love; for about this time his manner towards her
changed,--he obviously endeavoured to avoid her; his visits were short,
and his attention was principally directed to Lady Delacour; when she
retired, he took his leave, and Sir Philip Baddely had the field to
himself. The baronet, who thought that he had succeeded in producing a
coldness between Belinda and his rival, was surprised to find that he
could not gain any advantage for himself; for some time he had not the
slightest thoughts of any serious connexion with the lady, but at last he
was piqued by her indifference, and by the raillery of his friend
Rochfort.

"'Pon honour," said Rochfort, "the girl must be in love with Clary, for
she minds you no more than if you were nobody."

"I could make her sing to another tune, if I pleased," said Sir Philip;
"but, damme, it would cost me too much--a wife's too expensive a thing,
now-a-days. Why, a man could have twenty curricles, and a fine stud, and a
pack of hounds, and as many mistresses as he chooses into the bargain, for
what it would cost him to take a wife. Oh, damme, Belinda Portman's a fine
girl, but not worth so much as that comes to; and yet, confound me, if I
should not like to see how blue Clary would look, if I were to propose for
her in good earnest--hey, Rochfort?--I should like to pay him for the way
he served us about that quiz of a doctor, hey?"

"Ay," said Rochfort, "you know he told us there was a _tant pis_ and a
_tant mieux_ in every thing--he's not come to the _tant pis_ yet. 'Pon
honour, Sir Philip, the thing rests with you."

The baronet vibrated for some time between the fear of being taken in by
one of Mrs. Stanhope's nieces, and the hope of triumphing over Clarence
Hervey. At last, what he called love prevailed over prudence, and he was
resolved, cost him what it would, to have Belinda Portman. He had not the
least doubt of being accepted, if he made a proposal of marriage;
consequently, the moment that he came to this determination, he could not
help assuming _d'avance_ the tone of a favoured lover.

"Damme," cried Sir Philip, one night, at Lady Delacour's concert, "I think
that Mr. Hervey has taken out a patent for talking to Miss Portman; but
damme if I give up this place, now I have got it," cried the baronet,
seating himself beside Belinda.

Mr. Hervey did not contest his seat, and Sir Philip kept his post during
the remainder of the concert; but, though he had the field entirely to
himself, he could not think of any thing more interesting, more amusing,
to whisper in Belinda's ear, than, "Don't you think the candles want
snuffing famously?"




CHAPTER XII.

THE MACAW.


The baronet determined the next day upon the grand attack. He waited upon
Miss Portman with the certainty of being favourably received; but he was,
nevertheless, somewhat embarrassed to know how to begin the conversation,
when he found himself alone with the lady.

He twirled and twisted a short stick that he held in his hand, and put it
into and out of his boot twenty times, and at last he began with--"Lady
Delacour's not gone to Harrowgate yet?"

"No: her ladyship has not yet felt herself well enough to undertake the
journey."

"That was a cursed unlucky overturn! She may thank Clarence Hervey for
that: it's like him,--he thinks he's a better judge of horses, and wine,
and every thing else, than any body in the world. Damme, now if I don't
believe he thinks nobody else but himself has eyes enough to see that a
fine woman's a fine woman; but I'd have him to know, that Miss Belinda
Portman has been Sir Philip Baddely's toast these two months."

As this intelligence did not seem to make the expected impression upon
Miss Belinda Portman, Sir Philip had recourse again to his little stick,
with which he went through the sword exercise. After a silence of some
minutes, and after walking to the window, and back again, as if to look
for sense, he exclaimed, "How is Mrs. Stanhope now, pray, Miss Portman?
and your sister, Mrs. Tollemache? she was the finest woman, I thought, the
first winter she came out, that ever I saw, damme. Have you ever been told
that you're like her?"

"Never, sir."

"Oh, damn it then, but you are; only ten times handsomer."

"Ten times handsomer than the finest woman you ever saw, Sir Philip?" said
Belinda, smiling.

"Than the finest woman I had ever seen _then_," said Sir Philip; "for,
damme, I did not know what it was to be in love _then_" (here the baronet
heaved an audible sigh): "I always laughed at love, and all that, _then_,
and marriage particularly. I'll trouble you for Mrs. Stanhope's direction,
Miss Portman; I believe, to do the thing in style, I ought to write to her
before I speak to you."

Belinda looked at him with astonishment; and laying down the pencil with
which she had just begun to write a direction to Mrs. Stanhope, she said,
"Perhaps, Sir Philip, to _do the thing in style_, I ought to pretend at
this instant not to understand you; but such false delicacy might mislead
you: permit me, therefore, to say, that if I have any concern in the
letter which you, are going to write to my aunt Stanhope----"

"Well guessed!" interrupted Sir Philip: "to be sure you have, and you're a
charming girl--damn me if you aren't--for meeting my ideas in this way,
which will save a cursed deal of trouble," added the polite lover, seating
himself on the sofa, beside Belinda.

"To prevent your giving yourself any further trouble then, sir, on my
account," said Miss Portman----

"Nay, damme, don't catch at that unlucky word, trouble, nor look so cursed
angry; though it becomes you, too, uncommonly, and I like pride in a
handsome woman, if it was only for variety's sake, for it's not what one
meets with often, now-a-days. As to trouble, all I meant was, the trouble
of writing to Mrs. Stanhope, which of course I thank you for saving me;
for to be sure, I'd rather (and you can't blame me for that) have my
answer from your own charming lips, if it was only for the pleasure of
seeing you blush in this heavenly sort of style."

"To put an end to this heavenly sort of style, sir," said Belinda,
withdrawing her hand, which the baronet took as if he was confident of its
being his willing prize, "I must explicitly assure you, that it is not in
my power to encourage your addresses. I am fully sensible," added Miss
Portman, "of the honour Sir Philip Baddely has done me, and I hope he will
not he offended by the frankness of my answer."

"You can't be in earnest, Miss Portman!" exclaimed the astonished baronet.

"Perfectly in earnest, Sir Philip."

"Confusion seize me," cried he, starting up, "if this isn't the most
extraordinary thing I ever heard! Will you do me the honour, madam, to let
me know your particular objections to Sir Philip Baddely?"

"My objections," said Belinda, "cannot be obviated, and therefore it would
be useless to state them."

"Nay, pray, ma'am, do me the favour--I only ask for information sake--is
it to Sir Philip Baddely's fortune, 15,000l. a year, you object, or to
his family, or to his person?--Oh, curse it!" said he, changing his tone,
"you're only quizzing me to see how I should look--damn me, you did it
too well, you little coquet!"

Belinda again assured him that she was entirely in earnest, and that she
was incapable of the sort of coquetry which he ascribed to her.

"Oh, damme, ma'am, then I've no more to say--a coquet is a thing I
understand as well as another, and if we had been only talking in the air,
it would have been another thing; but when I come at once to a proposal in
form, and a woman seriously tells me she has objections that cannot be
obviated, damme, what must I, or what must the world conclude, but that
she's very unaccountable, or that she's engaged--which last I presume to
be the case, and it would have been a satisfaction to me to have known it
sooner--at any rate, it is a satisfaction to me to know it now."

"I am sorry to deprive you of so much satisfaction," said Miss Portman,
"by assuring you, that I am not engaged to any one."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Delacour,
who came to inquire of Miss Portman how his lady did. The baronet, after
twisting his little black stick into all manner of shapes, finished by
breaking it, and then having no other resource, suddenly wished Miss
Portman a good morning, and decamped with a look of silly ill-humour. He
was determined to write to Mrs. Stanhope, whose influence over her niece
he had no doubt would be decisive in his favour. "Sir Philip seems to be a
little out of sorts this morning," said Lord Delacour: "I am afraid he's
angry with me for interrupting his conversation; but really I did not know
he was here, and I wanted to catch you a moment alone, that I might, in
the first place, thank you for all your goodness to Lady Delacour. She has
had a tedious sprain of it; these nervous fevers and convulsions--I don't
understand them, but I think Dr. X----'s prescriptions seem to have done
her good, for she is certainly better of late, and I am glad to hear music
and people again in the house, because I know all this is what my Lady
Delacour likes, and there is no reasonable indulgence that I would not
willingly allow a wife; but I think there is a medium in all things. I am
not a man to be governed by a wife, and when I have once said a thing, I
like to be steady and always shall. And I am sure Miss Portman has too
much good sense to think me wrong: for now, Miss Portman, in that quarrel
about the coach and horses, which you heard part of one morning at
breakfast--I must tell you the beginning of that quarrel."

"Excuse me, my lord, but I would rather hear of the end than of the
beginning of quarrels."

"That shows your good sense as well as your good nature. I wish you could
make my Lady Delacour of your taste--she does not want sense--but then (I
speak to you freely of all that lies upon my mind, Miss Portman, for I
know--I _know_ you have no delight in making mischief in a house,) between
you and me, her sense is not of the right kind. A woman may have too much
wit--now too much is as bad as too little, and in a woman, worse; and when
two people come to quarrel, then wit on either side, but more especially
on the wife's, you know is very provoking--'tis like concealed weapons,
which are wisely forbidden by law. If a person kill another in a fray,
with a concealed weapon, ma'am, by a sword in a cane, for instance, 'tis
murder by the law. Now even if it were not contrary to law, I would never
have such a thing in my cane to carry about with me; for when a man's in a
passion he forgets every thing, and would as soon lay about him with a
sword as with a cane: so it is better such a thing should not be in his
power. And it is the same with wit, which would be safest and best out of
the power of some people."

"But is it fair, my lord, to make use of wit yourself to abuse wit in
others?" said Belinda with a smile, which put his lordship into perfect
good-humour with both himself and his lady.

"Why, really," said he, "there would be no living with Lady Delacour, if I
did not come out with a little sly bit of wit now and then; but it is what
I am not in the habit of doing, I assure you, except when very hard
pushed. But, Miss Portman, as you like so much to hear the end of
quarrels, here's the end of one which you have a particular right to hear
something of," continued his lordship, taking out his pocket-book and
producing some bank-notes: "you should have received this before, madam,
if I had known of the transaction sooner--of your part of it, I mean."

"Milord, de man call to speak about de burgundy you order, milord," said
Champfort, who came into the room with a sly, inquisitive face.

"Tell him I'll see him immediately--show him into the parlour, and give
him a newspaper to read."

"Yes, milord--milord has it in his pocket since he dress."

"Here it is," said his lordship; and as Champfort came forward to receive
the newspaper, his eye glanced at the bank-notes, and then at Miss
Portman.

"Here," continued Lord Delacour, as Champfort had left the room, "here are
your two hundred guineas, Miss Portman; and as I am going to this man
about my burgundy, and shall be out all the rest of the day, let me
trouble you the next time you see Lady Delacour to give her this
pocket-book from me. I should be sorry that Miss Portman, from any thing
that has passed, should run away with the idea that I am a niggardly
husband, or a tyrant, though I certainly like to be master in my own
house. What are you doing, madam?--that is your note, that does not go
into the pocket-book, you know."

"Permit me to put it in, my lord," said Belinda, returning the pocket-book
to him, "and to beg you will give Lady Delacour the pleasure of seeing
you: she has inquired several times whether your lordship were at home. I
will run up to her dressing-room, and tell her that you are here."

"How lightly she goes on the wings of good-nature!" said Lord Delacour. "I
can do no less than follow her; for though I like to be treated with
respect in my own house, there is a time for every thing. I would not give
Lady Delacour the trouble of coming down here to me with her sprained
ankle, especially as she has inquired for me several times."

His lordship's visit was not of unseasonable length; for he recollected
that the man who came about the burgundy was waiting for him. But,
perhaps, the shortness of the visit rendered it the more pleasing, for
Lady Delacour afterward said to Belinda, "My dear, would you believe it,
my Lord Delacour was absolutely a perfect example of the useful and
agreeable this morning--who knows but he may become the sublime and
beautiful in time? _En attendant_ here are your two hundred guineas, my
dear Belinda: a thousand thanks for the thing, and a million for the
manner--manner is all in all in conferring favours. My lord, who, to do
him justice, has too much honesty to pretend to more delicacy than he
really possesses, told me that he had been taking a lesson from Miss
Portman this morning in the art of obliging; and really, for a grown
gentleman, and for the first lesson, he comes on surprisingly. I do think,
that by the time he is a widower his lordship will be quite another thing,
quite an agreeable man--not a genius, not a Clarence Hervey--that you
cannot expect. Apropos, what is the reason that we have seen so little of
Clarence Hervey lately? He has certainly some secret attraction elsewhere.
It cannot be that girl Sir Philip mentioned; no, she's nothing new. Can it
be at Lady Anne Percival's?--or where can it be? Whenever he sees me, I
think he asks when we go to Harrowgate. Now Oakly-park is within a few
miles of Harrowgate. I will not go there, that's decided. Lady Anne is an
exemplary matron, so she is out of the case; but I hope she has no _sister
excellence_, no niece, no cousin, to entangle our hero."

"Ours!" said Belinda.

"Well, _yours_, then," said Lady Delacour.

"Mine!"

"Yes, yours: I never in my life saw a better struggle between a sigh and a
smile. But what have you done to poor Sir Philip Baddely? My Lord Delacour
told me--you know all people who have nothing else to say, tell news
quicker than others--my Lord Delacour told me, that he saw Sir Philip part
from you this morning in a terrible bad humour. Come, whilst you tell your
story, help me to string these pearls; that will save you from the
necessity of looking at me, and will conceal your blushes: you need not be
afraid of betraying Sir Philip's secrets; for I could have told you long
ago, that he would inevitably propose for you--the fact is nothing new or
surprising to me, but I should really like to hear how ridiculous the man
made himself."

"And that," said Belinda, "is the only thing which I do not wish to tell
your ladyship."

"Lord, my dear, surely it is no secret that Sir Philip Baddely is
ridiculous; but you are so good-natured that I can't be out of humour with
you. If you won't gratify my curiosity, will you gratify my taste, and
sing for me once more that charming song which none but you _can_ sing to
please me?--I must learn it from you, absolutely."

Just as Belinda was beginning to sing, Marriott's macaw began to scream,
so that Lady Delacour could not hear any thing else.

"Oh, that odious macaw!" cried her ladyship, "I can endure it no longer"
(and she rang her bell violently): "it kept me from sleeping all last
night--Marriott must give up this bird. Marriott, I cannot endure that
macaw--you must part with it for my sake, Marriott. It cost you four
guineas: I am sure I would give five with the greatest pleasure to get rid
of it, for it is the torment of my life."

"Dear, my lady! I can assure you it is only because they will not shut the
doors after them below, as I desire. I am certain Mr. Champfort never shut
a door after him in his life, nor never will if he was to live to the days
of Methuselah."

"That is very little satisfaction to me, Marriott," said Lady Delacour.

"And indeed, my lady, it is very little satisfaction to me, to hear my
macaw abused as it is every day of my life, for Mr. Champfort's fault."

"But it cannot be Champfort's fault that I have ears."

"But if the doors were shut, my lady, you wouldn't or couldn't hear--as
I'll prove immediately," said Marriott, and she ran directly and shut,
according to her own account, "eleven doors which were stark staring wide
open."--"Now, my lady, you can't hear a single syllable of the macaw."

"No, but one of the eleven doors will open presently," said Lady Delacour:
"you will observe it is always more than ten to one against me."

A door opened, and the macaw was heard to scream. "The macaw must go,
Marriott, that is certain," said her ladyship, firmly.

"Then _I_ must go, my lady," said Marriott, angrily, "that is certain; for
to part with my macaw is a thing I cannot do to please _any_ body." Her
eyes turned with indignation upon Belinda, from association merely;
because the last time that she had been angry about her macaw, she had
also been angry with Miss Portman, whom she imagined to be the secret
enemy of her favourite.

"To stay another week in the house after my macaw's discarded in disgrace
is a thing nothing shall prevail upon me to do." She flung out of the room
in a fury.

"Good Heavens! am I reduced to this?" said Lady Delacour: "she thinks that
she has me in her power. No; I can die without her: I have but a short
time to live--I will not live a slave. Let the woman betray me, if she
will. Follow her this moment, my dear generous friend; tell her never to
come into this room again: take this pocket-book, pay her whatever is due
to her in the first place, and give her fifty guineas--observe!--not as a
bribe, but as a reward."

It was a delicate and difficult commission. Belinda found Marriott at
first incapable of listening to reason. "I am sure there is nobody in the
world that would treat me and my macaw in this manner, except my lady,"
cried she; "and somebody must have set her against me, for it is not
natural to her: but since she can't bear me about her any longer, 'tis
time I should be gone."

"The only thing of which Lady Delacour complained was the noise of this
macaw," said Belinda; "it was a pretty bird--how long have you had it?"

"Scarcely a month," said Marriott, sobbing.

"And how long have you lived with your lady?"

"Six years!--And to part with her after all!--"

"And for the sake of a macaw! And at a time when your lady is so much in
want of you, Marriott! You know she cannot live long, and she has much to
suffer before she dies, and if you leave her, and if in a fit of passion
you betray the confidence she has placed in you, you will reproach
yourself for it ever afterward. This bird--or all the birds in the
world--will not be able to console you; for you are of an affectionate
disposition, I know, and sincerely attached to your poor lady."

"That I am!--and to betray her!--Oh, Miss Portman, I would sooner cut off
my hand than do it. And I have been tried more than my lady knows of, or
you either, for Mr. Champfort, who is the greatest mischief-maker in the
world, and is the cause, by not shutting the door, of all this dilemma;
for now, ma'am, I'm convinced, by the tenderness of your speaking, that
you are not the enemy to me I supposed, and I beg your pardon; but I was
going to say that Mr. Champfort, who saw the _fracas_ between my lord and
me, about the key and the door, the night of my lady's accident, has
whispered it about at Lady Singleton's and every where--Mrs. Luttridge's
maid, ma'am, who is my cousin, has pestered me with so many questions and
offers, from Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke, of any money, if I would only
tell who was in the boudoir--and I have always answered, nobody--and I
defy them to get any thing out of me. Betray my lady! I'd sooner cut my
tongue out this minute! Can she have such a base opinion of me, or can
you, ma'am?"

"No, indeed, I am convinced that you are incapable of betraying her,
Marriott; but in all probability after you have left her----"

"If my lady would let me keep my macaw," interrupted Marriott, "I should
never think of leaving her."

"The macaw she will not suffer to remain in the house, nor is it
reasonable that she should: it deprives her of sleep--it kept her awake
three hours this morning."

Marriott was beginning the history of Champfort and the doors again; but
Miss Portman stopped her by saying, "All this is past now. How much is due
to you, Mrs. Marriott? Lady Delacour has commissioned me to pay you every
thing that is due to you."

"Due to me! Lord bless me, ma'am, am I to go?"

"Certainly, it was your own desire--it is consequently your lady's: she is
perfectly sensible of your attachment to her, and of your services, but
she cannot suffer herself to be treated with disrespect. Here are fifty
guineas, which she gives you as a reward for your past fidelity, not as a
bribe to secure your future secresy. You are at liberty, she desires me to
say, to tell her secret to the whole world, if you choose to do so."

"Oh, Miss Portman, take my macaw--do what you will with it--only make my
peace with my lady," cried Marriott, clasping her hands, in an agony of
grief: "here are the fifty guineas, ma'am, don't leave them with me--I
will never be disrespectful again--take my macaw and all! No, I will carry
it myself to my lady."

Lady Delacour was surprised by the sudden entrance of Marriott, and her
macaw. The chain which held the bird Marriott put into her ladyship's hand
without being able to say any thing more than, "Do what you please, my
lady, with it--and with me."

Pacified by this submission, Lady Delacour granted Marriott's pardon, and
she most sincerely rejoiced at this reconciliation.

The next day Belinda asked the dowager Lady Boucher, who was going to a
bird-fancier's, to take her with her, in hopes that she might be able to
meet with some bird more musical than a macaw, to console Marriott for the
loss of her screaming favourite. Lady Delacour commissioned Miss Portman
to go to any price she pleased. "If I were able, I would accompany you
myself, my dear, for poor Marriott's sake, though I would almost as soon
go to the Augean stable."

There was a bird-fancier in High Holborn, who had bought several of the
hundred and eighty beautiful birds, which, as the newspapers of the day
advertised, had been "collected, after great labour and expense, by Mons.
Marten and Co. for the Republican Museum at Paris, and lately landed out
of the French brig Urselle, taken on her voyage from Cayenne to Brest, by
His Majesty's Ship Unicorn."

When Lady Boucher and Belinda arrived at this bird-fancier's, they were
long in doubt to which of the feathered beauties they should give the
preference. Whilst the dowager was descanting upon their various
perfections, a lady and three children came in; she immediately attracted
Belinda's attention, by her likeness to Clarence Hervey's description of
Lady Anne Percival--it was Lady Anne, as Lady Boucher, who was slightly
acquainted with her, informed Belinda in a whisper.

The children were soon eagerly engaged looking at the birds.

"Miss Portman," said Lady Boucher, "as Lady Delacour is so far from well,
and wishes to have a bird that will not make any noise in the house,
suppose you were to buy for Mrs. Marriott this beautiful pair of green
parroquets; or, stay, a goldfinch is not very noisy, and here is one that
can play a thousand pretty tricks. Pray, sir, make it draw up water in its
little bucket for us."

"Oh, mamma!" said one of the little boys, "this is the very thing that is
mentioned in Bewick's History of Birds. Pray look at this goldfinch,
Helena, now it is drawing up its little bucket--but where is Helena?
here's room for you, Helena."

