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 be 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.