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 fête champêtre 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 fête; 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 visit 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?”