Whilst the little boys were looking at the goldfinch, Belinda felt
somebody touch her gently: it was Helena Delacour.

"Can I speak a few words to you?" said Helena.

Belinda walked to the farthest end of the shop with her.

"Is my mamma better?" said she, in a timid tone. "I have some gold fish,
which you know cannot make the least noise: may I send them to her? I
heard that lady call you Miss Portman: I believe you are the lady who
wrote such a kind postscript to me in mamma's last letter--that is the
reason I speak so freely to you now. Perhaps you would write to tell me if
mamma will see me; and Lady Anne Percival would take me at any time, I am
sure--but she goes to Oakly-park in a few days. I wish I might be with
mamma whilst she is ill; I would not make the least noise. But don't ask
her, if you think it will be troublesome--only let me send the gold fish."

Belinda was touched by the manner in which this affectionate little girl
spoke to her. She assured her that she would say all she wished to her
mother, and she begged Helena to send the gold fish whenever she pleased.

"Then," said Helena, "I will send them as soon as I go _home_ as soon as I
go back to Lady Anne Percival's, I mean." Belinda, when she had finished
speaking to Helena, heard the man who was showing the birds, lament that
he had not a blue macaw, which Lady Anne Percival was commissioned to
procure for Mrs. Margaret Delacour.

"Red macaws, my lady, I have in abundance; but unfortunately, a blue macaw
I really have not at present; nor have I been able to get one, though I
have inquired amongst all the bird-fanciers in town; and I went to the
auction at Haydon-square on purpose, but could not get one."

Belinda requested Lady Boucher would tell her servants to bring in the
cage that contained Marriott's blue macaw; and as soon as it was brought
she gave it to Helena, and begged that she would carry it to her Aunt
Delacour.

"Lord, my dear Miss Portman," said Lady Boucher, drawing her aside, "I am
afraid you will get yourself into a scrape; for Lady Delacour is not upon
speaking terms with this Mrs. Margaret Delacour--she cannot endure her;
you know she is my Lord Delacour's aunt."

Belinda persisted in sending the macaw, for she was in hopes that these
terrible family quarrels might be made up, if either party would
condescend to show any disposition to oblige the other.

Lady Anne Percival understood Miss Portman's civility as it was meant.

"This is a bird of good omen," said she; "it augurs family peace."

"I wish you would do me the favour, Lady Boucher, to introduce me to Miss
Portman," continued Lady Anne.

"The very thing I wished!" cried Helena.

A few minutes' conversation passed afterward upon different subjects, and
Lady Anne Percival and Belinda parted with a mutual desire to see more of
each other.




CHAPTER XIII.

SORTES VIRGILIANAE.


When Belinda got home, Lady Delacour was busy in the library looking over
a collection of French plays with the _ci-devant_ Count de N----; a
gentleman who possessed such singular talents for reading dramatic
compositions, that many people declared that they would rather hear him
read a play than see it performed at the theatre. Even those who were not
judges of his merit, and who had little taste for literature, crowded to
hear him, because it was the fashion. Lady Delacour engaged him for a
reading party at her house, and he was consulting with her what play would
be most amusing to his audience. "My dear Belinda! I am glad you are come
to give us your opinion," said her ladyship; "no one has a better taste:
but first I should ask you what you have done at your bird-fancier's; I
hope you have brought home some _horned cock_[5], or some _monstrously_
beautiful creature for Marriott. If it has not a voice like the macaw I
shall be satisfied; but even if it be the bird of paradise, I question
whether Marriott will like it as well as its screaming predecessor."

"I am sure she will like what is coming for her," said Belinda, "and so
will your ladyship; but do not let me interrupt you and monsieur le
Comte." And as she spoke, she took up a volume of plays which lay upon the
table.

"Nanine, or La Prude, which shall we have?" said Lady Delacour: "or what
do you think of L'Ecossaise?"

"The scene of L'Ecossaise is laid in London," said Belinda; "I should
think with an English audience it would therefore be popular."

"Yes! so it will," said Lady Delacour: "then let it be L'Ecossaise. M. le
Comte I am sure will do justice to the character of _Friport_ the
Englishman, 'qui scait donner, mais qui ne scait pas vivre.' My dear, I
forgot to tell you that Clarence Hervey has been here: it is a pity you
did not come a little sooner, you would have heard a charming scene of the
School for Scandal read by him. M. le Comte was quite delighted; but
Clarence was in a great hurry, he would only give us one scene, he was
going to Mr. Percival's on business. I am sure what I told you the other
day is true: but, however, he has promised to come back to dine with
me--M. le Comte, you will dine with us, I hope?"

The count was extremely sorry that it was impossible--he was engaged.
Belinda suddenly recollected that it was time to dress for dinner; but
just as the count took his leave, and as she was going up stairs, a
footman met her, and told her that Mr. Hervey was in the drawing-room, and
wished to speak to her. Many conjectures were formed in Belinda's mind as
she passed on to the drawing-room; but the moment that she opened the
door, she knew the nature of Mr. Hervey's business, for she saw the glass
globe containing Helena Delacour's gold fishes standing on the table
beside him. "I have been commissioned to present these to you for Lady
Delacour," said Mr. Hervey, "and I have seldom received a commission that
has given me so much pleasure. I perceive that Miss Portman is indeed a
real friend to Lady Delacour--how happy she is to have such a friend!"

After a pause Mr. Hervey went on speaking of Lady Delacour, and of his
earnest desire to see her as happy in domestic life as she _appeared_ to
be in public. He frankly confessed, that when he was first acquainted with
her ladyship, he had looked upon her merely as a dissipated woman of
fashion, and he had considered only his own amusement in cultivating her
society: "But," continued he, "of late I have formed a different opinion
of her character; and I think, from what I have observed, that Miss
Portman's ideas on this subject agree with mine. I had laid a plan for
making her ladyship acquainted with Lady Anne Percival, who appears to me
one of the most amiable and one of the happiest of women. Oakly-park is
but a few miles from Harrowgate.--But I am disappointed in this scheme;
Lady Delacour has changed her mind, she says, and will not go there. Lady
Anne, however, has just told me, that, though it is July, and though she
loves the country, she will most willingly stay in town a month longer, as
she thinks that, with your assistance, there is some probability of her
effecting a reconciliation between Lady Delacour and her husband's
relations, with some of whom Lady Anne is intimately acquainted. To begin
with my friend, Mrs. Margaret Delacour: the macaw was most graciously
received, and I flatter myself that I have prepared Mrs. Delacour to think
somewhat more favourably of her niece than she was wont to do. All now
depends upon Lady Delacour's conduct towards her daughter: if she
continues to treat her with neglect, I shall be convinced that I have been
mistaken in her character."

Belinda was much pleased by the openness and the unaffected good-nature
with which Clarence Hervey spoke, and she certainly was not sorry to hear
from his own lips a distinct explanation of his views and sentiments. She
assured him that no effort that she could make with propriety should he
wanting to effect the desirable reconciliation between her ladyship and
her family, as she perfectly agreed with him in thinking that Lady
Delacour's character had been generally misunderstood by the world.

"Yes," said Mr. Hervey, "her connexion with that Mrs. Freke hurt her more
in the eyes of the world than she was aware of. It is tacitly understood
by the public, that every lady goes bail for the character of her female
friends. If Lady Delacour had been so fortunate as to meet with such a
friend as Miss Portman in her early life, what a different woman she would
have been! She once said some such thing to me herself, and she never
appeared to me so amiable as at that moment."

Mr. Hervey pronounced these last words in a manner more than usually
animated; and whilst he spoke, Belinda stooped to gather a sprig from a
myrtle, which stood on the hearth. She perceived that the myrtle, which
was planted in a large china vase, was propped up on one side with the
broken bits of Sir Philip Baddely's little stick: she took them up, and
threw them out of the window. "Lady Delacour stuck those fragments there
this morning," said Clarence smiling, "as trophies. She told me of Miss
Portman's victory over the heart of Sir Philip Baddely; and Miss Portman
should certainly have allowed them to remain there, as indisputable
evidence in favour of the baronet's taste and judgment."

Clarence Hervey appeared under some embarrassment, and seemed to be
restrained by some secret cause from laying open his real feelings: his
manner varied continually. Belinda could not avoid seeing his
perplexity--she had recourse again to the gold fishes and to Helena: upon
these subjects they could both speak very fluently. Lady Delacour made her
appearance by the time that Clarence had finished repeating the Abbe
Nollet's experiments, which he had heard from his friend Doctor X----.

"Now, Miss Portman, the transmission of sound in water," said Clarence----

"Deep in philosophy, I protest!" said Lady Delacour, as she came in. "What
is this about the transmission of sound in water?--Ha! whence come these
pretty gold fishes?"

"These gold fishes," said Belinda, "are come to console Marriott for the
loss of her macaw."

"Thank you, my dear Belinda, for these mute comforters," said her
ladyship; "the very best things you could have chosen."

"I have not the merit of the choice," said Belinda, "but I am heartily
glad that you approve of it."

"Pretty creatures," said Lady Delacour: "no fish were ever so pretty since
the days of the prince of the Black Islands in the Arabian Tales. And am I
obliged to you, Clarence, for these subjects?"

"No; I have only had the honour of bringing them to your ladyship
from----"

"From whom?--Amongst all my numerous acquaintance, have I one in the world
who cares a gold fish about me?--Stay, don't tell me, let me guess----Lady
Newland?--No; you shake your heads. I guessed her ladyship, merely because
I know she wants to bribe me some way or other to go to one of her stupid
entertainments; she wants to pick out of me taste enough to spend a
fortune. But you say it was not Lady Newland?--Mrs. Hunt then perhaps? for
she has two daughters whom she wants me to ask to my concerts. It was not
Mrs. Hunt?--Well, then, it was Mrs. Masterson; for she has a mind to go
with me to Harrowgate, where, by-the-bye, I shall not go; so I won't cheat
her out of her gold fishes; it was Mrs. Masterson, hey?"

"No. But these little gold fishes came from a person who would be very
glad to go with you to Harrowgate!" said Clarence Hervey. "Or who would be
very glad to stay with you in town," said Belinda: "from a person who
wants nothing from you but--your love."

"Male or female?" said Lady Delacour.

"Female."

"Female? I have not a female friend in the world but yourself, my dear
Belinda; nor do I know another female in the world, whose love I should
think about for half an instant. But pray tell me the name of this unknown
friend of mine, who wants nothing from me but love."

"Excuse me," said Belinda; "I cannot tell her name, unless you will
promise to see her."

"You have really made me impatient to see her," said Lady Delacour: "but I
am not able to go out, you know, yet; and with a new acquaintance, one
must go through the ceremony of a morning visit. Now, _en conscience_, is
it worth while?"

"Very well worth while," cried Belinda and Clarence Hervey, eagerly.

"Ah, pardi! as M. le Comte exclaims continually, Ah, pardi! You are both
wonderfully interested in this business. It is some sister, niece, or
cousin of Lady Anne Percival's; or--no, Belinda looks as if I were wrong.
Then, perhaps, it is Lady Anne herself?--Well, take me where you please,
my dear Belinda, and introduce me where you please: I depend on your taste
and judgment in all things; but I really am not yet able to pay morning
visits."

"The ceremony of a morning visit is quite unnecessary here," said Belinda:
"I will introduce the unknown friend to you to-morrow, if you will let me
invite her to your reading-party."

"With pleasure. She is some charming emigree of Clarence Hervey's
acquaintance. But where did you meet with her this morning? You have both
of you conspired to puzzle me. Take it upon yourselves, then, if this new
acquaintance should not, as Ninon de l'Enclos used to say, _quit cost_. If
she be half as agreeable and _graceful_, Clarence, as Madame la Comtesse
de Pomenars, I should not think her acquaintance too dearly purchased by a
dozen morning visits."

Here the conversation was interrupted by a thundering knock at the door.

"Whose carriage is it?" said Lady Delacour. "Oh! Lady Newland's
ostentatious livery; and here is her ladyship getting out of her carriage
as awkwardly as if she had never been in one before. Overdressed, like a
true city dame! Pray, Clarence, look at her, entangled in her bale of gold
muslin, and conscious of her bulse of diamonds!--'Worth, if I'm worth a
farthing, five hundred thousand pounds bank currency!' she says or seems
to say, whenever she comes into a room. Now let us see her entree--"

"But, my dear," cried Lady Delacour, starting at the sight of Belinda, who
was still in her morning dress, "absolutely below par!--Make your escape
to Marriott, I conjure you, by all your fears of the contempt of a lady,
who will at the first look estimate you, _au juste_, to a farthing a
yard."

As she left the room, Belinda heard Clarence Hervey repeat to Lady
Delacour--

    "Give me a look, give me a face,
    That makes simplicity a grace;
    Robes loosely flowing, hair as free--"

he paused--but Belinda recollected the remainder of the stanza--

    "Such sweet neglect more taketh me
    Than all th'adulteries of art,
    That strike mine eyes, but not mine heart."

It was observed, that Miss Portman dressed herself this day with the most
perfect simplicity.

Lady Delacour's curiosity was raised by the description which Belinda and
Clarence Hervey had given of the new acquaintance who sent her the gold
fishes, and who wanted nothing from her but her love.

Miss Portman told her that the _unknown_ would probably come half an hour
earlier to the reading-party than any of the rest of the company. Her
ladyship was alone in the library, when Lady Anne Percival brought Helena,
in consequence of a note from Belinda.

Miss Portman ran down stairs to the hall to receive her: the little girl
took her hand in silence. "Your mother was much pleased with the pretty
gold fishes," said Belinda, "and she will be still more pleased, when she
knows that they came from you:--she does not know _that_ yet."

"I hope she is better to-day? I will not make the least noise," whispered
Helena, as she went up stairs on tiptoe.

"You need not be afraid to make a noise--you need not walk on tiptoe, nor
shut the doors softly; for Lady Delacour seems to like all noises except
the screaming of the macaw. This way, my dear."

"Oh, I forgot--it is so long since!--Is mamma up and dressed?"

"Yes. She has had concerts and balls since her illness. You will hear a
play read to-night," said Belinda, "by that French gentleman whom Lady
Anne Percival mentioned to me yesterday."

"But there is a great deal of company, then, with mamma?"

"Nobody is with her now: so come into the library with me," said Belinda.
"Lady Delacour, here is the young lady who sent you the gold fishes."

"Helena!" cried Lady Delacour.

"You must, I am sure, acknowledge that Mr. Hervey was in the right, when
he said that the lady was a striking resemblance of your ladyship."

"Mr. Hervey knows how to flatter. I never had that ingenuous countenance,
even in my best days: but certainly the hair of her head is like mine--and
her hands and arms. But why do you tremble, Helena? Is there any thing so
very terrible in the looks of your mother?"

"No, only------"

"Only what, my dear?"

"Only--I was afraid--you might not like me."

"Who has filled your little foolish head with these vain fears? Come,
simpleton, kiss me, and tell me how comes it that you are not at
Oakly-hall, or--What's the name of the place?--Oakly-park?"

"Lady Anne Percival would not take me out of town, she said, whilst you
were ill; because she thought that you might wish--I mean she thought that
I should like to see you--if you pleased."

"Lady Anne is very good--very obliging--very considerate."

"She is _very_ good-natured," said Helena.

"You love this Lady Anne Percival, I perceive."

"Oh, yes, that I do. She has been so kind to me! I love her as if she
were----"

"As if she _were_--What? finish your sentence."

"My mother," said Helena, in a low voice, and she blushed.

"You love her as well as if she were your mother," repeated Lady Delacour:
"that is intelligible: speak intelligibly whatever you say, and never
leave a sentence unfinished."

"No, ma'am."

"Nothing can be more ill-bred, nor more absurd; for it shows that you have
the wish without the power to conceal your sentiments. Pray, my dear,"
continued Lady Delacour, "go to Oakly-park immediately--all farther
ceremony towards me may be spared."

"Ceremony, mamma!" said the little girl, and the tears came into her eyes.
Belinda sighed; and for some moments there was a dead silence.

"I mean only to say, Miss Portman," resumed Lady Delacour, "that I hate
ceremony: but I know that there are people in the world who love it, who
think all virtue, and all affection, depend on ceremony--who are

    'Content to dwell in _decencies_ for ever.'

I shall not dispute their merits. Verily, they have their reward in the
good opinion and good word of all little minds, that is to say, of above
half the world. I envy them not their hard-earned fame. Let ceremony
curtsy to ceremony with Chinese decorum; but, when ceremony expects to be
paid with affection, I beg to be excused."

"Ceremony sets no value upon affection, and therefore would not desire to
be paid with it," said Belinda.

"Never yet," continued lady Delacour, pursuing the train of her own
thoughts without attending to Belinda, "never yet was any thing like real
affection won by any of these ceremonious people."

"Never," said Miss Portman, looking at Helena; who, having quickness
enough to perceive that her mother aimed this _tirade_ against ceremony at
Lady Anne Percival, sat in the most painful embarrassment, her eyes cast
down, and her face and neck colouring all over. "Never yet," said Miss
Portman, "did mere ceremonious person win any thing like real affection;
especially from children, who are often excellent, because unprejudiced,
judges of character."

"We are all apt to think, that an opinion that differs from our own is a
prejudice," said Lady Delacour: "what is to decide?"

"Facts, I should think," said Belinda.

"But it is so difficult to get at facts, even about the merest trifles,"
said Lady Delacour. "Actions we see, but their causes we seldom see--an
aphorism worthy of Confucius himself: now to apply. Pray, my dear Helena,
how came you by the pretty gold fishes that you were so good as to send to
me yesterday?"

"Lady Anne Percival gave them to me, ma'am."

"And how came her ladyship to give them to you, ma'am?"

"She gave them to me," said Helena, hesitating.

"You need not blush, nor repeat to me that she gave them to you; that I
have heard already--that is the fact: now for the cause--unless it be a
secret. If it be a secret which you have been desired to keep, you are
quite right to keep it. I make no doubt of its being necessary, according
to some systems of education, that children should be taught to keep
secrets; and I am convinced (for Lady Anne Percival is, I have heard, a
perfect judge of propriety) that it is peculiarly proper that a daughter
should know how to keep secrets from her mother: therefore, my dear, you
need not trouble yourself to blush or hesitate any more--I shall ask no
farther questions: I was not aware that there was any secret in the case."

"There is no secret in the world in the case, mamma," said Helena; "I only
hesitated because--"

"You hesitated _only_ because, I suppose you mean. I presume Lady Anne
Percival will have no objection to your speaking good English?"

"I hesitated only because I was afraid it would not be right to praise
myself. Lady Anne Percival one day asked us all--"

"Us all?"

"I mean Charles, and Edward, and me, to give her an account of some
experiments, on the hearing of fishes, which Dr. X---- had told to us: she
promised to give the gold fishes, of which we were all very fond, to
whichever of us should give the best account of them--Lady Anne gave the
fishes to me."

"And is this all the secret? So it was real modesty made her hesitate,
Belinda? I beg your pardon, my dear, and Lady Anne's: you see how candid I
am, Belinda. But one question more, Helena: Who put it into your head to
send me your gold fishes?"

"Nobody, mamma; no one put it into my head. But I was at the
bird-fancier's yesterday, when Miss Portman was trying to get some bird
for Mrs. Marriott, that could not make any noise to disturb you; so I
thought my fishes would be the nicest things for you in the world; because
they cannot make the least noise, and they are as pretty as any birds in
the world--prettier, I think--and I hope Mrs. Marriott thinks so too."

"I don't know what Marriott thinks about the matter, but I can tell you
what I think," said Lady Delacour, "that you are one of the sweetest
little girls in the world, and that you would make me love you if I had a
heart of stone, which I have not, whatever some people may think.--Kiss
me, my child!"

The little girl sprang forwards, and threw her arms round her mother,
exclaiming, "Oh, mamma, are you in earnest?" and she pressed close to her
mother's bosom, clasping her with all her force.

Lady Delacour screamed, and pushed her daughter away.

"She is not angry with you, my love," said Belinda, "she is in sudden and
violent pain--don't be alarmed--she will be better soon. No, don't ring
the bell, but try whether you can open these window-shutters, and throw up
the sash."

Whilst Belinda was supporting Lady Delacour, and whilst Helena was trying
to open the window, a servant came into the room to announce the Count de
N----.

"Show him into the drawing-room," said Belinda. Lady Delacour, though in
great pain, rose and retired to her dressing-room. "I shall not be able to
go down to these people yet," said she; "you must make my excuses to the
count and to every body; and tell poor Helena I was not angry, though I
pushed her away. Keep her below stairs: I will come as soon as I am able.
Send Marriott. Do not forget, my dear, to tell Helena I was not angry."

The reading party went on, and Lady Delacour made her appearance as the
company were drinking orgeat, between the fourth and fifth act. "Helena,
_my dear_," said she, "will you bring me a glass of orgeat?"

Clarence Hervey looked at Belinda with a congratulatory smile: "do not you
think," whispered he, "that we shall succeed? Did you see that look of
Lady Delacour's?"

Nothing tends more to increase the esteem and affection of two people for
each other than their having one and the same benevolent object. Clarence
Hervey and Belinda seemed to know one another's thoughts and feelings this
evening better than they had ever done before during the whole course of
their acquaintance.

After the play was over, most of the company went away; only a select
party of _beaux esprits_ stayed to supper; they were standing at the table
at which the count had been reading: several volumes of French plays and
novels were lying there, and Clarence Hervey, taking up one of them,
cried, "Come, let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae."

