THE EXHIBITION.
Two hours after her ladyship had retired to her room, as Belinda was
passing by the door to go to her own bedchamber, she heard Lady Delacour
call to her.
“Belinda, you need not walk so softly; I am not asleep. Come in, will
you, my dear? I have something of consequence to say to you. Is all the
world gone?”
“Yes; and I thought that you were asleep. I hope you are not in pain.”
“Not just at present, thank you; but that was a terrible embrace of
poor little Helena’s. You see to what accidents I should be continually
exposed, if I had that child always about me; and yet she seems of such
an affectionate disposition, that I wish it were possible to keep her at
home. Sit down by my bedside, my dear Belinda, and I will tell you what
I have resolved upon.”
Belinda sat down, and Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes.
“I am resolved,” said she, “to make one desperate effort for my life.
New plans, new hopes of happiness, have opened to my imagination, and,
with my hopes of being happy, my courage rises. I am determined to
submit to the dreadful operation which alone can radically cure me--you
understand me; but it must be kept a profound secret. I know of a person
who could be got to perform this operation with the utmost secrecy.”
“But, surely,” said Belinda, “safety must be your first object!”
“No, secrecy is my first object. Nay, do not reason with me; it is a
subject on which I cannot, will not, reason. Hear me--I will keep Helena
with me for a few days; she was surprised by what passed in the library
this evening--I must remove all suspicion from her mind.”
“There is no suspicion in her mind,” said Belinda.
“So much the better: she shall go immediately to school, or to
Oakly-park. I will then stand my trial for life or death; and if I live
I will be, what I have never yet been, a mother to Helena. If I die, you
and Clarence Hervey will take care of her; I know you will. That young
man is worthy of you, Belinda. If I die, I charge you to tell him that
I knew his value; that I had a soul capable of being touched by the
eloquence of virtue.” Lady Delacour, after a pause, said, in an altered
tone, “Do you think, Belinda, that I shall survive this operation?”
“The opinion of Dr. X----,” said Belinda, “must certainly be more
satisfactory than mine;” and she repeated what the doctor had left with
her in writing upon this subject. “You see,” said Belinda, “that Dr.
X----is by no means certain that you have the complaint which you
dread.”
“I am certain of it,” said Lady Delacour, with a deep sigh. Then, after
a pause, she resumed: “So it is the doctor’s opinion, that I shall
inevitably destroy myself if, from a vain hope of secrecy, I put myself
into ignorant hands? These are his own words, are they? Very strong; and
he is prudent to leave that opinion in writing. Now, whatever happens,
he cannot be answerable for ‘measures which he does not guide:’ nor you
either, my dear; you have done all that is prudent and proper. But I
must beg you to recollect, that I am neither a child nor a fool; that I
am come to years of discretion, and that I am not now in the delirium
of a fever; consequently, there can be no pretence for _managing_ me. In
this particular I must insist upon managing myself. I have confidence
in the skill of the person whom I shall employ: Dr. X----, very likely,
would have none, because the man may not have a diploma for killing
or curing in form. That is nothing to the purpose. It is I that am to
undergo the operation: it is _my_ health, _my_ life, that is risked; and
if I am satisfied, that is enough. Secrecy, as I told you before, is my
first object.”
“And cannot you,” said Belinda, “depend with more security upon the
honour of a surgeon who is at the head of his profession, and who has a
high reputation at stake, than upon a vague promise of secrecy from some
obscure quack, who has no reputation to lose?”
“No,” said Lady Delacour: “I tell you, my dear, that I cannot depend
upon any of these ‘honourable men.’ I have taken means to satisfy myself
on this point: their honour and foolish delicacy would not allow them
to perform such an operation for a wife, without the knowledge, privity,
consent, &c. &c. &c. of her husband. Now Lord Delacour’s knowing the
thing is quite out of the question.”
“Why, my dear Lady Delacour, why?” said Belinda, with great earnestness.
“Surely a husband has the strongest claim to be consulted upon such an
occasion! Let me entreat you to tell Lord Delacour your intention, and
then all will be right. Say Yes, my dear friend! let me prevail upon
you,” said Belinda, taking her ladyship’s hand, and pressing it between
both of hers with the most affectionate eagerness.
Lady Delacour made no answer, but fixed her eyes upon Belinda’s.
“Lord Delacour,” continued Miss Portman, “deserves this from you, by the
great interest, the increasing interest, that he has shown of late
about your health: his kindness and handsome conduct the other morning
certainly pleased you, and you have now an opportunity of showing that
confidence in him, which his affection and constant attachment to you
merit.”
