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.