Lady Delacour opened the book, which was a volume of Marmontel's Tales.

"La femme comme il y en a peu!" exclaimed Hervey.

"Who will ever more have faith in the Sortes Virgilianae?" said Lady
Delacour, laughing; but whilst she laughed she went closer to a candle, to
read the page which she had opened. Belinda and Clarence Hervey followed
her. "Really, it is somewhat singular, Belinda, that I should have opened
upon this passage," continued she, in a low voice, pointing it out to Miss
Portman.

It was a description of the manner in which la femme comme il y en a peu
managed a husband, who was excessively afraid of being thought to be
governed by his wife. As her ladyship turned over the page, she saw a leaf
of myrtle which Belinda, who had been reading the story the preceding day,
had put into the book for a mark.

"Whose mark is this? Yours, Belinda, I am sure, by its elegance," said
Lady Delacour. "So! this is a concerted plan between you two, I see,"
continued her ladyship, with an air of pique: "you have contrived prettily
de me dire des verites! One says, 'Let us try our fate by the Sortes
Virgilianae;' the other has dexterously put a mark in the book, to make it
open upon a lesson for the naughty child."

Belinda and Mr. Hervey assured her that they had used no such mean arts,
that nothing had been concerted between them.

"How came this leaf of myrtle here, then?" said Lady Delacour.

"I was reading that story yesterday, and left it as my mark."

"I cannot help believing you, because you never yet deceived me, even in
the merest trifle: you are truth itself, Belinda. Well, you see that _you_
were the cause of my drawing such an extraordinary lot; the book would not
have opened here but for your mark. My fate, I find, is in your hands: if
Lady Delacour is ever to be la femme comme il y en a peu, which is the
most _improbable_ thing in the world, Miss Portman will be the cause of
it."

"Which is the most probable thing in the world," said Clarence Hervey.
"This myrtle has a delightful perfume," added he, rubbing the leaf between
his fingers.

"But, after all," said Lady Delacour, throwing aside the book, "This
heroine of Marmontel's is not la femme comme il y en a peu, but la femme
comme il n'y en a _point_."

"Mrs. Margaret Delacour's carriage, my lady, for Miss Delacour," said a
footman to her ladyship.

"Helena stays with me to-night--my compliments," said Lady Delacour.

"How pleased the little gipsy looks!" added she, turning to Helena, who
heard the message; "and how handsome she looks when she is pleased!--Do
these auburn locks of yours, Helena, curl naturally or artificially?"

"Naturally, mamma."

"Naturally! so much the better: so did mine at your age."

Some of the company now took notice of the astonishing resemblance between
Helena and her mother; and the more Lady Delacour considered her daughter
as a part of herself, the more she was inclined to be pleased with her.
The glass globe containing the gold fishes was put in the middle of the
table at supper; and Clarence Hervey never paid her ladyship such
respectful attention in his life as he did this evening.

The conversation at supper turned upon a magnificent and elegant
entertainment which had lately been given by a fashionable duchess, and
some of the company spoke in high terms of the beauty and accomplishments
of her grace's daughter, who had for the first time appeared in public on
that occasion.

"The daughter will eclipse, totally eclipse, the mother," said Lady
Delacour. "That total eclipse has been foretold by many knowing people,"
said Clarence Hervey; "but how can there be an eclipse between two bodies
which never cross one another and that I understand to be the case between
the duchess and her daughter."

This observation seemed to make a great impression upon Lady Delacour.
Clarence Hervey went on, and with much eloquence expressed his admiration
of the mother who had stopped short in the career of dissipation to employ
her inimitable talents in the education of her children; who had
absolutely brought Virtue into fashion by the irresistible powers of wit
and beauty.

"Really, Clarence," said Lady Delacour, rising from table, "vous parlez
avec beaucoup d'onction. I advise you to write a sentimental comedy, a
comedie larmoyante, or a drama on the German model, and call it The School
for Mothers, and beg her grace of ---- to sit for your heroine."

"Your ladyship, surely, would not be so cruel as to send a faithful
servant a begging for a heroine?" said Clarence Hervey.

Lady Delacour smiled at first at the compliment, but a few minutes
afterwards she sighed bitterly. "It is too late for me to think of being a
heroine," said she.

"Too late?" cried Hervey, following her eagerly as she walked out of the
supper-room; "too late? Her grace of ---- is _some_ years older than your
ladyship."

"Well, I did not mean to say _too late_," said Lady Delacour; "but let us
go on to something else. Why were you not at the fete champetre the other
day? and where were you all this morning? And pray can you tell me when
your friend doctor X---- returns to town?"

"Mr. Horton is getting better," said Clarence, "and I hope that we shall
have Dr. X---- soon amongst us again. I hear that he is to be in town in
the course of a few days."

"Did he inquire for me?--Did he ask how I did?"

"No. I fancy he took it for granted that your ladyship was quite well; for
I told him you were getting better every day, and that you were in
charming spirits."

"Yes," said Lady Delacour, "but I wear myself out with these charming
spirits. I am very nervous still, I assure you, and sitting up late is not
good for me: so I shall wish you and all the world a good night. You see I
am absolutely a reformed rake."




CHAPTER XIV.

THE EXHIBITION.


Two hours after her ladyship had retired to her room, as Belinda was
passing by the door to go to her own bedchamber, she heard Lady Delacour
call to her.

"Belinda, you need not walk so softly; I am not asleep. Come in, will you,
my dear? I have something of consequence to say to you. Is all the world
gone?"

"Yes; and I thought that you were asleep. I hope you are not in pain."

"Not just at present, thank you; but that was a terrible embrace of poor
little Helena's. You see to what accidents I should be continually
exposed, if I had that child always about me; and yet she seems of such an
affectionate disposition, that I wish it were possible to keep her at
home. Sit down by my bedside, my dear Belinda, and I will tell you what I
have resolved upon."

Belinda sat down, and Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes.

"I am resolved," said she, "to make one desperate effort for my life. New
plans, new hopes of happiness, have opened to my imagination, and, with my
hopes of being happy, my courage rises. I am determined to submit to the
dreadful operation which alone can radically cure me--you understand me;
but it must be kept a profound secret. I know of a person who could be got
to perform this operation with the utmost secrecy."

"But, surely," said Belinda, "safety must be your first object!"

"No, secrecy is my first object. Nay, do not reason with me; it is a
subject on which I cannot, will not, reason. Hear me--I will keep Helena
with me for a few days; she was surprised by what passed in the library
this evening--I must remove all suspicion from her mind."

"There is no suspicion in her mind," said Belinda.

"So much the better: she shall go immediately to school, or to Oakly-park.
I will then stand my trial for life or death; and if I live I will be,
what I have never yet been, a mother to Helena. If I die, you and Clarence
Hervey will take care of her; I know you will. That young man is worthy of
you, Belinda. If I die, I charge you to tell him that I knew his value;
that I had a soul capable of being touched by the eloquence of virtue."
Lady Delacour, after a pause, said, in an altered tone, "Do you think,
Belinda, that I shall survive this operation?"

"The opinion of Dr. X----," said Belinda, "must certainly be more
satisfactory than mine;" and she repeated what the doctor had left with
her in writing upon this subject. "You see," said Belinda, "that Dr. X----
is by no means certain that you have the complaint which you dread."

"I am certain of it," said Lady Delacour, with a deep sigh. Then, after a
pause, she resumed: "So it is the doctor's opinion, that I shall
inevitably destroy myself if, from a vain hope of secrecy, I put myself
into ignorant hands? These are his own words, are they? Very strong; and
he is prudent to leave that opinion in writing. Now, whatever happens, he
cannot be answerable for 'measures which he does not guide:' nor you
either, my dear; you have done all that is prudent and proper. But I must
beg you to recollect, that I am neither a child nor a fool; that I am come
to years of discretion, and that I am not now in the delirium of a fever;
consequently, there can be no pretence for _managing_ me. In this
particular I must insist upon managing myself. I have confidence in the
skill of the person whom I shall employ: Dr. X----, very likely, would
have none, because the man may not have a diploma for killing or curing in
form. That is nothing to the purpose. It is I that am to undergo the
operation: it is _my_ health, _my_ life, that is risked; and if I am
satisfied, that is enough. Secrecy, as I told you before, is my first
object."

"And cannot you," said Belinda, "depend with more security upon the honour
of a surgeon who is at the head of his profession, and who has a high
reputation at stake, than upon a vague promise of secrecy from some
obscure quack, who has no reputation to lose?"

"No," said Lady Delacour: "I tell you, my dear, that I cannot depend upon
any of these 'honourable men.' I have taken means to satisfy myself on
this point: their honour and foolish delicacy would not allow them to
perform such an operation for a wife, without the knowledge, privity,
consent, &c. &c. &c. of her husband. Now Lord Delacour's knowing the thing
is quite out of the question."

"Why, my dear Lady Delacour, why?" said Belinda, with great earnestness.
"Surely a husband has the strongest claim to be consulted upon such an
occasion! Let me entreat you to tell Lord Delacour your intention, and
then all will be right. Say Yes, my dear friend! let me prevail upon you,"
said Belinda, taking her ladyship's hand, and pressing it between both of
hers with the most affectionate eagerness.

Lady Delacour made no answer, but fixed her eyes upon Belinda's.

"Lord Delacour," continued Miss Portman, "deserves this from you, by the
great interest, the increasing interest, that he has shown of late about
your health: his kindness and handsome conduct the other morning certainly
pleased you, and you have now an opportunity of showing that confidence in
him, which his affection and constant attachment to you merit."

"I trouble myself very little about the constancy of Lord Delacour's
attachment to me," said her ladyship coolly, withdrawing her hand from
Belinda; "whether his lordship's affection for me has of late increased or
diminished, is an object of perfect indifference to me. But if I were
inclined to reward him for his late attentions, I should apprehend that we
might hit upon some better reward than you have pitched upon. Unless you
imagine that Lord Delacour has a peculiar taste for surgical operations, I
cannot conceive how his becoming my confidant upon this occasion could
have an immediate tendency to increase his affection for me--about which
affection I don't care a straw, as you, better than any one else, must
know; for I am no hypocrite. I have laid open my whole heart to you,
Belinda."

"For that very reason," said Miss Portman, "I am eager to use the
influence which I know I have in your heart for your happiness. I am
convinced that it will be absolutely impossible that you should carry on
this scheme in the house with your husband without its being discovered.
If he discover it by accident, he will feel very differently from what he
would do if he were trusted by you."

"For Heaven's sake, my dear," cried Lady Delacour, "let me hear no more
about Lord Delacour's feelings."

"But allow me then to speak of my own," said Belinda: "I cannot be
concerned in this affair, if it is to be concealed from your husband."

"You will do about that as you think proper," said Lady Delacour
haughtily. "Your sense of propriety towards Lord Delacour is, I observe,
stronger than your sense of honour towards me. But I make no doubt that
you act upon principle--just principle. You promised never to abandon me;
but when I most want your assistance, you refuse it, from consideration
for Lord Delacour. A scruple of delicacy absolves a person of nice
feelings, I find, from a positive promise--a new and convenient code of
morality!"

Belinda, though much hurt by the sarcastic tone in which her ladyship
spoke, mildly answered, that the promise she had made to stay with her
ladyship during her illness was very different from an engagement to
assist her in such a scheme as she had now in contemplation.

Lady Delacour suddenly drew the curtain between her and Belinda, saying,
"Well, my dear, at all events, I am glad to hear you don't forget your
promise of _staying_ with me. You are, perhaps, prudent to refuse me your
assistance, all circumstances considered. Good night: I have kept you up
too long--good night!"

"Good night!" said Belinda, drawing aside the curtain, "You will not be
displeased with me, when you reflect coolly."

"The light blinds me," said Lady Delacour; and she turned her face away
from Miss Portman, and added, in a drowsy voice, "I will _think of what
has been said_ some time or other: but just now I would rather go to sleep
than say or hear any more; for I am more than half asleep already."

Belinda closed the curtains and left the room. But Lady Delacour,
notwithstanding the drowsy tone in which she pronounced these last words,
was not in the least inclined to sleep. A passion had taken possession of
her mind, which kept her broad awake the remainder of the night--the
passion of jealousy. The extreme eagerness with which Belinda had urged
her to consult Lord Delacour, and to trust him with her secret, displeased
her; not merely as an opposition to her will, and undue attention to his
lordship's feelings, but as "confirmation strong" of a hint which had been
dropped by Sir Philip Baddely, but which never till now had appeared to
her worthy of a moment's consideration. Sir Philip had observed, that, "if
a young lady had any hopes of being a viscountess, it was no wonder she
thought a baronet beneath her notice." "Now," thought Lady Delacour, "this
is not impossible. In the first place, Belinda Portman is niece to Mrs.
Stanhope; she may have all her aunt's art, and the still greater art to
conceal it under the mask of openness and simplicity: _Volto sciolto,
pensieri stretti_, is the grand maxim of the Stanhope school." The moment
Lady Delacour's mind turned to suspicion, her ingenuity rapidly supplied
her with circumstances and arguments to confirm and justify her doubts.

"Miss Portman fears that my husband is growing too fond of me: she says,
he has been very attentive to me of late. Yes, so he has; and on purpose
to disgust him with me, she immediately urges me to tell him that I have a
loathsome disease, and that I am about to undergo a horrid operation. How
my eyes have been blinded by her artifice! This last stroke was rather too
bold, and has opened them effectually, and now I see a thousand things
that escaped me before. Even to-night, the Sortes Virgilianae, the myrtle
leaf, Miss Portman's mark, left in the book exactly at the place where
Marmontel gives a receipt for managing a husband of Lord Delacour's
character. Ah, ah! By her own confession, she had been reading this:
studying it. Yes, and she has studied it to some purpose; she has made
that poor weak lord of mine think her an angel. How he ran on in her
praise the other day, when he honoured me with a morning visit! That
morning visit, too, was of her suggestion; and the bank-notes, as he, like
a simpleton, let out in the course of the conversation, had been offered
to her first. She, with a delicacy that charmed my short-sighted folly,
begged that they might go through my hands. How artfully managed! Mrs.
Stanhope herself could not have done better. So, she can make Lord
Delacour do whatever she pleases; and she condescends to make him behave
_prettily_ to me, and desires him to bring me peace-offerings of
bank-notes! She is, in fact, become my banker; mistress of my house, my
husband, and myself! Ten days I have been confined to my room. Truly, she
has made a good use of her time: and I, fool that I am, have been thanking
her for all her disinterested kindness!

"Then her attention to my daughter! disinterested, too, as I
thought!--But, good Heavens, what an idiot I have been! She looks forward
to be the step-mother of Helena; she would win the simple child's
affections even before my face, and show Lord Delacour what a charming
wife and mother she would make! He said some such thing to me, as well as
I remember, the other day. Then her extreme prudence! She never coquets,
not she, with any of the young men who come here on purpose to see her. Is
this natural? Absolutely unnatural--artifice! artifice! To contrast
herself with me in Lord Delacour's opinion is certainly her object. Even
to Clarence Hervey, with whom she was, or pretended to be, smitten, how
cold and reserved she is grown of late; and how haughtily she rejected my
advice, when I hinted that she was not taking the way to win him! I could
not comprehend her; she had no designs on Clarence Hervey, she assured me.
Immaculate purity! I believe you.

"Then her refusal of Sir Philip Baddely!--a baronet with fifteen thousand
a year to be refused by a girl who has nothing, and merely because he is a
fool! How could I be such a fool as to believe it? Worthy niece of Mrs.
Stanhope, I know you now! And now I recollect that extraordinary letter of
Mrs. Stanhope's which I snatched out of Miss Portman's hands some months
ago, full of blanks, and inuendoes, and references to some letter which
Belinda had written about my disputes with my husband! From that moment to
this, Miss Portman has never let me see another of her aunt's letters. So
I may conclude they are all in the same style; and I make no doubt that
she has instructed her niece, all this time, how to proceed. Now I know
why she always puts Mrs. Stanhope's letters into her pocket the moment she
receives them, and never opens them in my presence. And I have been laying
open my whole heart, telling my whole history, confessing all my faults
and follies, to this girl! And I have told her that I am dying! I have
taught her to look forward with joy and certainty to the coronet, on which
she has fixed her heart.

"On my knees I conjured her to stay with me to receive my last breath. Oh,
dupe, miserable dupe, that I am! could nothing warn me? In the moment that
I discovered the treachery of one friend, I went and prostrated myself to
the artifices of another--of another a thousand times more dangerous--ten
thousand times more beloved! For what was Harriot Freke in comparison with
Belinda Portman? Harriot Freke, even whilst she diverted me most, I half
despised. But Belinda!--Oh, Belinda! how entirely have I
loved--trusted--admired--adored--respected--revered you!"

Exhausted by the emotions to which she had worked herself up by the force
of her powerful imagination, Lady Delacour, after passing several restless
hours in bed, fell asleep late in the morning; and when she awaked,
Belinda was standing by her bedside. "What could you be dreaming of?" said
Belinda, smiling. "You started, and looked at me with such horror, when
you opened your eyes, as if I had been your evil genius." It is not in
human nature, thought Lady Delacour, suddenly overcome by the sweet smile
and friendly tone of Belinda, it is not in human nature to be so
treacherous; and she stretched out both her arms to Belinda, saying, "You
my evil genius? No. My guardian angel, my dearest Belinda, kiss me, and
forgive me."

"Forgive you for what?" said Belinda; "I believe you are dreaming still,
and I am sorry to awaken you; but I am come to tell you a wonderful
thing--that Lord Delacour is up, and dressed, and actually in the
breakfast-room; and that he has been talking to me this half hour--of what
do you think?--of Helena. He was quite surprised, he said, to see her
grown such a fine girl, and he declares that he no longer regrets that she
was not a boy; and he says that he will dine at home to-day, on purpose to
drink Helena's health in his new burgundy; and, in short, I never saw him
in such good spirits, or so agreeable: I always thought he was one of the
best-natured men I had ever seen. Will not you get up to breakfast? Lord
Delacour has asked for you ten times within these five minutes."

"Indeed!" said Lady Delacour, rubbing her eyes. "All this is vastly
wonderful; but I wish you had not awakened me so soon."

"Nay, nay," said Belinda, "I know by the tone of your voice, that you do
not mean what you say; I know you will get up, and come down to us
directly--so I will send Marriott."

Lady Delacour got up, and went down to breakfast, in much uncertainty what
to think of Miss Portman; but ashamed to let her into her mind, and still
more afraid that Lord Delacour should suspect her of doing him the honour
to be jealous, Belinda had not the least guess of what was really passing
in her ladyship's heart; she implicitly believed her expressions of
complete indifference to her lord; and jealousy was the last feeling which
Miss Portman would have attributed to Lady Delacour, because she
unfortunately was not sufficiently aware that jealousy can exist without
love. The idea of Lord Delacour as an object of attachment, or of a
coronet as an object of ambition, or of her friend's death as an object of
joy, were so foreign to Belinda's innocent mind, that it was scarcely
possible she could decipher Lady Delacour's thoughts. Her ladyship
affected to be in "remarkable good spirits this morning," declared that
she had never felt so well since her illness, ordered her carriage as soon
as breakfast was over, and said she would take Helena to Maillardet's, to
see the wonders of his little conjuror and his singing-bird. "Nothing
equal to Maillardet's singing-bird has ever been seen or heard of, my dear
Helena, since the days of Aboulcasem's peacock in the Persian Tales. Since
Lady Anne Percival has not shown you these charming things, I must."

"But I hope you won't tire yourself, mamma," said the little girl.

"I'm afraid you will," said Belinda. "And you know, my dear," added Lord
Delacour, "that Miss Portman, who is so very obliging and good-natured,
_could_ go just as well with Helena; and I am sure, _would_, rather than
that you should tire yourself, or give yourself an unnecessary trouble."

"Miss Portman is very good," answered Lady Delacour, hastily; "but I think
it no unnecessary trouble to give my daughter any pleasure in my power. As
to its tiring me, I am neither dead, nor dying, _yet_; for the rest, Miss
Portman, who understands what is proper, blushes for you, as you see, my
lord, when you propose that she, who is not _yet_ a married woman, should
_chaperon_ a young lady. It is quite out of rule; and Mrs. Stanhope would
be shocked if her niece could, or would, do such a thing to oblige any
body."

Lord Delacour was too much in the habit of hearing sarcastic, and to him
incomprehensible speeches from her ladyship, to take any extraordinary
notice of this; and if Belinda blushed, it was merely from the confusion
into which she was thrown by the piercing glance of Lady Delacour's black
eyes--a glance which neither guilt nor innocence could withstand. Belinda
imagined that her ladyship still retained some displeasure from the
conversation that had passed the preceding night, and the first time that
she was alone with Lady Delacour, she again touched upon the subject, in
hopes of softening or convincing her. "At all events, my dear friend,"
said she, "you will not, I hope, be offended by the sincerity with which I
speak--I _can_ have no object but your safety and happiness."

"Sincerity never offends me," was her ladyship's cold answer. And all the
time that they were out together, she was unusually ceremonious to Miss
Portman; and there would have been but little conversation, if Helena had
not been present, to whom her mother talked with fluent gaiety. When they
got to Spring Gardens, Helena exclaimed, "Oh! there's Lady Anne Percival's
carriage, and Charles and Edward with her--they are going to the same
place that we are, I dare say, for I heard Charles ask Lady Anne to take
him to see Maillardet's little bird--Mr. Hervey mentioned it to us, and he
said it was a curious piece of machinery."