“I trouble myself very little about the constancy of Lord Delacour’s
attachment to me,” said her ladyship coolly, withdrawing her hand from
Belinda; “whether his lordship’s affection for me has of late increased
or diminished, is an object of perfect indifference to me. But if I were
inclined to reward him for his late attentions, I should apprehend that
we might hit upon some better reward than you have pitched upon.
Unless you imagine that Lord Delacour has a peculiar taste for surgical
operations, I cannot conceive how his becoming my confidant upon this
occasion could have an immediate tendency to increase his affection for
me--about which affection I don’t care a straw, as you, better than any
one else, must know; for I am no hypocrite. I have laid open my whole
heart to you, Belinda.”
“For that very reason,” said Miss Portman, “I am eager to use the
influence which I know I have in your heart for your happiness. I am
convinced that it will be absolutely impossible that you should carry on
this scheme in the house with your husband without its being discovered.
If he discover it by accident, he will feel very differently from what
he would do if he were trusted by you.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear,” cried Lady Delacour, “let me hear no more
about Lord Delacour’s feelings.”
“But allow me then to speak of my own,” said Belinda: “I cannot be
concerned in this affair, if it is to be concealed from your husband.”
“You will do about that as you think proper,” said Lady Delacour
haughtily. “Your sense of propriety towards Lord Delacour is, I observe,
stronger than your sense of honour towards me. But I make no doubt that
you act upon principle--just principle. You promised never to
abandon me; but when I most want your assistance, you refuse it, from
consideration for Lord Delacour. A scruple of delicacy absolves a person
of nice feelings, I find, from a positive promise--a new and convenient
code of morality!”
Belinda, though much hurt by the sarcastic tone in which her ladyship
spoke, mildly answered, that the promise she had made to stay with her
ladyship during her illness was very different from an engagement to
assist her in such a scheme as she had now in contemplation.
Lady Delacour suddenly drew the curtain between her and Belinda, saying,
“Well, my dear, at all events, I am glad to hear you don’t forget your
promise of _staying_ with me. You are, perhaps, prudent to refuse me
your assistance, all circumstances considered. Good night: I have kept
you up too long--good night!”
“Good night!” said Belinda, drawing aside the curtain, “You will not be
displeased with me, when you reflect coolly.”
“The light blinds me,” said Lady Delacour; and she turned her face away
from Miss Portman, and added, in a drowsy voice, “I will _think of what
has been said_ some time or other: but just now I would rather go
to sleep than say or hear any more; for I am more than half asleep
already.”
Belinda closed the curtains and left the room. But Lady Delacour,
notwithstanding the drowsy tone in which she pronounced these last
words, was not in the least inclined to sleep. A passion had taken
possession of her mind, which kept her broad awake the remainder of the
night--the passion of jealousy. The extreme eagerness with which Belinda
had urged her to consult Lord Delacour, and to trust him with her
secret, displeased her; not merely as an opposition to her will, and
undue attention to his lordship’s feelings, but as “confirmation strong”
of a hint which had been dropped by Sir Philip Baddely, but which never
till now had appeared to her worthy of a moment’s consideration. Sir
Philip had observed, that, “if a young lady had any hopes of being a
viscountess, it was no wonder she thought a baronet beneath her notice.”
“Now,” thought Lady Delacour, “this is not impossible. In the first
place, Belinda Portman is niece to Mrs. Stanhope; she may have all her
aunt’s art, and the still greater art to conceal it under the mask of
openness and simplicity: _Volto sciolto, pensieri stretti_, is the grand
maxim of the Stanhope school.” The moment Lady Delacour’s mind turned
to suspicion, her ingenuity rapidly supplied her with circumstances and
arguments to confirm and justify her doubts.
“Miss Portman fears that my husband is growing too fond of me: she says,
he has been very attentive to me of late. Yes, so he has; and on purpose
to disgust him with me, she immediately urges me to tell him that I have
a loathsome disease, and that I am about to undergo a horrid operation.
How my eyes have been blinded by her artifice! This last stroke was
rather too bold, and has opened them effectually, and now I see a
thousand things that escaped me before. Even to-night, the Sortes
Virgilianae, the myrtle leaf, Miss Portman’s mark, left in the book
exactly at the place where Marmontel gives a receipt for managing a
husband of Lord Delacour’s character. Ah, ah! By her own confession, she
had been reading this: studying it. Yes, and she has studied it to some
purpose; she has made that poor weak lord of mine think her an angel.
How he ran on in her praise the other day, when he honoured me with a
morning visit! That morning visit, too, was of her suggestion; and
the bank-notes, as he, like a simpleton, let out in the course of the
conversation, had been offered to her first. She, with a delicacy that
charmed my short-sighted folly, begged that they might go through my
hands. How artfully managed! Mrs. Stanhope herself could not have done
better. So, she can make Lord Delacour do whatever she pleases; and
she condescends to make him behave _prettily_ to me, and desires him
to bring me peace-offerings of bank-notes! She is, in fact, become my
banker; mistress of my house, my husband, and myself! Ten days I have
been confined to my room. Truly, she has made a good use of her time:
and I, fool that I am, have been thanking her for all her disinterested
kindness!
“Then her attention to my daughter! disinterested, too, as I
thought!--But, good Heavens, what an idiot I have been! She looks
forward to be the step-mother of Helena; she would win the simple
child’s affections even before my face, and show Lord Delacour what a
charming wife and mother she would make! He said some such thing to me,
as well as I remember, the other day. Then her extreme prudence! She
never coquets, not she, with any of the young men who come here on
purpose to see her. Is this natural? Absolutely unnatural--artifice!
artifice! To contrast herself with me in Lord Delacour’s opinion is
certainly her object. Even to Clarence Hervey, with whom she was, or
pretended to be, smitten, how cold and reserved she is grown of late;
and how haughtily she rejected my advice, when I hinted that she was
not taking the way to win him! I could not comprehend her; she had no
designs on Clarence Hervey, she assured me. Immaculate purity! I believe
you.
“Then her refusal of Sir Philip Baddely!--a baronet with fifteen
thousand a year to be refused by a girl who has nothing, and merely
because he is a fool! How could I be such a fool as to believe it?
Worthy niece of Mrs. Stanhope, I know you now! And now I recollect that
extraordinary letter of Mrs. Stanhope’s which I snatched out of Miss
Portman’s hands some months ago, full of blanks, and inuendoes, and
references to some letter which Belinda had written about my disputes
with my husband! From that moment to this, Miss Portman has never let me
see another of her aunt’s letters. So I may conclude they are all in the
same style; and I make no doubt that she has instructed her niece,
all this time, how to proceed. Now I know why she always puts Mrs.
Stanhope’s letters into her pocket the moment she receives them, and
never opens them in my presence. And I have been laying open my whole
heart, telling my whole history, confessing all my faults and follies,
to this girl! And I have told her that I am dying! I have taught her
to look forward with joy and certainty to the coronet, on which she has
fixed her heart.
“On my knees I conjured her to stay with me to receive my last breath.
Oh, dupe, miserable dupe, that I am! could nothing warn me? In the
moment that I discovered the treachery of one friend, I went and
prostrated myself to the artifices of another--of another a thousand
times more dangerous--ten thousand times more beloved! For what was
Harriot Freke in comparison with Belinda Portman? Harriot Freke, even
whilst she diverted me most, I half despised. But Belinda!--Oh, Belinda!
how entirely have I loved--trusted--admired--adored--respected--revered
you!”
Exhausted by the emotions to which she had worked herself up by the
force of her powerful imagination, Lady Delacour, after passing several
restless hours in bed, fell asleep late in the morning; and when she
awaked, Belinda was standing by her bedside. “What could you be dreaming
of?” said Belinda, smiling. “You started, and looked at me with such
horror, when you opened your eyes, as if I had been your evil genius.”
It is not in human nature, thought Lady Delacour, suddenly overcome by
the sweet smile and friendly tone of Belinda, it is not in human nature
to be so treacherous; and she stretched out both her arms to Belinda,
saying, “You my evil genius? No. My guardian angel, my dearest Belinda,
kiss me, and forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what?” said Belinda; “I believe you are dreaming still,
and I am sorry to awaken you; but I am come to tell you a wonderful
thing--that Lord Delacour is up, and dressed, and actually in the
breakfast-room; and that he has been talking to me this half hour--of
what do you think?--of Helena. He was quite surprised, he said, to see
her grown such a fine girl, and he declares that he no longer regrets
that she was not a boy; and he says that he will dine at home to-day, on
purpose to drink Helena’s health in his new burgundy; and, in short, I
never saw him in such good spirits, or so agreeable: I always thought he
was one of the best-natured men I had ever seen. Will not you get up to
breakfast? Lord Delacour has asked for you ten times within these five
minutes.”