"I wish you had told me sooner that Lady Anne was likely to be there--I
don't wish to meet her so awkwardly: I am not well enough yet, indeed, to
go to these odious, hot, close places; and, besides, I hate seeing
sights."

Helena, with much good humour, said that she would rather give up seeing
the sight than be troublesome to her mother. When they came to
Maillardet's, however, Lady Delacour saw Mrs. ---- getting out of her
carriage, and to her she consigned Helena and Miss Portman, saying that
she would take a turn or two in the part, and call for them in half an
hour. When the half hour was over, and her ladyship returned, she
carelessly asked, as they were going home, whether they had been pleased
with their visit to the bird and the conjuror. "Oh, yes, mamma!" said
Helena: "and do you know, that one of the questions that the people ask
the conjuror is, _Where is the happiest family to be found?_" And Charles
and Edward immediately said, if he is a good conjuror, if he tells truth,
he'll answer, 'At Oakly-park.'"

"Miss Portman, had you any conversation with Lady Anne Percival?" said
Lady Delacour, coldly.

"A great deal," said Belinda, "and such as I am sure you would have liked:
and so far from being a ceremonious person, I think I never saw any body
who had such easy engaging manners."

"And did she ask you, Helena, again to go with her to that place where the
happiest family in the world is to be found?"

"Oakly-park?--No, mamma; she said that she was very glad that I was with
you; but she asked Miss Portman to come to see her whenever it was in her
power."

"And could Miss Portman withstand such a temptation?"

"You know that I am engaged to your ladyship," said Belinda.

Lady Delacour bowed. "But from what passed last night," said she, "I was
afraid that you might repent your engagement to me: and if so, I give up
my bond. I should be miserable if I apprehended that any one, but more
especially Miss Portman, felt herself a prisoner in my house."

"Dear Lady Delacour! I do not feel myself a prisoner; I have always till
now felt myself a friend in your house; but we'll talk of this another
time. Do not look at me with so much coldness; do not speak to me with so
much politeness. I will not let you forget that I am your friend."

"I do not wish to forget it, Belinda," said Lady Delacour, with emotion;
"I am not ungrateful, though I may seem capricious--bear with me."

"There now, you look like yourself again, and I am satisfied," cried
Belinda. "As to going to Oakly-park, I give you my word I have not the
most distant thoughts of it. I stay with you from choice, and not from
compulsion, believe me."

"I _do_ believe you," said Lady Delacour; and for a moment she was
convinced that Belinda stayed with her for her own sake alone; but the
next minute she suspected that Lord Delacour was the secret cause of her
refusing to go to Oakly-park. His lordship dined at home this day, and two
or three succeeding days, and he was not intoxicated from Monday till
Thursday. These circumstances appeared to his lady very extraordinary. In
fact, he was pleased and amused with his little daughter, Helena; and
whilst she was yet almost a stranger to him, he wished to appear to her in
the most agreeable and respectable light possible. One day after dinner,
Lord Delacour, who was in a remarkably good humour, said to her ladyship,
"My dear, you know that your new carriage was broken almost to pieces the
night when you were overturned. Well, I have had it all set to rights
again, and new painted, and it is all complete, except the hammer-cloth,
which must have new fringe. What colour will you have the fringe?"

"What do you say, Miss Portman?" said her ladyship.

"Black and orange would look well, I think," said Belinda, "and would suit
the lace of your liveries--would not it?"

"Certainly: black and orange then," said Lord Delacour, "it shall be."

"If you ask my opinion," said Lady Delacour, "I am for blue and white, to
match the cloth of the liveries."

"Blue and white then it shall be," said Lord Delacour.

"Nay, Miss Portman has a better taste than I have; and she says black and
orange, my lord."

"Then you'll have it black and orange, will you?" said Lord Delacour.

"Just as you please," said Lady Delacour, and no more passed.

Soon afterward a note came from Lady Anne Percival, with some trifles
belonging to Helena, for which her mother had sent. The note was for
Belinda--another pressing invitation to Oakly-park--and a very civil
message from Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and thanks to Lady Delacour for the
macaw. Ay, thought Lady Delacour, Miss Portman wants to ingratiate herself
in time with all my husband's relations. "Mrs. Margaret Delacour should
have addressed these thanks to you, Miss Portman, for I had not the grace
to think of sending her the macaw." Lord Delacour, who was very fond of
his aunt, immediately joined his thanks, and observed that Miss Portman
was always considerate--always obliging--always kind. Then he drank her
health in a bumper of burgundy, and insisted upon his little Helena's
drinking her health. "I am sure you ought, my dear, for Miss Portman is
very good--too good to you, child."

"Very good--not too good, I hope," said Lady Delacour. "Miss Portman, your
health."

"And I hope," continued his lordship, after swallowing his bumper, "that
my Lady Anne Percival does not mean to inveigle you away from us, Miss
Portman. You don't think of leaving us, Miss Portman, I hope? Here's
Helena would break her little heart;--I say nothing for my Lady Delacour,
because she can say every thing so much better for herself; and I say
nothing for myself, because I am the worst man in the world at making
speeches, when I really have a thing at heart--as I have your staying with
us, Miss Portman."

Belinda assured him that there was no occasion to press her to do what was
perfectly agreeable to her, and said that she had no thoughts of leaving
Lady Delacour. Her ladyship, with some embarrassment, expressed herself
"extremely obliged, and gratified, and happy." Helena, with artless joy,
threw her arms about Belinda, and exclaimed, "I am glad you are not going;
for I never liked any body so much, of whom I knew so little."

"The more you know of Miss Portman the more you will like her, child--at
least I have found it so," said Lord Delacour.

"Clarence Hervey would, I am sure, have given the Pigot diamond, if it
were in his gift, for such a smile as you bestowed on Lord Delacour just
now," whispered Lady Delacour. For an instant Belinda was struck with the
tone of pique and reproach, in which, her ladyship spoke. "Nay, my dear, I
did not mean to make you blush so piteously," pursued her ladyship: "I
really did not think it a blushing matter--but you know best. Believe me,
I spoke without malice; we are so apt to judge from our own feelings--and
I could as soon blush about the old man of the mountains as about my Lord
Delacour."

"Lord Delacour!" said Belinda, with a look of such unfeigned surprise,
that her ladyship instantly changed countenance, and, taking her hand with
gaiety, said, "So, my little Belinda, I have caught you--the blush belongs
then to Clarence Hervey? Well, any man of common sense would rather have
one blush than a thousand smiles for his share: now we understand one
another. And will you go with me to the exhibition to-morrow? I am told
there are some charming pictures this year. Helena, who really has a
genius for drawing, should see these things; and whilst she _is_ with me,
I will make her as happy as possible. You see the reformation is
beginning--Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman can do wonders. If it be my
fate, at last, to be _la bonne mere_, or _la femme comme il y en a peu_,
how can I help it? There is no struggling against fate, my dear!"

Whenever Lady Delacour's suspicions of Belinda were suspended, all her
affections returned with double force; she wondered at her own folly, she
was ashamed that she could have let such ideas enter her mind, and she was
beyond measure astonished that any thing relative to Lord Delacour could
so far have interested her attention. "Luckily," said she to herself, "he
has not the penetration of a blind beetle; and, besides, he has little
snug jealousies of his own: so he will never find me out. It would be an
excellent thing indeed, if he were to turn my '_master-torment_' against
myself--it would be a judgment upon me. The manes of poor Lawless would
then be appeased. But it is impossible I should ever be a jealous wife: I
am only a jealous friend, and I must satisfy myself about Belinda. To be a
second time a dupe to the treachery of a friend would be too much for
me--too much for my pride--too much for my heart."

The next day, when they came to the exhibition, Lady Delacour had an
opportunity of judging of Belinda's real feelings. As they went up the
stairs, they heard the voices of Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, who
were standing upon the landing-place, leaning over the banisters, and
running their little sticks along the iron rails, to try which could make
the loudest noise.

"Have you been much pleased with the pictures, gentlemen?" said Lady
Delacour, as she passed them.

"Oh, damme! no--'tis a cursed bore; and yet there are some fine pictures:
one in particular--hey, Rochfort?--one damned fine picture!" said Sir
Philip. And the two gentlemen laughing significantly, followed Lady
Delacour and Belinda into the rooms.

"Ay, there's one picture that's worth all the rest, 'pon honour!" repeated
Rochfort; "and we'll leave it to your ladyship's and Miss Portman's taste
and judgment to find it out, mayn't we, Sir Philip?"

"Oh, damme! yes," said Sir Philip, "by all means." But he was so impatient
to direct her eyes, that he could not keep himself still an instant.

"Oh, curse it! Rochfort, we'd better tell the ladies at once, else they
may be all day looking and looking!"

"Nay, Sir Philip, may not I be allowed to guess? Must I be told which is
your fine picture?--This is not much in favour of my taste."

"Oh, damn it! your ladyship has the best taste in the world, every body
knows; and so has Miss Portman--and this picture will hit her taste
particularly, I'm sure. It is Clarence Hervey's fancy; but this is a dead
secret--dead--Clary no more thinks that we know it, than the man in the
moon."

"Clarence Hervey's fancy! Then I make no doubt of its being good for
something," said Lady Delacour, "if the painter have done justice to his
imagination; for Clarence has really a fine imagination."

"Oh, damme! 'tis not amongst the history pieces," cried Sir Philip; "'tis
a portrait."

"And a history piece, too, 'pon honour!" said Rochfort: "a family history
piece, I take it, 'pon honour! it will turn out," said Rochfort; and both
the gentlemen were, or affected to be, thrown into convulsions of
laughter, as they repeated the words, "family history piece, 'pon
honour!--family history piece, damme!"

"I'll take my oath as to the portrait's being a devilish good likeness,"
added Sir Philip; and as he spoke, he turned to Miss Portman: "Miss
Portman has it! damme, Miss Portman has him!"

Belinda hastily withdrew her eyes from the picture at which she was
looking. "A most beautiful creature!" exclaimed Lady Delacour.

"Oh, faith! yes; I always do Clary the justice to say, he has a damned
good taste for beauty."

"But this seems to be foreign beauty," continued Lady Delacour, "if one
may judge by her air, her dress, and the scenery about her--cocoa-trees,
plantains: Miss Portman, what think you?"

"I think," said Belinda, (but her voice faltered so much that she could
hardly speak,) "that it is a scene from Paul and Virginia. I think the
figure is St. Pierre's Virginia."

"Virginia St. Pierre! ma'am," cried Mr. Rochfort, winking at Sir Philip.
"No, no, damme! there you are wrong, Rochfort; say Hervey's Virginia, and
then you have it, damme! or, may be, Virginia Hervey--who knows?"

"This is a portrait," whispered the baronet to Lady Delacour, "of
Clarence's mistress." Whilst her ladyship leant her ear to this whisper,
which was sufficiently audible, she fixed a seemingly careless, but most
observing, inquisitive eye upon poor Belinda. Her confusion, for she heard
the whisper, was excessive.

"She loves Clarence Hervey--she has no thoughts of Lord Delacour and his
coronet: I have done her injustice," thought Lady Delacour, and instantly
she despatched Sir Philip out of the room, for a catalogue of the
pictures, begged Mr. Rochfort to get her something else, and, drawing Miss
Portman's arm within hers, she said, in a low voice, "Lean upon me, my
dearest Belinda: depend upon it, Clarence will never be such a fool as to
marry the girl--Virginia Hervey she will never be!"

"And what will become of her? can Mr. Hervey desert her? she looks like
innocence itself--and so young, too! Can he leave her for ever to sorrow,
and vice, and infamy?" thought Belinda, as she kept her eyes fixed, in
silent anguish, upon the picture of Virginia. "No, he cannot do this: if
he could he would be unworthy of me, and I _ought_ to think of him no
more. No; he will marry her; and I _must_ think of him no more."

She turned abruptly away from the picture, and she saw Clarence Hervey
standing beside her.

"What do you think of this picture? is it not beautiful? We are quite
enchanted with it; but you do not seem to be struck with it, as we were at
the first glance," said Lady Delacour.

"Because," answered Clarence, gaily, "it is not the first glance I have
had at that picture--I admired it yesterday, and admire it to-day."

"But you are tired of admiring it, I see. Well, we shall not force you to
be in raptures with it--shall we, Miss Portman? A man may be tired of the
most beautiful face in the world, or the most beautiful picture; but
really there is so much sweetness, so much innocence, such tender
melancholy in this countenance, that, if I were a man, I should inevitably
be in love with it, and in love for ever! Such beauty, if it were in
nature, would certainly fix the most inconstant man upon earth."

Belinda ventured to take her eyes for an instant from the picture, to see
whether Clarence Hervey looked like the most inconstant man upon earth. He
was intently gazing upon her; but as soon as she looked round, he suddenly
exclaimed, as he turned to the picture--"A heavenly countenance,
indeed!--the painter has done justice to the poet."

"Poet!" repeated Lady Delacour: "the man's in the clouds!"

"Pardon me," said Clarence; "does not M. de St. Pierre deserve to be
called a poet? Though he does not write in rhyme, surely he has a poetical
imagination."

"Certainly," said Belinda; and from the composure with which Mr. Hervey
now spoke, she was suddenly inclined to believe, or to hope, that all Sir
Philip's story was false. "M. de St. Pierre undoubtedly has a great deal
of imagination, and deserves to be called a poet."

"Very likely, good people!" said Lady Delacour; "but what has that to do
with the present purpose?"

"Nay," cried Clarence, "your ladyship certainly sees that this is St.
Pierre's Virginia?"

"St. Pierre's Virginia! Oh, I know who it is, Clarence, as well as you do.
I am not quite so blind, or so stupid, as you take me to be." Then
recollecting her promise, not to betray Sir Philip's secret, she added,
pointing to the landscape of the picture, "These cocoa trees, this
fountain, and the words _Fontaine de Virginie_, inscribed on the rock--I
must have been stupidity itself, if I had not found it out. I absolutely
_can_ read, Clarence, and spell, and put together. But here comes Sir
Philip Baddely, who, I believe, cannot read, for I sent him an hour ago
for a catalogue, and he pores over the book as if he had not yet made out
the title."

Sir Philip had purposely delayed, because he was afraid of rejoining Lady
Delacour whilst Clarence Hervey was with her, and whilst they were talking
of the picture of Virginia.

"Here's the catalogue; here's the picture your ladyship wants. St.
Pierre's Virginia: damme! I never heard of that fellow before--he is some
new painter, damme! that is the reason I did not know the hand. Not a word
of what I told you, Lady Delacour--you won't blow us to Clary," added he
_aside_ to her ladyship. "Rochfort keeps aloof; and so will I, damme!"

A gentleman at this instant beckoned to Mr. Hervey with an air of great
eagerness. Clarence went and spoke to him, then returned with an altered
countenance, and apologized to Lady Delacour for not dining with her, as
he had promised. Business, he said, of great importance required that he
should leave town immediately. Helena had just taken Miss Portman into a
little room, where Westall's drawings were hung, to show her a group of
Lady Anne Percival and her children; and Belinda was alone with the little
girl, when Mr. Hervey came to bid her adieu. He was in much agitation.

"Miss Portman, I shall not, I am afraid, see you again for some
time;--perhaps I may never have that--hem!--happiness. I had something of
importance that I wished to say to you before I left town; but I am forced
to go so suddenly, I can hardly hope for any moment but the present to
speak to you, madam. May I ask whether you purpose remaining much longer
with Lady Delacour?"

"Yes," said Belinda, much surprised. "I believe--I am not quite
certain--but I believe I shall stay with her ladyship some time longer."

Mr. Hervey looked painfully embarrassed, and his eyes involuntarily fell
upon little Helena. Helena drew her hand gently away from Belinda, left
the room, and retired to her mother.

"That child, Miss Portman, is very fond of you," said Mr. Hervey. Again he
paused, and looked round to see whether he could be overheard. "Pardon me
for what I am going to say. This is not a proper place. I must be abrupt;
for I am so circumstanced, that I have not a moment's time to spare. May I
speak to you with the sincerity of a friend?"

"Yes. Speak to me with sincerity," said Belinda, "and you will deserve
that I should think you my friend." She trembled excessively, but spoke
and looked with all the firmness that she could command.

"I have heard a report," said Mr. Hervey, "which is most injurious to
you."

"To me!"

"Yes. No one can escape calumny. It is whispered, that if Lady Delacour
should die--."

At the word _die_, Belinda started.

"That if Lady Delacour should die, Miss Portman would become the mother of
Helena!"

"Good Heavens! what an absurd report! Surely _you_ could not for an
instant believe it, Mr. Hervey?"

"Not for an instant. But I resolved, as soon as I heard it, to mention it
to you; for I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from
foolish mysteries--from the want of courage to speak the truth. Now that
you are upon your guard, your own prudence will defend you sufficiently. I
never saw any of your sex who appeared to me to have so much prudence, and
so little art; but--farewell--I have not a moment to lose," added
Clarence, suddenly checking himself; and he hurried away from Belinda, who
stood fixed to the spot where he left her, till she was roused by the
voices of several people who came into the room to see the drawings. She
started as if from a dream, and went immediately in search of Lady
Delacour.

Sir Philip Baddely was in earnest conversation with her ladyship; but he
stopped speaking when Belinda came within hearing, and Lady Delacour
turned to Helena, and said, "My dear, if you are satisfied, for mercy's
sake let us be gone, for I am absolutely overcome with heat--and with
curiosity," added she in a low voice to Belinda: "I long to hear how
Clarence Hervey likes Westall's drawings."

As soon as they got home, Lady Delacour sent her daughter to practise a
new lesson upon the piano forte. "And now sit down, my dear Belinda," said
she, "and satisfy my curiosity. It is the curiosity of a friend, not of an
impertinent busybody. Has Clarence declared himself? He chose an odd time
and place; but that is no matter; I forgive him, and so do you, I dare
say. But why do you tear that unfortunate carnation to pieces? Surely you
cannot be embarrassed in speaking to me! What's the matter? I once did
tell you, that I would not give up my claim to Clarence's adorations
during my life; but I intend to live a few years longer after the
amazonian operation is performed, you know; and I could not have the
conscience to keep you waiting whole years. It is better to do things with
a good grace, lest one should be forced at last to do them with an ill
grace. Therefore I give up all manner of claim to every thing
but--flattery! that of course you will allow me from poor Clarence. So now
do not begin upon another flower; but, without any farther superfluous
modesty, let me hear all the pretty things Clarence said or swore."

Whilst Belinda was pulling the carnation to pieces, she recollected what
Mr. Hervey had said to her about mysteries: his words still sounded in her
ear. "_I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish
mysteries--from the want of courage to speak the truth_." I will have the
courage to speak the truth, thought she, whatever it may cost me.

"The only pretty thing that Mr. Hervey said was, that he never saw any
woman who had so much prudence and so little art," said Belinda.

"A very pretty thing indeed, my dear! But it might have been said in open
court by your grandfather, or your great-grandfather. I am sorry, if that
was all, that Helena did not stay to hear such a charming moral
compliment--_Moralite a la glace_. The last thing I should have expected
in a _tete-a-tete_ with Clarence Hervey. Was it worth while to pull that
poor flower to pieces for such a pretty speech as this? And so that was
all?"

"No, not all: but you overpower me with your wit; and I cannot stand the
'lightning of your eyes.'"

"There!" said her ladyship, letting down her veil over her face, "the fire
of my eyes is not too much for you now."

"Helena was showing me Westall's drawing of Lady Anne Percival and her
children--"

"And Mr. Hervey wished that he was the father of such a charming group of
children, and you the mother--hey? was not that it? It was not put in such
plain terms, but that was the purport, I presume?"

"No, not at all; he said nothing about Lady Anne Percival's children,
but--"

"But--why then did you bring in her ladyship and her children? To gain
time?--Bad policy!--Never, whilst you live, when you have a story to tell,
bring in a parcel of people who have nothing to do with the beginning, the
middle, or the end of it. How could I suspect you of such false taste! I
really imagined these children were essential to the business; but I beg
pardon for giving you these elements of criticism. I assure you I
interrupt you, and talk on so fast, from pure good-nature, to give you
time to recollect yourself; for I know you've the worst of memories,
especially for what Clarence Hervey says. But come, my dear, dash into the
middle of things at once, in the true Epic style."

"Then to dash into the midst of things at once," said Miss Portman,
speaking very quick: "Mr. Hervey observed that Miss Delacour was growing
very fond of me."

"Miss Delacour, did you say?" cried her ladyship: "_Et puis_?"

At this instant Champfort opened the door, looked in, and seeing Lady
Delacour, immediately retired.

"Champfort, whom do you want--or what do you want?" said her ladyship.

"Miladi, c'est que--I did come from milord, to see if miladi and
mademoiselle were visible. I did tink miladi was not at home."

"You see I am at home, though," said her ladyship. "Has Lord Delacour any
business with me?"

"No, miladi: not with miladi," said Champfort; "it was with mademoiselle."

"With me, Monsieur Champfort? then you will be so good as to tell Lord
Delacour I am here."

"And that _I_ am not here, Champfort; for I must be gone to dress."

She rose hastily to leave the room, but Miss Portman caught her hand: "You
won't go, I hope, Lady Delacour," said she, "till I have finished my long
story?" Lady Delacour sat down again, ashamed of her own embarrassment.