“Indeed!” said Lady Delacour, rubbing her eyes. “All this is vastly
wonderful; but I wish you had not awakened me so soon.”
“Nay, nay,” said Belinda, “I know by the tone of your voice, that you
do not mean what you say; I know you will get up, and come down to us
directly--so I will send Marriott.”
Lady Delacour got up, and went down to breakfast, in much uncertainty
what to think of Miss Portman; but ashamed to let her into her mind, and
still more afraid that Lord Delacour should suspect her of doing him the
honour to be jealous, Belinda had not the least guess of what was really
passing in her ladyship’s heart; she implicitly believed her expressions
of complete indifference to her lord; and jealousy was the last feeling
which Miss Portman would have attributed to Lady Delacour, because she
unfortunately was not sufficiently aware that jealousy can exist without
love. The idea of Lord Delacour as an object of attachment, or of a
coronet as an object of ambition, or of her friend’s death as an object
of joy, were so foreign to Belinda’s innocent mind, that it was scarcely
possible she could decipher Lady Delacour’s thoughts. Her ladyship
affected to be in “remarkable good spirits this morning,” declared that
she had never felt so well since her illness, ordered her carriage
as soon as breakfast was over, and said she would take Helena to
Maillardet’s, to see the wonders of his little conjuror and his
singing-bird. “Nothing equal to Maillardet’s singing-bird has ever been
seen or heard of, my dear Helena, since the days of Aboulcasem’s peacock
in the Persian Tales. Since Lady Anne Percival has not shown you these
charming things, I must.”
“But I hope you won’t tire yourself, mamma,” said the little girl.
“I’m afraid you will,” said Belinda. “And you know, my dear,” added Lord
Delacour, “that Miss Portman, who is so very obliging and good-natured,
_could_ go just as well with Helena; and I am sure, _would_, rather than
that you should tire yourself, or give yourself an unnecessary trouble.”
“Miss Portman is very good,” answered Lady Delacour, hastily; “but I
think it no unnecessary trouble to give my daughter any pleasure in my
power. As to its tiring me, I am neither dead, nor dying, _yet_; for the
rest, Miss Portman, who understands what is proper, blushes for you, as
you see, my lord, when you propose that she, who is not _yet_ a married
woman, should _chaperon_ a young lady. It is quite out of rule; and Mrs.
Stanhope would be shocked if her niece could, or would, do such a thing
to oblige any body.”
Lord Delacour was too much in the habit of hearing sarcastic, and to him
incomprehensible speeches from her ladyship, to take any extraordinary
notice of this; and if Belinda blushed, it was merely from the confusion
into which she was thrown by the piercing glance of Lady Delacour’s
black eyes--a glance which neither guilt nor innocence could withstand.
Belinda imagined that her ladyship still retained some displeasure from
the conversation that had passed the preceding night, and the first
time that she was alone with Lady Delacour, she again touched upon the
subject, in hopes of softening or convincing her. “At all events,
my dear friend,” said she, “you will not, I hope, be offended by the
sincerity with which I speak--I _can_ have no object but your safety and
happiness.”
“Sincerity never offends me,” was her ladyship’s cold answer. And all
the time that they were out together, she was unusually ceremonious
to Miss Portman; and there would have been but little conversation,
if Helena had not been present, to whom her mother talked with fluent
gaiety. When they got to Spring Gardens, Helena exclaimed, “Oh! there’s
Lady Anne Percival’s carriage, and Charles and Edward with her--they are
going to the same place that we are, I dare say, for I heard Charles
ask Lady Anne to take him to see Maillardet’s little bird--Mr. Hervey
mentioned it to us, and he said it was a curious piece of machinery.”
“I wish you had told me sooner that Lady Anne was likely to be there--I
don’t wish to meet her so awkwardly: I am not well enough yet, indeed,
to go to these odious, hot, close places; and, besides, I hate seeing
sights.”
Helena, with much good humour, said that she would rather give up
seeing the sight than be troublesome to her mother. When they came to
Maillardet’s, however, Lady Delacour saw Mrs. ---- getting out of her
carriage, and to her she consigned Helena and Miss Portman, saying that
she would take a turn or two in the park, and call for them in half
an hour. When the half hour was over, and her ladyship returned, she
carelessly asked, as they were going home, whether they had been pleased
with their visit to the bird and the conjuror. “Oh, yes, mamma!” said
Helena: “and do you know, that one of the questions that the people
ask the conjuror is, _Where is the happiest family to be found?_” And
Charles and Edward immediately said, “if he is a good conjuror, if he
tells truth, he’ll answer, ‘At Oakly-park.’”
“Miss Portman, had you any conversation with Lady Anne Percival?” said
Lady Delacour, coldly.
“A great deal,” said Belinda, “and such as I am sure you would have
liked: and so far from being a ceremonious person, I think I never saw
any body who had such easy engaging manners.”
“And did she ask you, Helena, again to go with her to that place where
the happiest family in the world is to be found?”
“Oakly-park?--No, mamma; she said that she was very glad that I was with
you; but she asked Miss Portman to come to see her whenever it was in
her power.”
“And could Miss Portman withstand such a temptation?”
“You know that I am engaged to your ladyship,” said Belinda.
Lady Delacour bowed. “But from what passed last night,” said she, “I was
afraid that you might repent your engagement to me: and if so, I give up
my bond. I should be miserable if I apprehended that any one, but more
especially Miss Portman, felt herself a prisoner in my house.”
“Dear Lady Delacour! I do not feel myself a prisoner; I have always till
now felt myself a friend in your house; but we’ll talk of this another
time. Do not look at me with so much coldness; do not speak to me with
so much politeness. I will not let you forget that I am your friend.”
“I do not wish to forget it, Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, with emotion;
“I am not ungrateful, though I may seem capricious--bear with me.”
“There now, you look like yourself again, and I am satisfied,” cried
Belinda. “As to going to Oakly-park, I give you my word I have not the
most distant thoughts of it. I stay with you from choice, and not from
compulsion, believe me.”
“I _do_ believe you,” said Lady Delacour; and for a moment she was
convinced that Belinda stayed with her for her own sake alone; but the
next minute she suspected that Lord Delacour was the secret cause of her
refusing to go to Oakly-park. His lordship dined at home this day, and
two or three succeeding days, and he was not intoxicated from
Monday till Thursday. These circumstances appeared to his lady very
extraordinary. In fact, he was pleased and amused with his little
daughter, Helena; and whilst she was yet almost a stranger to him, he
wished to appear to her in the most agreeable and respectable light
possible. One day after dinner, Lord Delacour, who was in a remarkably
good humour, said to her ladyship, “My dear, you know that your new
carriage was broken almost to pieces the night when you were overturned.
Well, I have had it all set to rights again, and new painted, and it is
all complete, except the hammer-cloth, which must have new fringe. What
colour will you have the fringe?”
“What do you say, Miss Portman?” said her ladyship.
“Black and orange would look well, I think,” said Belinda, “and would
suit the lace of your liveries--would not it?”
“Certainly: black and orange then,” said Lord Delacour, “it shall be.”
“If you ask my opinion,” said Lady Delacour, “I am for blue and white,
to match the cloth of the liveries.”
“Blue and white then it shall be,” said Lord Delacour.
“Nay, Miss Portman has a better taste than I have; and she says black
and orange, my lord.”
“Then you’ll have it black and orange, will you?” said Lord Delacour.
“Just as you please,” said Lady Delacour, and no more passed.
Soon afterward a note came from Lady Anne Percival, with some trifles
belonging to Helena, for which her mother had sent. The note was for
Belinda--another pressing invitation to Oakly-park--and a very civil
message from Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and thanks to Lady Delacour for
the macaw. Ay, thought Lady Delacour, Miss Portman wants to ingratiate
herself in time with all my husband’s relations. “Mrs. Margaret Delacour
should have addressed these thanks to you, Miss Portman, for I had not
the grace to think of sending her the macaw.” Lord Delacour, who was
very fond of his aunt, immediately joined his thanks, and observed that
Miss Portman was always considerate--always obliging--always kind.
Then he drank her health in a bumper of burgundy, and insisted upon his
little Helena’s drinking her health. “I am sure you ought, my dear, for
Miss Portman is very good--too good to you, child.”
“Very good--not too good, I hope,” said Lady Delacour. “Miss Portman,
your health.”
“And I hope,” continued his lordship, after swallowing his bumper, “that
my Lady Anne Percival does not mean to inveigle you away from us, Miss
Portman. You don’t think of leaving us, Miss Portman, I hope? Here’s
Helena would break her little heart;--I say nothing for my Lady
Delacour, because she can say every thing so much better for herself;
and I say nothing for myself, because I am the worst man in the world
at making speeches, when I really have a thing at heart--as I have your
staying with us, Miss Portman.”