Whether this be art, innocence, or assurance, thought she, I cannot tell;
but we shall see.

Lord Delacour now came in, with a half-unfolded newspaper, and a packet of
letters in his hand. He came to apologize to Miss Portman for having, by
mistake, broken the seal of a letter to her, which had been sent under
cover to him. He had simply asked Champfort whether the ladies were at
home, that he might not have the trouble of going up stairs if they were
out. Monsieur Champfort possessed, in an eminent degree, the mischievous
art of appearing mysterious about the simplest things in the world.

"Though I was so thoughtless as to break the seal before I looked at the
direction of the letter," said Lord Delacour, "I assure you I went no
farther than the first three words; for I knew 'my dear niece' could not
possibly mean me." He gave Miss Portman the letter, and left the room.
This explanation was perfectly satisfactory to Belinda; but Lady Delacour,
prejudiced by the hesitation of Champfort, could not help suspecting that
this letter was merely the ostensible cause of his lordship's visit.

"From my aunt Stanhope," said Miss Portman, as she opened her letter. She
folded it up again after glancing over the first page, and put it into her
pocket, colouring deeply.

All Lady Delacour's suspicions about Mrs. Stanhope's epistolary counsels
and secrets instantly recurred, with almost the force of conviction to her
mind.

"Miss Portman," said she, "I hope your politeness to me does not prevent
you from reading your letter? Some ceremonious people think it vastly rude
to read a letter in company; but I am not one of them: I can write whilst
you read, for I have fifty notes and more to answer. So pray read your
letter at your ease."

Belinda had but just unfolded her letter again, when Lord Delacour
returned, followed by Champfort, who brought with him a splendid
hammer-cloth.

"Here, my dear Lady Delacour," said his lordship, "is a little surprise
for you: here is a new hammer-cloth, of my bespeaking and taste, which I
hope you will approve of."

"Very handsome, upon my word!" said Lady Delacour, coldly, and she fixed
her eyes upon the fringe, which was black and orange: "Miss Portman's
taste, I see!"

"Did you not say black and orange fringe, my dear?"

"No. I said blue and white, my lord."

His lordship declared he did not know how the mistake had happened; it was
merely a mistake:--but her ladyship was convinced that it was done on
purpose. And she said to herself, "Miss Portman will order my liveries
next! I have not even the shadow of power left in my own house! I am not
treated with even a decent show of respect! But this shall go on till I
have full conviction of her views."

Dissembling her displeasure, she praised the hammer-cloth, and especially
the fringe. Lord Delacour retired satisfied; and Miss Portman sat down to
read the following letter from her aunt Stanhope.




CHAPTER XV.

JEALOUSY.


"Crescent, Bath, July--Wednesday.

"MY DEAR NIECE,

"I received safely the bank notes for my two hundred guineas, enclosed in
your last. But you should never trust unnecessarily in this manner to the
post--always, when you are obliged to send bank notes by post, cut them in
two, and send half by one post and half by another. This is what is done
by all prudent people. Prudence, whether in trifles or in matters of
consequence, can be learned only by experience (which is often too dearly
bought), or by listening, which costs nothing, to the suggestions of those
who have a thorough knowledge of the world.

"A report has just reached me concerning you and _a certain lord_, which
gives me the most heartfelt concern. I always knew, and told you, that
you were _a great favourite_ with the person in question. I depended on
your prudence, delicacy, and principles, to understand this hint properly,
and I trusted that you would conduct yourself accordingly. It is too
plain, (from the report alluded to,) that there has been some misconduct
or mis-management somewhere. The misconduct I cannot--the mis-management I
must, attribute to you, my dear; for let a man's admiration for any woman
be ever so great, unless she suffer herself to be dazzled by vanity, or
unless she be naturally of an inconsiderate temper, she can surely prevent
his partiality from becoming so glaring as to excite envy: envy is always
to be dreaded by handsome young women, as being, sooner or later,
infallibly followed by scandal. Of this, I fear, you have not been
sufficiently aware, and you see the consequences--consequences which, to a
female of genuine delicacy or of real good sense, must be extremely
alarming. Men of contracted minds and cold tempers, who are absolutely
incapable of feeling generous passion for our sex, are often unaccountably
ambitious to gain the reputation of being _well_ with any woman whose
beauty, accomplishments, or connexions, may have brought her into fashion.
Whatever affection may be pretended, this is frequently the _ultimate_ and
_sole_ object of these selfish creatures. Whether or not the person I have
in my eye deserves to be included in this class, I will not presume
positively to determine; but you, who have personal opportunities of
observation, may decide this point (if you have any curiosity on the
subject) by observing whether he most affects to pay his devoirs to you in
public or in private. If the latter be the case, it is the most dangerous;
because a man even of the most contracted understanding has always sense
or instinct enough to feel that the slightest taint in the reputation of
the woman who is, or who is to be, his wife, would affect his own private
peace, or his honour in the eyes of the world. A husband who has in a
first marriage been, as it is said, in constant fear both of matrimonial
subjugation and disgrace, would, in his choice of a second lady, be
peculiarly nice, and probably _tardy_. Any degree of favour that might
have been shown him, any report that may have been raised, and above all,
any restraint he might feel himself under from implied engagement, or from
the discovery or reputation of superior understanding and talents in the
object beloved, would operate infallibly against her, to the confusion of
all her plans, and the ruin at once of her reputation, her peace of mind,
and her hopes of an establishment. Nay, supposing the best that could
possibly happen--that, after playing with the utmost dexterity this
desperate game, the pool were absolutely your own; yet, if there were any
suspicions of unfair play buzzed about amongst the by-standers, you would
not in the main be a gainer; for my dear, without character, what is even
wealth, or all that wealth can bestow? I do not mean to trouble you with
stale wise sayings, which young people hate; nor musty morality, which is
seldom fit for use in the world, or which smells too much of books to be
brought into good company. This is not my way of giving advice; but I only
beg you to observe what actually passes before your eyes in the circle in
which we live. Ladies of the best families, with rank and fortune, and
beauty and fashion, and every thing in their favour, cannot (as yet in
this country) dispense with the strictest observance of the rules of
virtue and decorum. Some have fancied themselves raised so high above the
vulgar as to be in no danger from the thunder and lightning of public
opinion; but these ladies in the clouds have found themselves
mistaken--they have been blasted, and have fallen nobody knows where! What
is become of Lady ----, and the Countess of ----, and others I could
mention, who were as high as envy could look? I remember seeing the
Countess of ----, who was then the most beautiful creature my eyes ever
beheld, and the most admired that ever was heard of, come into the
Opera-house, and sit the whole night in her box without any woman's
speaking or courtesying to her, or taking any more notice of her than you
would of a post, or a beggar-woman. Even a coronet cannot protect a woman,
you see, from disgrace: if she falls, she and it, and all together, are
trampled under foot. But why should I address all this to my dear niece?
Whither have the terror and confusion I was thrown into by this strange
report about you and Lord ---- led me? And yet one cannot be too
cautious--'Ce n'est que le premier _mot_ qui coute'--Scandal never stops
after the first word, unless she be instantly gagged by a dexterous hand.
Nothing shall be wanting on my part, but you alone are the person who can
do any thing effectual Do not imagine that I would have you quit Lady
----; that is the first idea, I know, that will come into your silly
little head, but put it out directly. If you were upon this attack to quit
the field of battle, you yield the victory to your enemies. To leave Lady
----'s house would be folly and madness. As long as she is your friend, or
_appears_ such, all is safe; but any coolness on her part would, in the
present circumstances, be death to your reputation. And, even if you were
to leave her on the best terms possible, the malicious world would say
that you left her on the worst, and would assign as a reason the report
alluded to. People who have not yet believed it would then conclude that
it must be true; and thus by your cowardice you would furnish an
incontrovertible argument against your innocence. I therefore desire that
you will not, upon any account, think of coming home to me at present;
indeed, I hope your own good sense would prevent you from wishing it,
after the reasons that I have given. Far from quitting Lady ---- from
false delicacy, it is your business, from consideration for her peace, as
well as your own, to redouble your attentions to her in private, and,
above all things, to appear as much as possible with her in public. I am
glad to hear her health is so far reestablished, that she _can_ appear
again in public; her spirits, as you may hint, will be the better for a
little amusement. Luckily, you have it completely in your power to
convince her and all the world of the correctness of your mind. I believe
I certainly should have fainted, my dear, when I first heard this shocking
report, if I had not just afterward received a letter from Sir Philip
Baddely which revived me. His proposal at this crisis for you, my dear, is
a charming thing. You have nothing to do but to encourage his addresses
immediately,--the report dies away of itself, and all is just as your best
friends wish. Such an establishment for you, my dear, is indeed beyond
their most sanguine expectations. Sir Philip hints in his letter, that my
influence might be wanting with you in his favour; but this surely cannot
be. As I have told him, he has merely mistaken becoming female reserve for
a want of sensibility on your part, which would be equally unnatural and
absurd. Do you know, my dear, that Sir Philip Baddely has an estate of
fifteen thousand a-year in Wiltshire? and his uncle Barton's estate in
Norfolk will, in due time, pay his debts. Then, as to family--look in the
lists of baronets in your pocket-book; and surely, my love, an old
baronetage in actual possession is worth something more than the reversion
of a new coronet; supposing that such a thing could properly be thought
of, which Heaven forbid! So I see no possible objection to Sir Philip, my
dear Belinda! and I am sure you have too much candour and good sense to
make any childish or romantic difficulties. Sir Philip is not, I know, a
man of what you call genius. So much the better, my dear--those men of
genius are dangerous husbands; they have so many oddities and
eccentricities, there is no managing them, though they are mighty pleasant
men in company to enliven conversation; for example, your favourite,
Clarence Hervey. As it is well known he is not a marrying man, you never
can have thought of him. You are not a girl to expose yourself to the
ridicule, &c., of all your female acquaintance by romance and nonsense. I
cannot conceive that a niece of mine could degrade herself by a mean
prepossession for a man who has never made any declaration of his
attachment to her, and who, I am sure, feels no such attachment. That you
may not deceive yourself, it is fit I should tell you, what otherwise it
might not be so proper to mention to a young lady, that he keeps and has
kept a mistress for some years; and those who are most intimately in his
confidence have assured me that, if ever he marries any body, he will
marry this girl; which is not impossible, considering that she is, they
say, the most beautiful young creature that ever was seen, and he _a man
of genius_. If you have any sense or spirit, I have said enough. So
adieu!--Let me hear, by return of the post, that every thing is going on
as it should do. I am impatient to write to your sister Tollemache this
good news. I always foretold that my Belinda would marry better than her
sister, or any of her cousins, and take place of them all. Are not you
obliged to me for sending you this winter to town to Lady ----? It was an
admirable hit. Pray tell Lady Delacour, with my best compliments, that our
_aloe_ friend (her ladyship will understand me) cheated a gentleman of my
acquaintance the other day, at casino, out of seventy guineas. He hates
the sight of her odious red wig as much now as we always did. I knew, and
told Lady D----, as she will do me the justice to remember, that Mrs.----
cheated at play. What a contemptible character!--Pray, my dear, do not
forget to tell Lady Delacour, that I have a charming anecdote for her,
about another _friend_ of ours, who has lately gone over to the enemy. Has
her ladyship seen a manuscript that is handed about as a great secret, and
said to be by ----, a parallel between _our friend_ and the Chevalier
d'Eon? It is done with infinite wit and humour, in the manner of Plutarch.
I would send a copy, but am afraid my frank would be too heavy if I began
upon another sheet. So once more adieu, my dear niece! Write to me without
fail, and mention Sir Philip. I have written to him to give my
approbation, &c.

"Yours sincerely,

"SELINA STANHOPE."

"Mrs. Stanhope seems to have written you a volume instead of a letter,
Bliss Portman," cried Lady Delacour, as Belinda turned over the sheets of
her aunt's long epistle. She did not attempt to read it regularly through:
some passages here and there were sufficient to astonish and shock her
extremely. "No bad news, I hope?" said Lady Delacour, again looking up
from her writing at Belinda, who sat motionless, leaning her head upon her
hand, as if deep in thought, Mrs. Stanhope's unfolded letter hanging from
her hand. In the midst of the variety of embarrassing, painful, and
alarming feelings excited by this letter, she had sufficient strength of
mind to adhere to her resolution of speaking the exact truth to Lady
Delacour. When she was roused by her ladyship's question, "No bad news, I
hope, Miss Portman?" she instantly answered, with all the firmness she
could command. "Yes. My aunt has been alarmed by a strange report which I
heard myself for the first time this morning from Mr. Hervey. I am sure I
am much obliged to him for having the courage to speak the truth to me."
Here she repeated what Mr. Hervey had said to her. Lady Delacour never
raised her eyes whilst Belinda spoke, but went on scratching out some
words in what she was writing. Through the mask of paint which she wore no
change of colour could be visible; and as Belinda did not see the
expression of her ladyship's eyes, she could not in the least judge of
what was passing in her mind.

"Mr. Hervey has acted like a man of honour and sense," said Lady Delacour;
"but it is a pity, for your sake, he did not speak sooner--before this
report became so public--before it reached Bath, and your aunt. Though it
could not surprise her much, she has such a perfect knowledge of the
world, and ----"

Lady Delacour uttered these broken sentences in a voice of suppressed
anger; cleared her throat several times, and at last, unable to speak,
stopped short, and then began with much precipitation to put wafers into
several notes that she had been writing. So it has reached Bath, thought
she--the report is public! I never till now heard a hint of any such thing
except from Sir Philip Baddely; but it has doubtless been the common talk
of the town, and I am laughed at as a dupe and an idiot, as I am. And now,
when the thing can he concealed no longer, she comes to me with that face
of simplicity, and knowing my generous temper, throws herself on my mercy,
and trusts that her speaking to me with this audacious plainness will
convince me of her innocence. "You have acted in the most prudent manner
possible, Miss Portman," said her ladyship, as she went on sealing her
notes, "by speaking at once to me of this strange, scandalous, absurd
report. Do you act from your aunt Stanhope's advice, or entirely from your
own judgment and knowledge of my character?"

"From my own judgment and knowledge of your character, in which I hope--I
am not--I cannot be mistaken," said Belinda, looking at her with a mixture
of doubt and astonishment.

"No--you calculated admirably--'twas the best, the only thing you could
do. Only," said her ladyship, falling back in her chair with an hysteric
laugh, "only the blunder of Champfort, and the entrance of my Lord
Delacour, and the hammercloth with the orange and black fringe--forgive
me, my dear; for the soul of me I can't help laughing--it was rather
unlucky; so awkward, such a contretemps! But you," added she, wiping her
eyes, as if recovering from laughter, "you have such admirable presence of
mind, nothing disconcerts you! You are equal to all situations, and stand
in no need of such long letters of advice from your aunt Stanhope,"
pointing to the two folio sheets which lay at Belinda's feet.

The rapid, unconnected manner in which Lady Delacour spoke, the hurry of
her motions, the quick, suspicious, angry glances of her eye, her laugh,
her unintelligible words, all conspired at this moment to give Belinda the
idea that her intellects were suddenly disordered. She was so firmly
persuaded of her ladyship's utter indifference to Lord Delacour, that she
never conceived the possibility of her being actuated by the passion of
jealousy--by the jealousy of power--a species of jealousy which she had
never felt, and could not comprehend. But she had sometimes seen Lady
Delacour in starts of passion that seemed to border on insanity, and the
idea of her losing all command of her reason now struck Belinda with
irresistible force. She felt the necessity of preserving her own
composure; and with all the calmness that she could assume, she took up
her aunt Stanhope's letter, and looked for the passage in which Mrs.
Luttridge and Harriot Freke were mentioned. If I can turn the course of
Lady Delacour's mind, thought she, or catch her attention, perhaps she
will recover herself. "Here is a message to you, my dear Lady Delacour,"
cried she, "from my aunt Stanhope, about--about Mrs. Luttridge."

Miss Portman's hand trembled as she turned over the pages of the letter.
"I am all attention," said Lady Delacour, with a composed voice; "only
take care, don't make a mistake: I'm in no hurry; don't read any thing
Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to garble letters, almost as
dangerous as to snatch them out of a friend's hand, as I once did, you
know--but you need not now be under the least alarm."

Conscious that this letter was not fit for her ladyship to see, Belinda
neither offered to show it to her, nor attempted any apology for her
reserve and embarrassment, but hastily began to read the message relative
to Mrs. Luttridge; her voice gaining confidence as she went on, as she
observed that she had fixed Lady Delacour's attention, who now sat
listening to her, calm and motionless. But when Miss Portman came to the
words, "Do not forget to tell Lady D ----, that I have a charming anecdote
for her about another _friend_ of hers, who lately went over to the
enemy," her ladyship exclaimed with great vehemence, "_Friend_!--Harriot
Freke!--Yes, like all other friends--Harriot Freke!--What was she
compared to? 'Tis too much for me--too much!" and she put her hand to her
head.

"Compose yourself, my dear _friend_," said Belinda, in a calm, gentle
tone; and she went toward her with an intention of soothing her by
caresses; but, at her approach, Lady Delacour pushed the table on which
she had been writing from her with violence, started up, flung back the
veil which fell over her face as she rose, and darted upon Belinda a look,
which fixed her to the spot where she stood. It said, "Come not a step
nearer, at your peril!" Belinda's blood ran cold--she had no longer any
doubt that this was insanity. She shut the penknife which lay upon the
table, and put it into her pocket.

"Cowardly creature!" cried Lady Delacour, and her countenance changed to
the expression of ineffable contempt; "what is it you fear?"

"That you should injure yourself. Sit down--for Heaven's sake listen to
me, to your friend, to Belinda!"

"My friend! my Belinda!" cried Lady Delacour, and she turned from her, and
walked away some steps in silence; then suddenly clasping her hands, she
raised her eyes to heaven with a fervent but wild expression of devotion,
and exclaimed, "Great God of heaven, my punishment is just! the death of
Lawless is avenged. May the present agony of my soul expiate my folly! Of
guilt--deliberate guilt--of hypocrisy--treachery--I have not--oh, never
may I have--to repent!"

She paused--her eyes involuntarily returned upon Belinda. "Oh, Belinda!
You, whom I have so loved--so trusted!"

The tears rolled fast down her painted cheeks; she wiped them hastily
away, and so roughly, that her face became a strange and ghastly
spectacle. Unconscious of her disordered appearance, she rushed past
Belinda, who vainly attempted to stop her, threw up the sash, and
stretching herself far out of the window, gasped for breath. Miss Portman
drew her back, and closed the window, saying, "The rouge is all off your
face, my dear Lady Delacour; you are not fit to be seen. Sit down upon
this sofa, and I will ring for Marriott, and get some fresh rouge. Look at
your face in this glass--you see--"

"I see," interrupted Lady Delacour, looking full at Belinda, "that she who
I thought had the noblest of souls has the meanest! I see that she is
incapable of feeling. _Rouge! not fit to be seen_!--At such a time as
this, to talk to me in this manner! Oh, niece of Mrs. Stanhope!--dupe!--
dupe that I am!" She flung herself upon the sofa, and struck her forehead
with her hand violently several times. Belinda catching her arm, and
holding it with all her force, cried in a tone of authority, "Command
yourself, Lady Delacour, I conjure you, or you will go out of your senses;
and if you do, your secret will be discovered by the whole world."

"Hold me not--you have no right," cried Lady Delacour, struggling to free
her hand. "All-powerful as you are in this house, you have no longer any
power over me! I am not going out of my senses! You cannot get me into
Bedlam, all-powerful, all-artful as you are. You have done enough to drive
me mad--but I am not mad. No wonder you cannot believe me--no wonder you
are astonished at the strong expression of feelings that are foreign to
your nature--no wonder that you mistake the writhings of the heart, the
agony of a generous soul, for madness! Look not so terrified; I will do
you no injury. Do not you hear that I can lower my voice?--do not you see
that I can be calm? Could Mrs. Stanhope herself--could _you_, Miss
Portman, speak in a softer, milder, more polite, more proper tone than I
do now? Are you pleased, are you satisfied?"

"I am better satisfied--a little better satisfied," said Belinda.

"That's well; but still you tremble. There's not the least occasion for
apprehension--you see I can command myself, and smile upon you."

"Oh, do not smile in that horrid manner!"

"Why not?--'Horrid!--Don't you love deceit?"

"I detest it from my soul."

"Indeed!" said Lady Delacour, still speaking in the same low, soft,
unnatural voice: "then why do you practise it, my love?"

"I never practised it for a moment--I am incapable of deceit. When you are
_really_ calm, when you can _really_ command yourself, you will do me
justice, Lady Delacour; but now it is my business, if I can, to bear with
you."

"You are goodness itself, and gentleness, and prudence personified. You
know perfectly how to _manage_ a friend, whom you fear you have driven
just to the verge of madness. But tell me, good, gentle, prudent Miss
Portman, why need you dread so much that I should go mad? You know, if I
went mad, nobody would mind, nobody would believe whatever I say--I should
be no evidence against you, and I should be out of your way sufficiently,
shouldn't I? And you would have all the power in your own hands, would not
you? And would not this be almost as well as if I were dead and buried?
No; your calculations are better than mine. The poor mad wife would still
be in your way, would yet stand between you and the fond object of your
secret soul--a coronet!"

As she pronounced the word _coronet_, she pointed to a coronet set in
diamonds on her watch-case, which lay on the table. Then suddenly seizing
the watch, she dashed it upon the marble hearth with all her force--"Vile
bauble!" cried she; "must I lose my only friend for such a thing as you?
Oh, Belinda! do you see that a coronet cannot confer happiness?"