Belinda assured him that there was no occasion to press her to do what
was perfectly agreeable to her, and said that she had no thoughts of
leaving Lady Delacour. Her ladyship, with some embarrassment, expressed
herself “extremely obliged, and gratified, and happy.” Helena, with
artless joy, threw her arms about Belinda, and exclaimed, “I am glad
you are not going; for I never liked any body so much, of whom I knew so
little.”
“The more you know of Miss Portman the more you will like her, child--at
least I have found it so,” said Lord Delacour.
“Clarence Hervey would, I am sure, have given the Pigot diamond, if it
were in his gift, for such a smile as you bestowed on Lord Delacour just
now,” whispered Lady Delacour. For an instant Belinda was struck with
the tone of pique and reproach, in which, her ladyship spoke. “Nay,
my dear, I did not mean to make you blush so piteously,” pursued her
ladyship: “I really did not think it a blushing matter--but you know
best. Believe me, I spoke without malice; we are so apt to judge from
our own feelings--and I could as soon blush about the old man of the
mountains as about my Lord Delacour.”
“Lord Delacour!” said Belinda, with a look of such unfeigned surprise,
that her ladyship instantly changed countenance, and, taking her hand
with gaiety, said, “So, my little Belinda, I have caught you--the blush
belongs then to Clarence Hervey? Well, any man of common sense would
rather have one blush than a thousand smiles for his share: now we
understand one another. And will you go with me to the exhibition
to-morrow? I am told there are some charming pictures this year. Helena,
who really has a genius for drawing, should see these things; and whilst
she _is_ with me, I will make her as happy as possible. You see the
reformation is beginning--Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman can do
wonders. If it be my fate, at last, to be _la bonne mère_, or _la femme
comme il y en a peu_, how can I help it? There is no struggling against
fate, my dear!”
Whenever Lady Delacour’s suspicions of Belinda were suspended, all her
affections returned with double force; she wondered at her own folly,
she was ashamed that she could have let such ideas enter her mind,
and she was beyond measure astonished that any thing relative to Lord
Delacour could so far have interested her attention. “Luckily,” said she
to herself, “he has not the penetration of a blind beetle; and, besides,
he has little snug jealousies of his own: so he will never find me
out. It would be an excellent thing indeed, if he were to turn my
‘_master-torment_’ against myself--it would be a judgment upon me. The
manes of poor Lawless would then be appeased. But it is impossible I
should ever be a jealous wife: I am only a jealous friend, and I
must satisfy myself about Belinda. To be a second time a dupe to
the treachery of a friend would be too much for me--too much for my
pride--too much for my heart.”
The next day, when they came to the exhibition, Lady Delacour had an
opportunity of judging of Belinda’s real feelings. As they went up the
stairs, they heard the voices of Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort,
who were standing upon the landing-place, leaning over the banisters,
and running their little sticks along the iron rails, to try which could
make the loudest noise.
“Have you been much pleased with the pictures, gentlemen?” said Lady
Delacour, as she passed them.
“Oh, damme! no--‘tis a cursed bore; and yet there are some fine
pictures: one in particular--hey, Rochfort?--one damned fine picture!”
said Sir Philip. And the two gentlemen laughing significantly, followed
Lady Delacour and Belinda into the rooms.
“Ay, there’s one picture that’s worth all the rest, ‘pon honour!”
repeated Rochfort; “and we’ll leave it to your ladyship’s and Miss
Portman’s taste and judgment to find it out, mayn’t we, Sir Philip?”
“Oh, damme! yes,” said Sir Philip, “by all means.” But he was so
impatient to direct her eyes, that he could not keep himself still an
instant.
“Oh, curse it! Rochfort, we’d better tell the ladies at once, else they
may be all day looking and looking!”
“Nay, Sir Philip, may not I be allowed to guess? Must I be told which is
your fine picture?--This is not much in favour of my taste.”
“Oh, damn it! your ladyship has the best taste in the world, every body
knows; and so has Miss Portman--and this picture will hit her taste
particularly, I’m sure. It is Clarence Hervey’s fancy; but this is a
dead secret--dead--Clary no more thinks that we know it, than the man in
the moon.”
“Clarence Hervey’s fancy! Then I make no doubt of its being good for
something,” said Lady Delacour, “if the painter have done justice to his
imagination; for Clarence has really a fine imagination.”
“Oh, damme! ‘tis not amongst the history pieces,” cried Sir Philip;
“‘tis a portrait.”
“And a history piece, too, ‘pon honour!” said Rochfort: “a family
history piece, I take it, ‘pon honour! it will turn out,” said Rochfort;
and both the gentlemen were, or affected to be, thrown into convulsions
of laughter, as they repeated the words, “family history piece, ‘pon
honour!--family history piece, damme!”
“I’ll take my oath as to the portrait’s being a devilish good likeness,”
added Sir Philip; and as he spoke, he turned to Miss Portman: “Miss
Portman has it! damme, Miss Portman has him!”
Belinda hastily withdrew her eyes from the picture at which she was
looking. “A most beautiful creature!” exclaimed Lady Delacour.
“Oh, faith! yes; I always do Clary the justice to say, he has a damned
good taste for beauty.”
“But this seems to be foreign beauty,” continued Lady Delacour, “if one
may judge by her air, her dress, and the scenery about her--cocoa-trees,
plantains: Miss Portman, what think you?”
“I think,” said Belinda, (but her voice faltered so much that she could
hardly speak,) “that it is a scene from Paul and Virginia. I think the
figure is St. Pierre’s Virginia.”
“Virginia St. Pierre! ma’am,” cried Mr. Rochfort, winking at Sir Philip.
“No, no, damme! there you are wrong, Rochfort; say Hervey’s Virginia,
and then you have it, damme! or, may be, Virginia Hervey--who knows?”
“This is a portrait,” whispered the baronet to Lady Delacour, “of
Clarence’s mistress.” Whilst her ladyship leant her ear to this whisper,
which was sufficiently audible, she fixed a seemingly careless, but most
observing, inquisitive eye upon poor Belinda. Her confusion, for she
heard the whisper, was excessive.
“She loves Clarence Hervey--she has no thoughts of Lord Delacour and
his coronet: I have done her injustice,” thought Lady Delacour, and
instantly she despatched Sir Philip out of the room, for a catalogue
of the pictures, begged Mr. Rochfort to get her something else, and,
drawing Miss Portman’s arm within hers, she said, in a low voice, “Lean
upon me, my dearest Belinda: depend upon it, Clarence will never be such
a fool as to marry the girl--Virginia Hervey she will never be!”
“And what will become of her? can Mr. Hervey desert her? she looks
like innocence itself--and so young, too! Can he leave her for ever to
sorrow, and vice, and infamy?” thought Belinda, as she kept her eyes
fixed, in silent anguish, upon the picture of Virginia. “No, he cannot
do this: if he could he would be unworthy of me, and I _ought_ to think
of him no more. No; he will marry her; and I _must_ think of him no
more.”
She turned abruptly away from the picture, and she saw Clarence Hervey
standing beside her.
“What do you think of this picture? is it not beautiful? We are quite
enchanted with it; but you do not seem to be struck with it, as we were
at the first glance,” said Lady Delacour.
“Because,” answered Clarence, gaily, “it is not the first glance I have
had at that picture--I admired it yesterday, and admire it to-day.”
“But you are tired of admiring it, I see. Well, we shall not force you
to be in raptures with it--shall we, Miss Portman? A man may be tired of
the most beautiful face in the world, or the most beautiful picture;
but really there is so much sweetness, so much innocence, such tender
melancholy in this countenance, that, if I were a man, I should
inevitably be in love with it, and in love for ever! Such beauty, if it
were in nature, would certainly fix the most inconstant man upon earth.”
Belinda ventured to take her eyes for an instant from the picture, to
see whether Clarence Hervey looked like the most inconstant man upon
earth. He was intently gazing upon her; but as soon as she looked
round, he suddenly exclaimed, as he turned to the picture--“A heavenly
countenance, indeed!--the painter has done justice to the poet.”
“Poet!” repeated Lady Delacour: “the man’s in the clouds!”
“Pardon me,” said Clarence; “does not M. de St. Pierre deserve to
be called a poet? Though he does not write in rhyme, surely he has a
poetical imagination.”
“Certainly,” said Belinda; and from the composure with which Mr. Hervey
now spoke, she was suddenly inclined to believe, or to hope, that all
Sir Philip’s story was false. “M. de St. Pierre undoubtedly has a great
deal of imagination, and deserves to be called a poet.”