"I have seen it long: I pity you from the bottom of my soul," said
Belinda, bursting into tears.

"Pity me not. I cannot endure your pity, treacherous woman!" cried Lady
Delacour, and she stamped with a look of rage--"most perfidious of women!"

"Yes, call me perfidious, treacherous--stamp at me--say, do what you will;
I can and will bear it all--all patiently; for I am innocent, and you are
mistaken and unhappy," said Belinda. "You will love me when you return to
your senses; then how can I be angry with you?"

"Fondle me not," said Lady Delacour, starting back from Belinda's
caresses: "do not degrade yourself to no purpose--I never more can be your
dupe. Your protestations of innocence are wasted on me--I am not so blind
as you imagine--dupe as you think me, I have seen much in silence. The
whole world, you find, suspects you now. To save your reputation, you want
my friendship--you want--"

"I want nothing from you, Lady Delacour," said Belinda. "_You have
suspected me long in silence!_ then I have mistaken your character--I can
love you no longer. Farewell for ever! Find another--a better friend."

She walked away from Lady Delacour with proud indignation; but, before she
reached the door, she recollected her promise to remain with this
unfortunate woman.

Is a dying woman, in the paroxysm of insane passion, a fit object of
indignation? thought Belinda, and she stopped short. "No, Lady Delacour,"
cried she, "I will not yield to my humour--I will not listen to my pride.
A few words said in the heat of passion shall not make me forget myself or
you. You have given me your confidence; I am grateful for it. I cannot,
will not desert you: my promise is sacred."

"Your promise!" said Lady Delacour, contemptuously. "I absolve you from
your promise. Unless you find it _convenient_ to yourself to remember it,
pray let it be forgotten; and if I must die--"

At this instant the door opened suddenly, and little Helena came in
singing--

    "'Merrily, merrily shall we live now,
    Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.'

What comes next, Miss Portman?"

Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face, and rushed out of the
room.

"What is the matter?--Is mamma ill?"

"Yes, my dear," said Belinda. But at this instant she heard the sound of
Lord Delacour's voice upon the stairs; she broke from the little girl, and
with the greatest precipitation retreated to her own room.

She had not been alone above an hour before Marriott knocked at the door.

"Miss Portman, you don't know how late it is. Lady Singleton and the Miss
Singletons are come. But, merciful heaven!" exclaimed Marriott, as she
entered the room, "what is all this packing up? What is this trunk?"

"I am going to Oakly-park with Lady Anne Percival," said Belinda, calmly.

"I thought there was something wrong; my mind misgave me all the time I
was dressing my lady,--she was in such a flutter, and never spoke to me.
I'd lay my life this is, some way or other, Mr. Champfort's doings. But,
good dear Miss Portman, can you leave my poor lady when she wants you so
much; and I'll take upon me to say, ma'am, loves you so much at the bottom
of her heart? Dear me, how your face is flushed! Pray let me pack up these
things, if it must be. But I do hope, if it be possible, that you should
stay. However, I've no business to speak. I beg pardon for being so
impertinent: I hope you won't take it ill,--it is only from regard to my
poor lady I ventured to speak."

"Your regard to your lady deserves the highest approbation, Marriott,"
said Belinda. "It is impossible that I should stay with her any longer.
When I am gone, good Marriott, and when her health and strength decline,
your fidelity and your services will be absolutely necessary to your
mistress; and from what I have seen of the goodness of your heart, I am
convinced that the more she is in want of you, the more _respectful_ will
be your attention."

Marriott answered only by her tears, and went on packing up in a great
hurry.

Nothing could equal Lady Delacour's astonishment when she learnt from
Marriott that Miss Portman was actually preparing to leave the house.
After a moment's reflection, however, she persuaded herself that this was
only a new artifice to work upon her affections; that Belinda did not mean
to leave her; but that she would venture all lengths, in hopes of being at
the last moment pressed to stay. Under this persuasion, Lady Delacour
resolved to disappoint her expectations: she determined to meet her with
that polite coldness which would best become her own dignity, and which,
without infringing the laws of hospitality, would effectually point out to
the world that Lady Delacour was no dupe, and that Miss Portman was an
unwelcome inmate in her house.

The power of assuming gaiety when her heart was a prey to the most
poignant feelings, she had completely acquired by long practice. With the
promptitude of an actress, she could instantly appear upon the stage, and
support a character totally foreign to her own. The loud knocks at the
door, which announced the arrival of company, were signals that operated
punctually upon her associations; and to this species of conventional
necessity her most violent passions submitted with magical celerity. Fresh
rouged, and beautifully dressed, she was performing her part to a
brilliant audience in her drawing-room when Belinda entered. Belinda
beheld her with much astonishment, but more pity.

"Miss Portman," said her ladyship, turning carelessly towards her, "where
do you buy your rouge?--Lady Singleton, would you rather at this moment be
mistress of the philosopher's stone, or have a patent for rouge that will
come and go like Miss Portman's?--Apropos! have you read St. Leon?" Her
ladyship was running on to a fresh train of ideas, when a footman
announced the arrival of Lady Anne Percival's carriage; and Miss Portman
rose to depart.

"You dine with Lady Anne, Miss Portman, I understand?--My compliments to
her ladyship, and my duty to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and her macaw. _Au
revoir_! Though you talk of running away from me to Oakly-park, I am sure
you will do no such cruel thing. I am, with all due humility, so confident
of the irresistible attractions of this house, that I defy Oakly-park and
all its charms. So, Miss Portman, instead of adieu, I shall only say, _au
revoir!_"

"Adieu, Lady Delacour!" said Belinda, with a look and tone which struck
her ladyship to the heart. All her suspicions, all her pride, all her
affected gaiety vanished; her presence of mind forsook her, and for some
moments she stood motionless and powerless. Then recollecting herself, she
flew after Miss Portman, abruptly stopped her at the head of the stairs,
and exclaimed, "My dearest Belinda, are you gone?--My best, my only
friend!--Say you are not gone for ever!--Say you will return!"

"Adieu!" repeated Belinda. It was all she could say; she broke from Lady
Delacour, and hurried out of the house with the strongest feeling of
compassion for this unhappy woman, but with an unaltered sense of the
propriety and necessity of her own firmness.




CHAPTER XVI.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.


There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness
with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda, that was peculiarly
agreeable to her agitated and harassed mind.

"You see, Lady Anne," said Belinda, "that I come to you at last, after
having so often refused your kind invitations."

"So you surrender yourself at discretion, just when I was going to raise
the siege in despair," said Lady Anne: "now I may make my own terms; and
the only terms I shall impose are, that you will stay at Oakly-park with
us, as long as we can make it agreeable to you, and no longer. Whether
those who cease to please, or those who cease to be pleased, are most to
blame,[6] it may sometimes be difficult to determine; so difficult, that
when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps had better
part than venture upon the discussion."

Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something disagreeable
had passed between Lady Delacour and Belinda; but she was not troubled
with the disease of idle curiosity, and her example prevailed upon Mrs.
Margaret Delacour, who dined with her, to refrain from all questions and
comments.

The prejudice which this lady had conceived against our heroine, as being
a niece of Mrs. Stanhope's, had lately been vanquished by the favourable
representations of her conduct which she had heard from her nephew, and by
the kindness that Belinda had shown to little Helena.

"Madam," said Mrs. Delacour, addressing herself to Miss Portman with some
formality, but much dignity, "permit me, as one of my Lord Delacour's
nearest relations now living, to return you my thanks for having, as my
nephew informs me, exerted your influence over Lady Delacour for the
happiness of his family. My little Helena, I am sure, feels her
obligations towards you, and I rejoice that I have had an opportunity of
expressing, in person, my sense of what our family owes to Miss Portman.
As to the rest, her own heart will reward her. The praise of the world is
but an inferior consideration. However, it deserves to be mentioned, as an
instance of the world's candour, and for the singularity of the case, that
every body agrees in speaking well even of so handsome a young lady as
Miss Portman."

"She must have had extraordinary prudence," said Lady Anne; "and the world
does justly to reward it with extraordinary esteem."

Belinda, with equal pleasure and surprise, observed that all this was said
sincerely, and that the report, which she had feared was public, had never
reached Mrs. Delacour or Lady Anne Percival.

In fact, it was known and believed only by those who had been prejudiced
by the malice or folly of Sir Philip Baddely. Piqued by the manner in
which his addresses had been received by Belinda, he readily listened to
the comfortable words of his valet de chambre, who assured him that he had
it from the best possible authority (Lord Delacour's own gentleman, Mr.
Champfort), that his lordship was deeply _taken_ with Miss Portman--that
the young lady managed every thing in the house--that she had been very
prudent, to be sure, and had refused large presents--but that there was
no doubt of her becoming Lady Delacour, if ever his lordship should be at
liberty. Sir Philip was the person who mentioned this to Clarence Hervey,
and Sir Philip was the person who hinted it to Mrs. Stanhope, in the very
letter which he wrote to implore her influence in favour of his own
proposal. This manoeuvring lady represented this report as being
universally known and believed, in hopes of frightening her niece into an
immediate match with the baronet. In the whole extent of Mrs. Stanhope's
politic imagination, she had never foreseen the possibility of her niece's
speaking the simple truth to Lady Delacour, and she had never guarded
against this danger. She never thought of Belinda's mentioning this report
to her ladyship, because she would never have dealt so openly, had she
been in the place of her niece. Thus her art and falsehood operated
against her own views, and produced consequences diametrically opposite to
her expectations. It was her exaggerations that made Lady Delacour
believe, when Belinda repeated what she had said, that this report was
universally known and credited; her own suspicions were by these means
again awakened, and her jealousy and rage were raised to such a pitch,
that, no longer mistress of herself, she insulted her friend and guest.
Miss Portman was then obliged to do the very thing that Mrs. Stanhope most
dreaded--to leave Lady Delacour's house and all its advantages. As to Sir
Philip Baddely, Belinda never thought of him from the moment she read her
aunt's letter, till after she had left her ladyship; her mind was firmly
decided upon this subject; yet she could not help fearing that her aunt
would not understand her reasons, or approve her conduct. She wrote to
Mrs. Stanhope in the most kind and respectful manner; assured her that
there had been no foundation whatever for the report which had produced so
much uneasiness; that Lord Delacour had always treated her with politeness
and good-nature, but that such thoughts or views as had been attributed to
him, she was convinced had never entered his lordship's mind; that hearing
of the publicity of this report had, however, _much affected_ Lady D----.
"I have, therefore," said Belinda, "thought it prudent to quit her
ladyship, and to accept of an invitation from Lady Anne Percival to
Oakly-park. I hope, my dear aunt, that you will not be displeased by my
leaving town without seeing Sir Philip Baddely again. Our meeting could
indeed answer no purpose, as it is entirely out of my power to return his
partiality. Of his character, temper, and manners, I know enough to be
convinced, that our union could tend only to make us both miserable. After
what I have seen, nothing can ever tempt me to marry from any of the
common views of interest or ambition."

On this subject Belinda, though she declared her own sentiments with firm
sincerity, touched as slightly as she could, because she anxiously wished
to avoid all appearance of _braving_ the opinions of an aunt to whom she
was under obligations. She was tempted to pass over in silence all that
part of Mrs. Stanhope's letter which related to Clarence Hervey; but upon
reflection, she determined to conquer her repugnance to speak of him, and
to make perfect sincerity the steady rule of her conduct. She therefore
acknowledged to her aunt, that of all the persons she had hitherto seen,
this gentleman was the most agreeable to her; but at the same time she
assured her, that the refusal of Sir Philip Baddely was totally
independent of all thoughts of Mr. Hervey--that, before she had received
her aunt's letter, circumstances had convinced her that Mr. Hervey was
attached to another woman. She concluded by saying, that she had neither
romantic hopes nor wishes, and that her affections were at her own
command.

Belinda received the following angry answer from Mrs. Stanhope:--

"Henceforward, Belinda, you may manage your own affairs as you think
proper; I shall never more interfere with my advice. Refuse whom you
please--go where you please--get what friends, and what admirers, and what
establishment you can--I have nothing more to do with it--I will never
more undertake the management of young people. There's your sister
Tollemache has made a pretty return for all my kindness! she is going to
be parted from her husband, and basely throws all the blame upon me. But
'tis the same with all of you. There's your cousin Joddrell refused me a
hundred guineas last week, though the piano-forte and harp I bought for
her before she was married stood me in double that sum, and are now
useless lumber on my hands; and she never could have had Joddrell without
them, as she knows as well as I do. As for Mrs. Levit, she never writes to
me, and takes no manner of notice of me. But this is no matter, for her
notice can be of no consequence now to any body. Levit has run out every
thing he had in the world!--All his fine estates advertised in to-day's
paper--an execution in the House, I'm told. I expect that she will have
the assurance to come to me in her distress: but she shall find my doors
shut, I promise her. Your cousin Valleton's match has, through her own
folly, turned out like all the rest. She, her husband, and all his
relations are at daggers-drawing; and Valleton will die soon, and won't
leave her a farthing in his will, I foresee, and all the fine Valleton
estate goes to God knows whom!

"If she had taken my advice after marriage as before, it would have been
all her own at this instant. But the passions run away with people, and
they forget every thing--common sense, gratitude, and all--as you do,
Belinda. Clarence Hervey will never think of you, and I give you up!--Now
manage for yourself as you please, and as you can! I'll have nothing more
to do with the affairs of young ladies who will take no advice.

"SELINA STANHOPE.

"P. S. If you return directly to Lady Delacour's, and marry Sir Philip
Baddely, I will forgive the past."

The regret which Belinda felt at having grievously offended her aunt was
somewhat alleviated by the reflection that she had acted with integrity
and prudence. Thrown off her guard by anger, Mrs. Stanhope had
inadvertently furnished her niece with the best possible reasons against
following her advice with regard to Sir Philip Baddely, by stating that
her sister and cousins, who had married with mercenary views, had made
themselves miserable, and had shown their aunt neither gratitude nor
respect.

The tranquillity of Belinda's mind was gradually restored by the society
that she enjoyed at Oakly-park. She found herself in the midst of a large
and cheerful family, with whose domestic happiness she could not forbear
to sympathize. There was an affectionate confidence, an unconstrained
gaiety in this house, which forcibly struck her, from its contrast with
what she had seen at Lady Delacour's. She perceived that between Mr.
Percival and Lady Anne there was a union of interests, occupations, taste,
and affection. She was at first astonished by the openness with which they
talked of their affairs in her presence; that there were no family
secrets, nor any of those petty mysteries which arise from a discordance
of temper or struggle for power. In conversation, every person expressed
without constraint their wishes and opinions; and wherever these differed,
reason and the general good were the standards to which they appealed. The
elder and younger part of the family were not separated from each other;
even the youngest child in the house seemed to form part of the society,
to have some share and interest in the general occupations or amusements
The children were treated neither as slaves nor as playthings, but as
reasonable creatures; and the ease with which they were managed, and with
which they managed themselves, surprised Belinda; for she heard none of
that continual lecturing which goes forward in some houses, to the great
fatigue and misery of all the parties concerned, and of all the
spectators. Without force or any factitious excitements, the taste for
knowledge, and the habits of application, were induced by example, and
confirmed by sympathy. Mr. Percival was a man of science and literature,
and his daily pursuits and general conversation were in the happiest
manner instructive and interesting to his family. His knowledge of the
world, and his natural gaiety of disposition, rendered his conversation
not only useful, but in the highest degree amusing. From the merest
trifles he could lead to some scientific fact, some happy literary
allusion, or philosophical investigation.

Lady Anne Percival had, without any pedantry or ostentation, much accurate
knowledge, and a taste for literature, which made her the chosen companion
of her husband's understanding, as well as of his heart. He was not
obliged to reserve his conversation for friends of his own sex, nor was he
forced to seclude himself in the pursuit of any branch of knowledge; the
partner of his warmest affections was also the partner of his most serious
occupations; and her sympathy and approbation, and the daily sense of her
success in the education of their children, inspired him with a degree of
happy social energy, unknown to the selfish solitary votaries of avarice
and ambition.

In this large and happy family there was a variety of pursuits. One of the
boys was fond of chemistry, another of gardening; one of the daughters had
a talent for painting, another for music; and all their acquirements and
accomplishments contributed to increase their mutual happiness, for there
was no envy or jealousy amongst them.

Those who unfortunately have never enjoyed domestic happiness, such as we
have just described, will perhaps suppose the picture to be visionary and
romantic; there are others--it is hoped many others--who will feel that it
is drawn from truth and real life. Tastes that have been vitiated by the
stimulus of dissipation might, perhaps, think these simple pleasures
insipid.

Every body must ultimately judge of what makes them happy, from the
comparison of their own feelings in different situations. Belinda was
convinced by this comparison, that domestic life was that which could
alone make her really and permanently happy. She missed none of the
pleasures, none of the gay company, to which she had been accustomed at
Lady Delacour's. She was conscious, at the end of each day, that it had
been agreeably spent; yet there were no extraordinary exertions made to
entertain her; every thing seemed in its natural course, and so did her
mind. Where there was so much happiness, no want of what is called
_pleasure_ was ever experienced. She had not been at Oakly-park a week
before she forgot that it was within a few miles of Harrowgate, and she
never once recollected her vicinity to this fashionable water-drinking
place for a month afterwards.

"Impossible!" some young ladies will exclaim. We hope others will feel
that it was perfectly natural. But to deal fairly with our readers, we
must not omit to mention a certain Mr. Vincent, who came to Oakly-park
during the first week of Belinda's visit, and who stayed there during the
whole succeeding month of felicity. Mr. Vincent was a creole; he was about
two-and-twenty: his person and manners were striking and engaging; he was
tall, and remarkably handsome; he had large dark eyes, an aquiline nose,
fine hair, and a manly sunburnt complexion; his countenance was open and
friendly, and when he spoke upon any interesting subject, it lighted up,
and became full of fire and animation. He used much gesture in
conversation; he had not the common manners of young men who are, or who
aim at being thought, fashionable, but he was perfectly at ease in
company, and all that was uncommon about him appeared foreign. He had a
frank, ardent temper, incapable of art or dissimulation, and so
unsuspicious of all mankind, that he could scarcely believe falsehood
existed in the world, even after he had himself been its dupe. He was in
extreme astonishment at the detection of any species of baseness in a
_gentleman_; for he considered honour and generosity as belonging
indefeasibly, if not exclusively, to the privileged orders. His notions of
virtue were certainly aristocratic in the extreme, but his ambition was to
entertain such only as would best support and dignify an aristocracy. His
pride was magnanimous, not insolent; and his social prejudices were such
as, in some degree, to supply the place of the power and habit of
reasoning, in which he was totally deficient. One principle of philosophy
he practically possessed in perfection; he enjoyed the present,
undisturbed by any unavailing regret for the past, or troublesome
solicitude about the future. All the goods of life he tasted with
epicurean zest; all the evils he bore with stoical indifference. The mere
pleasure of existence seemed to keep him in perpetual good humour with
himself and others; and his never-failing flow of animal spirits
exhilarated even the most phlegmatic. To persons of a cold and reserved
temper he sometimes appeared rather too much of an egotist: for he talked
with fluent enthusiasm of the excellent qualities and beauties of whatever
he loved, whether it were his dog, his horse, or his country: but this was
not the egotism of vanity; it was the overflowing of an affectionate
heart, confident of obtaining sympathy from his fellow-creatures, because
conscious of feeling it for all that existed.

He was as grateful as he was generous; and though high-spirited and
impatient of restraint, he would submit with affectionate gentleness to
the voice of a friend, or listen with deference to the counsel of those in
whose superior judgment he had confidence. Gratitude, respect, and
affection, all conspired to give Mr. Percival the strongest power over his
soul. Mr. Percival had been a guardian and a father to him. His own
father, an opulent merchant, on his death-bed requested that his son, who
was then about eighteen, might be immediately sent to England for the
advantages of a European education. Mr. Percival, who had a regard for the
father, arising from circumstances which it is not here necessary to
explain, accepted the charge of young Vincent, and managed so well, that
his ward when he arrived at the age of twenty-one did not feel relieved
from any restraint. On the contrary, his attachment to his guardian
increased from that period, when the laws gave him full command over his
fortune and his actions. Mr. Vincent had been at Harrowgate for some time
before Mr. Percival came into the country; but as soon as he heard of Mr.
Percival's arrival, he left half finished a game of billiards, of which,
by-the-bye, he was extremely fond, to pay his respects at Oakly-park. At
the first sight of Belinda, he did not seem much struck with her
appearance; perhaps, from his thinking that there was too little languor
in her eyes, and too much colour in her cheeks; he confessed that she was
graceful, but her motions were not quite slow enough to please him.

It is somewhat singular that Lady Delacour's faithful friend, Harriot
Freke, should be the cause of Mr. Vincent's first fixing his favourable
attention on Miss Portman.

He had a black servant of the name of Juba, who was extremely attached to
him: he had known Juba from a boy, and had brought him over with him when
he first came to England, because the poor fellow begged so earnestly to
go with young massa. Juba had lived with him ever since, and accompanied
him wherever he went. Whilst he was at Harrowgate, Mr. Vincent lodged in
the same house with Mrs. Freke. Some dispute arose between their servants,
about the right to a coach-house, which each party claimed as exclusively
their own. The master of the house was appealed to by Juba, who sturdily
maintained his massa's right; he established it, and rolled his massa's
curricle into the coach-house in triumph. Mrs. Freke, who heard and saw
the whole transaction from her window, said, or swore, that she would make
Juba repent of what she called his insolence. The threat was loud enough
to reach his ears, and he looked up in astonishment to hear such a voice
from a woman; but an instant afterwards he began to sing very gaily, as he
jumped into the curricle to turn the cushions, and then danced himself up
and down by the springs, as if rejoicing in his victory. A second and a
third time Mrs. Freke repeated her threat, confirming it by an oath, and
then violently shut down the window and disappeared. Mr. Vincent, to whom
Juba, with much simplicity, expressed his aversion of the _man-woman_ who
lived in the house with them, laughed at the odd manner in which the black
imitated her voice and gesture, but thought no more of the matter. Some
time afterward, however, Juba's spirits forsook him; he was never heard to
sing or to whistle, he scarcely ever spoke even to his master, who was
much surprised by this sudden change from gaiety and loquacity to
melancholy taciturnity. Nothing could draw from the poor fellow any
explanation of the cause of this alteration in his humour; and though he
seemed excessively grateful for the concern which his master showed about
his health, no kindness or amusement could restore him to his wonted
cheerfulness. Mr. Vincent knew that he was passionately fond of music; and
having heard him once express a wish for a tambourine, he gave him one:
but Juba never played upon it, and his spirits seemed every day to grow
worse and worse. This melancholy lasted during the whole time that he
remained at Harrowgate, but from the first day of his arrival at
Oakly-park he began to mend: after he had been there a week, he was heard
to sing, and whistle, and talk as he used to do, and his master
congratulated him upon his recovery. One evening his master asked him to
go back to Harrowgate for his tambourine, as little Charles Percival
wished to hear him play upon it. This simple request had a wonderful
effect upon poor Juba; he began to tremble from head to foot, his eyes
became fixed, and he stood motionless; after some time, he suddenly
clasped his hands, fell upon his knees, and exclaimed:

"Oh, massa, Juba die! If Juba go back, Juba die!" and he wiped away the
drops that stood upon his forehead. "But me will go, if massa bid--me will
die!"

Mr. Vincent began to imagine that the poor fellow was out of his senses.
He assured him, with the greatest kindness, that he would almost as soon
hazard his own life as that of such a faithful, affectionate servant; but
he pressed him to explain what possible danger he dreaded from returning
to Harrowgate. Juba was silent, as if afraid to speak--"Don't fear to
speak to me," said Mr. Vincent; "I will defend you: if anybody have
injured you, or if you dread that any body will injure you, trust to me; I
will protect you."

"Ah, massa, you no can! Me die, if me go back! Me no can say word more;"
and he put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head. Mr. Vincent knew
that Juba was excessively superstitious; and convinced, that, if his mind
were not already deranged, it would certainly become so, were any secret
terror thus to prey upon his imagination, he assumed a very grave
countenance, and assured him, that he should be extremely displeased if he
persisted in this foolish and obstinate silence. Overcome by this, Juba
burst into tears, and answered:

"Den me will tell all."

This conversation passed before Miss Portman and Charles Percival, who
were walking in the park with Mr. Vincent, at the time he met Juba and
asked him to go for the tambourine. When he came to the words, "Me will
tell all," he made a sign that he wished to tell it to his master alone.
Belinda and the little boy walked on, to leave him at liberty to speak;
and then, though with a sort of reluctant horror, he told that the figure
of an old woman, all in flames, had appeared to him in his bedchamber at
Harrowgate every night, and that he was sure she was one of the
obeah-women of his own country, who had pursued him to Europe to revenge
his having once, when he was a child, trampled upon an egg-shell that
contained some of her poisons. The extreme absurdity of this story made
Mr. Vincent burst out a laughing; but his humanity the next instant made
him serious; for the poor victim of superstitious terror, after having
revealed what, according to the belief of his country, it is death to
mention, fell senseless on the ground. When he came to himself, he calmly
said, that he knew he must now die, for that the obeah-women never forgave
those that talked of them or their secrets; and, with a deep groan, he
added, that he wished he might die before night, that he might not see
_her_ again. It was in vain to attempt to reason him out of the idea that
he had actually seen this apparition: his account of it was, that it first
appeared to him in the coach-house one night, when he went thither in the
dark--that he never afterwards went to the coach-house in the dark--but
that the same figure of an old woman, all in flames, appeared at the foot
of his bed every night whilst he stayed at Harrowgate; and that he was
then persuaded she would never let him escape from her power till she had
killed him. That since he had left Harrowgate, however, she had not
tormented him, for he had never seen her, and he was in hopes that she had
forgiven him; but that now he was sure of her vengeance for having spoken
of her.

Mr. Vincent knew the astonishing power which the belief in this species
of sorcery[7] has over the minds of the Jamaica negroes; they pine and
actually die away from the moment they fancy themselves under the
malignant influence of these witches. He almost gave poor Juba over for
lost. The first person that he happened to meet after his conversation
was Belinda, to whom he eagerly related it, because he had observed,
that she had listened with much attention and sympathy to the beginning
of the poor fellow's story. The moment that she heard of the flaming
apparition, she recollected having seen a head drawn in phosphorus,
which one of the children had exhibited for her amusement, and it
occurred to her that, perhaps, some imprudent or ill-natured person
might have terrified the ignorant negro by similar means. When she
mentioned this to Mr. Vincent, he recollected the threat that had been
thrown out by Mrs. Freke, the day that Juba had taken possession of the
disputed coach-house; and from the character of this lady, Belinda
judged that she would be likely to play such a trick, and to call it, as
usual, fun or frolic. Miss Portman suggested that one of the children
should show him the phosphorus, and should draw some ludicrous figure
with it in his presence. This was done, and it had the effect that she
expected. Juba, familiarized by degrees with the object of his secret
horror, and convinced that no obeah-woman was exercising over him her
sorceries, recovered his health and spirits. His gratitude to Miss
Portman, who was the immediate cause of his cure, was as simple and
touching as it was lively and sincere. This was the circumstance which
first turned Mr. Vincent's attention towards Belinda. Upon examining the
room in which the negro used to sleep at Harrowgate, the strong smell of
phosphorus was perceived, and part of the paper was burnt on the very
spot where he had always seen the figure, so that he was now perfectly
convinced that this trick had been purposely played to frighten him, in
revenge for his having kept possession of the coach-house.

Mrs. Freke, when she found herself detected, gloried in the jest, and told
the story as a good joke wherever she went--triumphing in the notion, that
it was she who had driven both _master and man_ from Harrowgate.

The exploit was, however, by no means agreeable in its consequences to her
friend Mrs. Luttridge, who was now at Harrowgate. For reasons of her own,
she was very anxious to fix Mr. Vincent in her society, and she was much
provoked by Mrs. Freke's conduct. The ladies came to high words upon the
occasion, and an irreparable breach would have ensued had not Mrs. Freke,
in the midst of her rage, recollected Mrs. Luttridge's electioneering
interest: and suddenly changing her tone, she declared that "she was
really sorry to have driven Mr. Vincent from Harrowgate; that her only
intention was to get rid of his black; she would lay any wager, that, with
Mrs. Luttridge's assistance, they could soon get the gentleman back
again;" and she proposed, as a certain method of fixing Mr. Vincent in
Mrs. Luttridge's society, to invite Belinda to Harrowgate.

"You may be sure," said Mrs. Freke, "that she must by this time be
cursedly tired of her visit to those stupid good people at Oakly-park, and
never woman _wanted_ an excuse to do any thing she liked: so trust to her
own ingenuity to make some decent apology to the Percivals for running
away from them. As to Vincent, you may be sure Belinda Portman is his only
inducement for staying with that precious family-party; and if we have her
we have him. Now we can be sure of her, for she has just quarrelled with
our dear Lady Delacour. I had the whole story from my maid, who had it
from Champfort. Lady Delacour and she are at daggers-drawing, and it will
be delicious to her to hear her ladyship handsomely abused. We are the
declared enemies of her enemy, so we must be her friends. Nothing unites
folk so quickly and so solidly, as hatred of some common foe."

This argument could not fail to convince Mrs. Luttridge, and the next day
Mrs. Freke commenced her operations. She drove in her _unicorn_ to
Oakly-park to pay Miss Portman a visit. She had no acquaintance either
with Mr. Percival or Lady Anne, and she had always treated Belinda, when
she met her in town, rather cavalierly, as an humble companion of Lady
Delacour. But it cost Mrs. Freke nothing to change her tone: she was one
of those ladies who can remember or forget people, be perfectly familiar
or strangely rude, just as it suits the convenience, fashion, or humour of
the minute.




CHAPTER XVII.

RIGHTS OF WOMAN.


Belinda was alone, and reading, when Mrs. Freke dashed into the room.

"How do, dear creature?" cried she, stepping up to her, and shaking hands
with her boisterously--"How do?--Glad to see you, faith!--Been long
here?--Tremendously hot to-day!"

She flung herself upon the sofa beside Belinda, threw her hat upon the
table, and then continued speaking.

"And how d'ye go on here, poor child?--Gad! I'm glad you're
alone--expected to find you encompassed by a whole host of the righteous.
Give me credit for my courage in coming to deliver you out of their hands.
Luttridge and I had such compassion upon you, when we heard you were close
prisoner here! I swore to set the distressed damsel free, in spite of all
the dragons in Christendom; so let me carry you off in triumph in my
unicorn, and leave these good people to stare when they come home from
their sober walk, and find you gone. There's nothing I like so much as to
make good people stare--I hope you're of my way o' thinking---you don't
look as if you were, though; but I never mind young ladies' looks--always
give the lie to their thoughts. Now we talk o'looks--never saw you look so
well in my life--as handsome as an angel! And so much the better for me.
Do you know, I've a bet of twenty guineas on your head--on your face, I
mean. There's a young bride at Harrowgate, Lady H----, they're all mad
about her; the men swear she's the handsomest woman in England, and I
swear I know one ten times as handsome. They've dared me to make good my
word, and I've pledged myself to produce my beauty at the next ball, and
to pit her against their belle for any money. Most votes carry it. I'm
willing to double my bet since I've seen you again. Come, had not we best
be off? Now don't refuse me and make speeches--you know that's all
nonsense--I'll take all the blame upon myself."

Belinda, who had not been suffered to utter a word whilst Mrs. Freke ran
on in this strange manner, looked in unfeigned astonishment; but when she
found herself seized and dragged towards the door, she drew back with a
degree of gentle firmness that astonished Mrs. Freke. With a smiling
countenance, but a steady tone, she said, "that she was sorry Mrs. Freke's
knight-errantry should not be exerted in a better cause, for that she was
neither a prisoner, nor a distressed damsel."

"And will you make me lose my bet?" cried Mrs. Freke "Oh, at all events,
you must come to the ball!--I'm down for it. But I'll not press it now,
because you're frightened out of your poor little wits, I see, at the bare
thoughts of doing any thing considered out of rule by these good people.
Well, well! it shall be managed for you--leave that to me: I'm used to
managing for cowards. Pray tell me--you and Lady Delacour are off, I
understand?--Give ye joy!--She and I were once great friends; that is to
say, I had over her 'that power which strong minds have over weak ones,'
but she was too weak for me--one of those people that have neither courage
to be good, nor to be bad."

"The courage to be bad," said Belinda, "I believe, indeed, she does not
possess."

Mrs. Freke stared. "Why, I heard you had quarrelled with her!"

"If I had," said Belinda, "I hope that I should still do justice to her
merits. It is said that people are apt to suffer more by their friends
than their enemies. I hope that will never be the case with Lady Delacour,
as I confess that I have been one of her friends."

"'Gad, I like your spirit--you don't want courage, I see, to fight even
for your enemies. You are just the kind of girl I admire. I see you have
been prejudiced against me by Lady Delacour; but whatever stories she may
have trumped up, the truth of the matter is this, there's no living with
her, she's so jealous--so ridiculously jealous--of that lord of hers, for
whom all the time she has the impudence to pretend not to care more than I
do for the sole of my boot," said Mrs. Freke, striking it, with her whip;
"but she hasn't the courage to give him tit for tat: now this is what I
call weakness. Pray, how do she and Clarence Hervey go on together?--Are
they out o' the hornbook of platonics yet?"

"Mr. Hervey was not in town when I left it," said Belinda.

"Was not he?--Ho! ho!--He's off then!--Ay, so I prophesied; she's not the
thing for him: he has some strength of mind--some soul--above vulgar
prejudices; so must a woman be to hold him. He was caught at first by her
grace and beauty, and that sort of stuff; but I knew it could not
last--knew she'd dilly dally with Clary, till he would turn upon his heel
and leave her there."

"I fancy that you are entirely mistaken both with respect to Mr. Hervey
and Lady Delacour," Belinda very seriously began to say. But Mrs. Freke
interrupted her, and ran on; "No! no! no! I'm not mistaken; Clarence has
found her out. She's a _very_ woman--_that_ he could forgive her, and so
could I; but she's a _mere_ woman--and that he can't forgive--no more can
I."

There was a kind of drollery about Mrs. Freke, which, with some people,
made the odd things she said pass for wit. Humour she really possessed;
and when she chose it, she could be diverting to those who like buffoonery
in women. She had set her heart upon winning Belinda over to her party.
She began by flattery of her beauty; but as she saw that this had no
effect, she next tried what could be done by insinuating that she had a
high opinion of her understanding, by talking to her as an esprit fort.

"For my part," said she, "I own I should like a strong devil better than a
weak angel."

"You forget," said Belinda, "that it is not Milton, but Satan, who says,

    'Fallen spirit, to be weak is to be miserable.'"

"You read, I see!--I did not know you were a reading girl. So was I once;
but I never read now. Books only spoil the originality of genius: very
well for those who can't think for themselves--but when one has made up
one's opinion, there is no use in reading."

"But to make them up," replied Belinda, "may it not be useful?"

"Of no use upon earth to minds of a certain class. You, who can think for
yourself, should never read."

"But I read that I may think for myself."

"Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of
trash--nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world."

"And is there never any nonsense in conversation?"

"What have you here?" continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend
to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the
table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance,
"Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments--milk and water! Moore's
Travels--hasty pudding! La Bruyere--nettle porridge! This is what you were
at when I came in, was it not?" said she, taking up a book[8] in which
she saw Belinda's mark: "Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor
thing! who bored you with this task?"

"Mr. Percival recommended it to me, as one of the best essays in the
English language."

"The devil! they seem to have put you in a course of the bitters--a course
of the woods might do your business better. Do you ever hunt?--Let me take
you out with me some morning--you'd be quite an angel on horseback; or let
me drive you out some day in my unicorn."

Belinda declined this invitation, and Mrs. Freke strode away to the window
to conceal her mortification, threw up the sash, and called out to her
groom, "Walk those horses about, blockhead!"

Mr. Percival and Mr. Vincent at this instant came into the room.

"Hail, fellow! well met!" cried Mrs. Freke, stretching out her hand to Mr.
Vincent.

It has been remarked, that an antipathy subsists between creatures, who,
without being the same, have yet a strong external resemblance. Mr.
Percival saw this instinct rising in Mr. Vincent, and smiled.

"Hail, fellow! well met! I say. Shake hands and be friends, man! Though
I'm not in the habit of making apologies, if it will he any satisfaction
to you, I beg your pardon for frightening your poor devil of a black."

Then turning towards Mr. Percival, she measured him with her eye, as a
person whom she longed to attack. She thought, that if Belinda's opinion
of the understanding of _these Percivals_ could be lowered, she should
rise in her esteem: accordingly, she determined to draw Mr. Percival into
an argument.

"I've been talking treason, I believe, to Miss Portman," cried she; "for
I've been opposing some of your opinions, Mr. Percival."

"If you opposed them all, madam," said Mr. Percival, "I should not think
it treason."

"Vastly polite!--But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d'ye say
to that?"

"You know that best, madam!"

"Then I'll go a step farther; for I'm determined you shall contradict me:
I think all virtue is hypocrisy."

"I need not contradict you, madam," said Mr. Percival, "for the terms
which you make use of contradict themselves."

"It is my system," pursued Mrs. Freke, "that shame is always the cause of
the vices of women."

"It is sometimes the effect," said Mr. Percival; "and, as cause and effect
are reciprocal, perhaps you may, in some instances, be right."

"Oh! I hate qualifying arguers--plump assertion or plump denial for me:
you sha'n't get off so. I say shame is the cause of all women's vices."

"False shame, I suppose you mean?" said Mr. Percival.

"Mere play upon words! All shame is false shame--we should be a great deal
better without it. What say you, Miss Portman?--Silent, hey? Silence that
speaks."

"Miss Portman's blushes," said Mr. Vincent, "speak _for her_."

"_Against_ her," said Mrs. Freke: "women blush because they understand."

"And you would have them understand without blushing?" said Mr. Percival.
"I grant you that nothing can be more different than innocence and
ignorance. Female delicacy--"

"This is just the way you men spoil women," cried Mrs. Freke, "by talking
to them of the _delicacy of their sex_, and such stuff. This _delicacy_
enslaves the pretty delicate dears."

"No; it enslaves us," said Mr. Vincent.

"I hate slavery! Vive la liberte!" cried Mrs. Freke. "I'm a champion for
the Rights of Woman."

"I am an advocate for their happiness," said Mr. Percival, "and for their
delicacy, as I think it conduces to their happiness."

"I'm an enemy to their delicacy, as I am sure it conduces to their
misery."

"You speak from experience?" said Mr. Percival.

"No, from observation. Your most delicate women are always the greatest
hypocrites; and, in my opinion, no hypocrite can or ought to be happy."

"But you have not proved the hypocrisy," said Belinda. "Delicacy is not, I
hope, an indisputable proof of it? If you mean _false_ delicacy----"

"To cut the matter short at once," cried Mrs. Freke, "why, when a woman
likes a man, does not she go and tell him so honestly?"

Belinda, surprised by this question from a woman, was too much abashed
instantly to answer.

"Because she's a hypocrite. That is and must be the answer."

"No," said Mr. Percival; "because, if she be a woman of sense, she knows
that by such a step she would disgust the object of her affection."

"Cunning!--cunning!--cunning!--the arms of the weakest."

"Prudence! prudence!--the arms of the strongest. Taking the best means to
secure our own happiness without injuring that of others is the best proof
of sense and strength of mind, whether in man or woman. Fortunately for
society, the same conduct in ladies which best secures their happiness
most increases ours."

Mrs. Freke beat the devil's tattoo for some moments, and then exclaimed,
"You may say what you will, but the present system of society is radically
wrong:--whatever is, is wrong."

"How would you improve the state of society?" asked Mr. Percival, calmly.

"I'm not tinker-general to the world," said she.

"I'm glad of it," said Mr. Percival; "for I have heard that tinkers often
spoil more than they mend."

"But if you want to know," said Mrs. Freke, "what I would do to improve
the world, I'll tell you: I'd have both sexes call things by their right
names."

"This would doubtless be a great improvement," said Mr. Percival; "but you
would not overturn society to attain it, would you? Should we find things
much improved by tearing away what has been called the decent drapery of
life?"

"Drapery, if you ask me my opinion," cried Mrs. Freke, "drapery, whether
wet or dry, is the most confoundedly indecent thing in the world."

"That depends on _public_ opinion, I allow," said Mr. Percival. "The
Lacedaemonian ladies, who were veiled only by public opinion, were better
covered from profane eyes than some English ladies are in wet drapery."

"I know nothing of the Lacedaemonian ladies: I took my leave of them when
I was a schoolboy--girl, I should say. But pray, what o'clock is it by
you? I've sat till I'm cramped all over," cried Mrs. Freke, getting up and
stretching herself so violently that some part of her habiliments gave
way. "Honi soit qui mal y pense!" said she, bursting into a horse laugh.

Without sharing in any degree that confusion which Belinda felt for her,
she strode out of the room, saying, "Miss Portman, you understand these
things better than I do; come and set me to rights."

When she was in Belinda's room, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and
laughed immoderately.

"How I have trimmed Percival this morning!" said she.

"I am glad you think so," said Belinda; "for I really was afraid he had
been too severe upon you."

"I only wish," continued Mrs. Freke, "I only wish his wife had been by.
Why the devil did not she make her appearance? I suppose the prude was
afraid of my demolishing and unrigging her."

"There seems to have been more danger of that for you than for any body
else," said Belinda, as she assisted to set Mrs. Freke's rigging, as she
called it, to rights.

"I do of all things delight in hauling good people's opinions out of their
musty drawers, and seeing how they look when they're all pulled to pieces
before their faces! Pray, are those Lady Anne's drawers or yours?" said
Mrs. Freke, pointing to a chest of drawers.

"Mine."

"I'm sorry for it; for if they were hers, to punish her for _shirking_ me,
by the Lord, I'd have every rag she has in the world out in the middle of
the floor in ten minutes! You don't know me--I'm a terrible person when
provoked--stop at nothing!"

As Mrs. Freke saw no other chance left of gaining her point with Belinda,
she tried what intimidating her would do.

"I stop at nothing," repeated she, fixing her eyes upon Miss Portman, to
fascinate her by terror. "Friend or foe! peace or war! Take your choice.
Come to the ball at Harrowgate, I win my bet, and I'm your sworn friend.
Stay away, I lose my bet, and am your sworn enemy."

"It is not in my power, madam," said Belinda, calmly, "to comply with your
request."

"Then you'll take the consequences," cried Mrs. Freke. She rushed past
her, hurried down stairs, and called out, "Bid my blockhead bring my
unicorn."

She, her unicorn, and her blockhead, were out of sight in a few minutes.

Good may be drawn from evil. Mrs. Freke's conversation, though at the time
it confounded Belinda, roused her, upon reflection, to examine by her
reason the habits and principles which guided her conduct. She had a
general feeling that they were right and necessary; but now, with the
assistance of Lady Anne and Mr. Percival, she established in her own
understanding the exact boundaries between right and wrong upon many
subjects. She felt a species of satisfaction and security, from seeing the
demonstration of those axioms of morality, in which she had previously
acquiesced. Reasoning gradually became as agreeable to her as wit; nor was
her taste for wit diminished, it was only refined by this process. She now
compared and judged of the value of the different species of this
brilliant talent.

Mrs. Freke's wit, thought she, is like a noisy squib, the momentary terror
of passengers; Lady Delacour's like an elegant firework, which we crowd to
see, and cannot forbear to applaud; but Lady Anne Percival's wit is like
the refulgent moon, we

    "Love the mild rays, and bless the useful light."

"Miss Portman," said Mr. Percival, "are not you afraid of making an enemy
of Mrs. Freke, by declining her invitation to Harrowgate?"

"I think her friendship more to be dreaded than her enmity," replied
Belinda.

"Then you are not to be terrified by an obeah-woman?" said Mr. Vincent.

"Not in the least, unless she were to come in the shape of a false
friend," said Belinda.

"Till lately," said Mr. Vincent, "I was deceived in the character of Mrs.
Freke. I thought her a dashing, free-spoken, free-hearted sort of
eccentric person, who would make a staunch friend and a jolly companion.
As a mistress, or a wife, no man of any taste could think of her. Compare
that woman now with one of our Creole ladies."

"But why with a creole?" said Mr. Percival.

"For the sake of contrast, in the first place: our creole women are all
softness, grace, delicacy----"

"And indolence," said Mr. Percival.

"Their indolence is but a slight, and, in my judgment, an amiable defect;
it keeps them out of mischief, and it attaches them to domestic life. The
activity of a Mrs. Freke would never excite their emulation; and so much
the better."

"So much the better, no doubt," said Mr. Percival. "But is there no other
species of activity that might excite their ambition with propriety?
Without diminishing their grace, softness, or delicacy, might not they
cultivate their minds? Do you think ignorance, as well as indolence, an
amiable defect, essential to the female character?"

"Not essential. You do not, I hope, imagine that I am so much prejudiced
in favour of my countrywomen, that I can neither see nor feel the
superiority in _some instances_ of European cultivation? I speak only in
general."

"And in general," said Lady Anne Percival, "does Mr. Vincent wish to
confine our sex to the bliss of ignorance?"

"If it be bliss," said Mr. Vincent, "what reason would they have for
complaint?"

"_If_," said Belinda; "but that is a question which you have not yet
decided."

"And how can we decide it?" said Mr. Vincent, "The taste and feelings of
individuals must be the arbiters of their happiness."

"You leave reason quite out of the question, then," said Mr. Percival,
"and refer the whole to taste and feeling? So that if the most ignorant
person in the world assert that he is happier than you are, you are bound
to believe him."

"Why should not I?" said Mr. Vincent.

"Because," said Mr. Percival, "though he can judge of his own pleasures,
he cannot judge of yours; his are common to both, but yours are unknown to
him. Would you, at this instant, change places with that ploughman yonder,
who is whistling as he goes for want of thought? or, would you choose to
go a step higher in the bliss of ignorance, and turn savage?"

Mr. Vincent laughed, and protested that he should be very unwilling to
give up his title to civilized society; and that, instead of wishing to
have less knowledge, he regretted that he had not more. "I am sensible,"
said he, "that I have many prejudices;--Miss Portman has made me ashamed
of some of them."

There was a degree of candour in Mr. Vincent's manner and conversation,
which interested every body in his favour; Belinda amongst the rest. She
was perfectly at ease in Mr. Vincent's company, because she considered him
as a person who wished for her friendship, without having any design to
engage her affections. From several hints that dropped from him, from Mr.
Percival, and from Lady Anne, she was persuaded that he was attached to
some creole lady; and all that he said in favour of the elegant softness
and delicacy of his countrywomen confirmed this opinion.

Miss Portman was not one of those young ladies who fancy that every
gentleman who converses freely with them will inevitably fall a victim to
the power of their charms, and will see in every man a lover, or nothing.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A DECLARATION.


"I've found it!--I've found it, mamma!" cried little Charles Percival,
running eagerly into the room with a plant in his hand. "Will you send
this in your letter to Helena Delacour, and tell her that is the thing
that gold fishes are so fond of? And tell her that it is called lemna, and
that it may be found in any ditch or pool."

"But how can she find ditches and pools in Grosvenor-square, my dear?"

"Oh, I forgot that. Then will you tell her, mamma, that I will send her a
great quantity?"

"How, my dear?"

"I don't know, mamma, yet--but I will find out some way."

"Would it not be as well, my dear," said his mother, smiling, "to consider
how you can perform your promises before you make them?"

"A gentleman," said Mr. Vincent, "never makes a promise that he cannot
perform."

"I know that very well," said the boy, proudly: "Miss Portman, who is very
good-natured, will, I am sure, be so good, when she goes back to Lady
Delacour, as to carry food for the gold fishes to Helena--you see that I
have found out a way to keep my promise."

"No, I'm afraid not," said Belinda; "for I am not going back to Lady
Delacour's."

"Then I am very glad of it!" said the boy, dropping the weed, and clapping
his hands joyfully; "for then I hope you will always stay here, don't you,
mamma?--don't _you_, Mr. Vincent? Oh, _you_ do, I am sure, for I heard you
say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so red?"

His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question,
and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where
he found the food for the gold fishes.

Belinda, to Mr. Vincent's great relief, seemed not to take any notice of
the child's question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was
intently copying Westall's sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family,
and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour's name,
to many painful and some pleasing recollections. "What a charming woman,
and what a charming family!" said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the
drawing; "and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic
happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods
and goddesses, that ever were drawn!"

"Yes," said Belinda, "and how much more interesting this picture is to us,
from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real,
not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the
countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her,
are what they seem to be--the pride and pleasure of her life!"

"There cannot," exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, "be a more
delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not
feel what you can paint so well?"

"Is it possible, sir," said Belinda, "that you should suspect me of such
wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of
feeling?"

"You misunderstand--you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is
not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy,
all affectation. But I imagined--I feared--"

As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned
over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda's eye was
caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic
muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her
ladyship and Miss Portman--she sighed from the recollection of Clarence
Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.

"What a contrast!" said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour
beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. "What a contrast! Compare their
pictures--compare their characters--compare--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Belinda; "Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I
do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never
seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne
Percival."

"I have been more fortunate, I _have_ seen one--one equally worthy of
esteem--admiration--love."

Mr. Vincent's voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda,
prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply
answered, without looking up from her drawing, "You are indeed very
fortunate--peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies----"

"West-Indian ladies!" interrupted Mr. Vincent. "Surely, Miss Portman
cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian
lady!" Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. "Charming Miss Portman,"
continued he, "I have learnt to admire _European beauty, European
excellence_! I have acquired new ideas of the female character--ideas--
feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely
miserable."

Miss Portman had been too often called "_charming_" to be much startled or
delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but there
was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent's manner, that she could no
longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident confusion.
Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover came into her
mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and dreaded that he
should read her thoughts. "Exquisitely miserable!" said she, in a tone of
raillery: "I should not suppose, from what I have seen of Mr. Vincent,
that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable."

"Then you do not know my character--you do not know my heart: it is in
_your_ power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold,
hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion," cried
he, seizing her hand.

At this instant one of the children came in with some flowers to Belinda;
and, glad of the interruption, she hastily put up her drawings and left
the room, observing that she should scarcely have time to dress before
dinner. However, as soon as she found herself alone, she forgot how late
it was; and though she sat down before the glass to dress, she made no
progress in the business, but continued for some time motionless,
endeavouring to recollect and to understand all that had passed. The
result of her reflections was the conviction that her partiality for
Clarence Hervey was greater than she ever had till this moment suspected.
"I have told my aunt Stanhope," thought she, "that the idea of Mr. Hervey
had no influence in my refusal of Sir Philip Baddely; I have said that my
affections are entirely at my own command: then why do I feel this alarm
at the discovery of Mr. Vincent's views? Why do I compare him with one
whom I thought I had forgotten?--And yet how are we to judge of character?
How can we form any estimate of what is amiable, of what will make us
happy or miserable, but by comparison? Am I to blame for perceiving
superiority? Am I to blame if one person be more agreeable, or seem to be
more agreeable, than another? Am I to blame if I cannot love Mr. Vincent?"

Before Belinda had answered these questions to her satisfaction, the
dinner-bell rang. There happened to dine this day at Mr. Percival's a
gentleman who had just arrived from Lisbon, and the conversation turned
upon the sailors' practice of stilling the waves over the bar of Lisbon by
throwing oil upon the water. Charles Percival's curiosity was excited by
this conversation, and he wished to see the experiment. In the evening his
father indulged his wishes. The children were delighted at the sight, and
little Charles insisted upon Belinda's following him to a particular spot,
where he was well convinced that she could see better than any where else
in the world. "Take care," cried Lady Anne, "or you will lead your friend
into the river, Charles." The boy paused, and soon afterwards asked his
father several questions about swimming and drowning, and bringing people
to life after they had been drowned. "Don't you remember, papa," said he,
"_that_ Mr. Hervey, who was almost drowned in the Serpentine river in
London?"--Belinda coloured at hearing unexpectedly the name of the person
of whom she was at that instant thinking, and the child continued--"I
liked that Mr. Hervey very much--I liked him from the first day I saw him.
What a number of entertaining things he told us at dinner! We used to
call him the good-natured gentleman: I like him very much--I wish he was
here this minute. Did you ever see him, Miss Portman? Oh, yes, you must
have seen him; for it was he who carried Helena's gold fishes to her
mother, and he used often to be at Lady Delacour's--was not he?"

"Yes, my dear, often."

"And did not you like him very much?"--This simple question threw Belinda
into inexpressible confusion: but fortunately the crimson on her face was
seen only by Lady Anne Percival. To Belinda's great satisfaction, Mr.
Vincent forbore this evening any attempt to renew the conversation of the
morning; he endeavoured to mix, with his usual animation and gaiety, in
the family society; and her embarrassment was much lessened when she heard
the next day, at breakfast, that he was gone to Harrowgate. Lady Anne
Percival took notice that she was this morning unusually sprightly.

After breakfast, as they were passing through the hall to take a walk in
the park, one of the little boys stopped to look at a musical instrument
which hung up against the wall.

"What is this, mamma?--It is not a guitar, is it?"

"No, my dear, it is called a banjore; it is an African instrument, of
which the negroes are particularly fond. Mr. Vincent mentioned it the
other day to Miss Portman, and I believe she expressed some curiosity to
see one. Juba went to work immediately to make a banjore, I find. Poor
fellow! I dare say that he was very sorry to go to Harrowgate, and to
leave his African guitar half finished; especially as it was intended for
an offering to Miss Portman. He is the most grateful, affectionate
creature I ever saw."

"But why, mamma," said Charles Percival, "is Mr. Vincent gone away? I am
sorry he is gone; I hope he will soon come back. In the mean time, I must
run and water my carnations."

"His sorrow for his friend Mr. Vincent's departure does not seem to affect
his spirits much," said Lady Anne. "People who expect sentiment from
children of six years old will be disappointed, and will probably teach
them affectation. Surely it is much better to let their natural affections
have time to expand. If we tear the rosebud open we spoil the flower."
Belinda smiled at this parable of the rosebud, which, she said, might be
applied to men and women, as well as to children.

"And yet, upon reflection," said Lady Anne, "the heart has nothing in
common with a rosebud. Nonsensical allusions pass off very prettily in
conversation. I mean, when we converse with partial friends: but we should
reason ill, and conduct ourselves worse, if we were to trust implicitly to
poetical analogies. Our affections," continued Lady Anne, "arise from
circumstances totally independent of our will."

"That is the very thing I meant to say," interrupted Belinda, eagerly.

"They are excited by the agreeable or useful qualities that we discover in
things or in persons."

"Undoubtedly," said Belinda.

"Or by those which our fancies discover," said Lady Anne.

Belinda was silent; but, after a pause, she said, "That it was certainly
very dangerous, especially for women, to trust to fancy in bestowing their
affections." "And yet," said Lady Anne, "it is a danger to which they are
much exposed in society. Men have it in their power to assume the
appearance of every thing that is amiable and estimable, and women have
scarcely any opportunities of detecting the counterfeit."

"Without Ithuriel's spear, how can they distinguish the good from the
evil?" said Belinda. "This is a common-place complaint, I know; the ready
excuse that we silly young women plead, when we make mistakes for which
our friends reproach us, and for which we too often reproach ourselves."

"The complaint is common-place precisely because it is general and just,"
replied Lady Anne. "In the slight and frivolous intercourse, which
fashionable belles usually have with those fashionable beaux who call
themselves their lovers, it is surprising that they can discover any thing
of each other's real character. Indeed they seldom do; and this probably
is the cause why there are so many unsuitable and unhappy marriages. A
woman who has an opportunity of seeing her lover in private society, in
domestic life, has infinite advantages; for if she has any sense, and he
has any sincerity, the real character of both may perhaps be developed."

"True," said Belinda (who now suspected that Lady Anne alluded to Mr.
Vincent); "and in such a situation a woman would readily be able to decide
whether the man who addressed her would suit her taste or not; so she
would be inexcusable if, either from vanity or coquetry, she disguised her
real sentiments."

"And will Miss Portman, who cannot, by any one to whom she is known, be
suspected of vanity or coquetry, permit me to speak to her with the
freedom of a friend?"

Belinda, touched by the kindness of Lady Anne's manner, pressed her hand,
and exclaimed, "Yes, dear Lady Anne, speak to me with freedom--you cannot
do me a greater favour. No thought of my mind, no secret feeling of my
heart, shall be concealed from you."

"Do not imagine that I wish to encroach upon the generous openness of your
temper," said Lady Anne; "tell me when I go too far, and I will be silent.
One who, like Miss Portman, has lived in the world, has seen a variety of
characters, and probably has had a variety of admirers, must have formed
some determinate idea of the sort of companion that would make her happy,
if she were to marry--unless," said Lady Anne, "she has formed a
resolution against marriage."

"I have formed no such resolution," said Belinda. "Indeed, since I have
seen the happiness which you and Mr. Percival enjoy in your own family, I
have been much more disposed to think that a union--that a union such as
yours, would increase my happiness. At the same time, my aversion to the
idea of marrying from interest, or convenience, or from any motives but
esteem and love, is increased almost to horror. O Lady Anne! there is
nothing that I would not do to please the friends to whom I am under
obligations, except sacrificing my peace of mind, or my integrity, the
happiness of my life, by--"

Lady Anne, in a gentle tone, assured her, that she was the last person in
the world who would press her to any union which would make her unhappy.
"You perceive that Mr. Vincent has spoken to me of what passed between you
yesterday. You perceive that I am his friend, but do not forget that I am
also yours. If you fear _undue influence_ from any of your relations in
favour of Mr. Vincent's large fortune, &c. let his proposal remain a
secret between ourselves, till you can decide, from farther acquaintance
with him, whether it will be in your power to return his affection."

"I fear, my dear Lady Anne," cried Belinda, "that it is not in my power to
return his affection."

"And may I ask your objections?"

"Is it not a sufficient objection, that I am persuaded I cannot love him?"

"No; for you may be mistaken in that persuasion. Remember what we said a
little while ago, about _fancy and spontaneous affections_. Does Mr.
Vincent appear to you defective in any of the qualities which you think
essential to happiness? Mr. Percival has known him from the time he was a
man, and can answer for his integrity and his good temper. Are not these
the first points you would consider? They ought to be, I am sure, and I
believe they are. Of his understanding I shall say nothing, because you
have had full opportunities of judging of it from his conversation."

"Mr. Vincent appears to have a good understanding," said Belinda.

"Then to what do you object?--Is there any thing disgusting to you in his
person or manners?"

"He is very handsome, he is well bred, and his manners are unaffected,"
said Belinda; "but--do not accuse me of caprice--altogether he does not
suit my taste; and I cannot think it sufficient not to feel disgust for a
husband--though I believe this is the fashionable doctrine."

"It is not mine, I assure you," said Lady Anne. "I am not one of those who
think it 'safest to begin with a little aversion;' but since you
acknowledge that Mr. Vincent possesses the essential good qualities that
entitle him to your esteem, I am satisfied. We gradually acquire knowledge
of the good qualities of those who endeavour to please us; and if they are
really amiable, their persons become agreeable to us by degrees, when we
become accustomed to them."

"Accustomed!" said Belinda, smiling: "one does grow accustomed even to
disagreeable things certainly; but at this rate, my dear Lady Anne, I do
not doubt but one might grow _accustomed_ to Caliban."

"My belief in the reconciling power of custom does not go quite so far,"
said Lady Anne. "It does not extend to Caliban, or even to the hero of La
Belle et La Bete; but I do believe, that, in a mind so well regulated as
yours, esteem may certainly in time be improved into love. I will tell Mr.
Vincent so, my dear."

"No, my dear Lady Anne! no; you must not--indeed you must not. You have
too good an opinion of me--my mind is not so well regulated--I am much
weaker, much sillier, than you imagine--than you can conceive," said
Belinda.

Lady Anne soothed her with the most affectionate expressions, and
concluded with saying, "Mr. Vincent has promised not to return from
Harrowgate, to torment you with his addresses, if you be absolutely
determined against him. He is of too generous, and perhaps too proud a
temper, to persecute you with vain solicitations; and however Mr. Percival
and I may wish that he could obtain such a wife, we shall have the common,
or uncommon, sense and good-nature to allow our friends to be happy their
own way."

"You are very good--too good. But am I then to be the cause of banishing
Mr. Vincent from all his friends--from Oakly-park?"

"Will he not do what is most prudent, to avoid the charming Miss Portman,"
said Lady Anne, smiling, "if he must not love her? This was at least the
advice I gave him, when he consulted us yesterday evening. But I will not
sign his writ of banishment lightly. Nothing but the assurance that the
heart is engaged can be a sufficient cause for despair; nothing else
could, in my eyes, justify you, my dear Belinda, from the charge of
caprice."

"I can give you no such assurance, I hope--I believe," said Belinda, in
great confusion; "and yet I would not for the world deceive you: you have
a right to my sincerity." She paused; and Lady Anne said with a smile,
"Perhaps I can spare you the trouble of telling me in words what a blush
told me, or at least made me suspect, yesterday evening, when we were
standing by the river side, when little Charles asked you--"

"Yes, I remember--I saw you look at me."

"Undesignedly, believe me."

"Undesignedly, I am sure; but I was afraid you would think--"

"The truth."

"No; but more than the truth. The truth you shall hear; and the rest I
will leave to your judgment and to your kindness."

Belinda gave a full account of her acquaintance with Clarence Hervey; of
the variations in his manner towards her; of his excellent conduct with
respect to Lady Delacour (of this, by-the-by, she spoke at large). But she
was more concise when she touched upon the state of her own heart; and her
voice almost failed when she came to the history of the lock of beautiful
hair, the Windsor incognita, and the picture of Virginia. She concluded by
expressing her conviction of the propriety of forgetting a man, who was in
all probability attached to another, and she declared it to be her
resolution to banish him from her thoughts. Lady Anne said, "that nothing
could be more prudent or praiseworthy than forming such a
resolution--except keeping it." Lady Anne had a high opinion of Mr.
Hervey; but she had no doubt, from Belinda's account, and from her own
observations on Mr. Hervey, and from slight circumstances which had
accidentally come to Mr. Percival's knowledge, that he was, as Belinda
suspected, attached to another person. She wished, therefore, to confirm
Miss Portman in this belief, and to turn her thoughts towards one who,
beside being deserving of her esteem and love, felt for her the most
sincere affection. She did not, however, press the subject farther at this
time, but contented herself with requesting that Belinda would take three
days (the usual time given for deliberation in fairy tales) before she
should decide against Mr. Vincent.

The next day they went to look at a porter's lodge, which Mr. Percival had
just built; it was inhabited by an old man and woman, who had for many
years been industrious tenants, but who, in their old age, had been
reduced to poverty, not by imprudence, but by misfortune. Lady Anne was
pleased to see them comfortably settled in their new habitation; and
whilst she and Belinda were talking to the old couple, their
grand-daughter, a pretty looking girl of about eighteen, came in with a
basket of eggs in her hand. "Well, Lucy," said Lady Anne, "have you
overcome your dislike to James Jackson?" The girl reddened, smiled, and
looked at her grand-mother, who answered for her in an arch tone, "Oh,
yes, my lady! We are not afraid of Jackson _now_; we are grown very great
friends. This pretty cane chair for my good man was his handiwork, and
these baskets he made for me. Indeed, he's a most industrious, ingenious,
good-natured youth; and our Lucy takes no offence at his courting her now,
my lady, I can assure you. That necklace, which is never off her neck now,
he turned for her, my lady; it is a present of his. So I tell him he need
not be discouraged, though so be she did not take to him at the first; for
she's a good girl, and a sensible girl--I say it, though she's my ow