“Very likely, good people!” said Lady Delacour; “but what has that to do
with the present purpose?”
“Nay,” cried Clarence, “your ladyship certainly sees that this is St.
Pierre’s Virginia?”
“St. Pierre’s Virginia! Oh, I know who it is, Clarence, as well as you
do. I am not quite so blind, or so stupid, as you take me to be.” Then
recollecting her promise, not to betray Sir Philip’s secret, she added,
pointing to the landscape of the picture, “These cocoa trees, this
fountain, and the words _Fontaine de Virginie_, inscribed on the rock--I
must have been stupidity itself, if I had not found it out. I absolutely
_can_ read, Clarence, and spell, and put together. But here comes Sir
Philip Baddely, who, I believe, cannot read, for I sent him an hour ago
for a catalogue, and he pores over the book as if he had not yet made
out the title.”
Sir Philip had purposely delayed, because he was afraid of rejoining
Lady Delacour whilst Clarence Hervey was with her, and whilst they were
talking of the picture of Virginia.
“Here’s the catalogue; here’s the picture your ladyship wants. St.
Pierre’s Virginia: damme! I never heard of that fellow before--he is
some new painter, damme! that is the reason I did not know the hand. Not
a word of what I told you, Lady Delacour--you won’t blow us to Clary,”
added he _aside_ to her ladyship. “Rochfort keeps aloof; and so will I,
damme!”
A gentleman at this instant beckoned to Mr. Hervey with an air of great
eagerness. Clarence went and spoke to him, then returned with an altered
countenance, and apologized to Lady Delacour for not dining with her, as
he had promised. Business, he said, of great importance required that he
should leave town immediately. Helena had just taken Miss Portman into a
little room, where Westall’s drawings were hung, to show her a group
of Lady Anne Percival and her children; and Belinda was alone with
the little girl, when Mr. Hervey came to bid her adieu. He was in much
agitation.
“Miss Portman, I shall not, I am afraid, see you again for some
time;--perhaps I may never have that--hem!--happiness. I had something
of importance that I wished to say to you before I left town; but I
am forced to go so suddenly, I can hardly hope for any moment but the
present to speak to you, madam. May I ask whether you purpose remaining
much longer with Lady Delacour?”
“Yes,” said Belinda, much surprised. “I believe--I am not quite
certain--but I believe I shall stay with her ladyship some time longer.”
Mr. Hervey looked painfully embarrassed, and his eyes involuntarily fell
upon little Helena. Helena drew her hand gently away from Belinda, left
the room, and retired to her mother.
“That child, Miss Portman, is very fond of you,” said Mr. Hervey.
Again he paused, and looked round to see whether he could be overheard.
“Pardon me for what I am going to say. This is not a proper place. I
must be abrupt; for I am so circumstanced, that I have not a moment’s
time to spare. May I speak to you with the sincerity of a friend?”
“Yes. Speak to me with sincerity,” said Belinda, “and you will deserve
that I should think you my friend.” She trembled excessively, but spoke
and looked with all the firmness that she could command.
“I have heard a report,” said Mr. Hervey, “which is most injurious to
you.”
“To me!”
“Yes. No one can escape calumny. It is whispered, that if Lady Delacour
should die--.”
At the word _die_, Belinda started.
“That if Lady Delacour should die, Miss Portman would become the mother
of Helena!”
“Good Heavens! what an absurd report! Surely _you_ could not for an
instant believe it, Mr. Hervey?”
“Not for an instant. But I resolved, as soon as I heard it, to mention
it to you; for I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from
foolish mysteries--from the want of courage to speak the truth. Now that
you are upon your guard, your own prudence will defend you sufficiently.
I never saw any of your sex who appeared to me to have so much prudence,
and so little art; but--farewell--I have not a moment to lose,” added
Clarence, suddenly checking himself; and he hurried away from Belinda,
who stood fixed to the spot where he left her, till she was roused by
the voices of several people who came into the room to see the drawings.
She started as if from a dream, and went immediately in search of Lady
Delacour.
Sir Philip Baddely was in earnest conversation with her ladyship; but
he stopped speaking when Belinda came within hearing, and Lady Delacour
turned to Helena, and said, “My dear, if you are satisfied, for mercy’s
sake let us be gone, for I am absolutely overcome with heat--and with
curiosity,” added she in a low voice to Belinda: “I long to hear how
Clarence Hervey likes Westall’s drawings.”
As soon as they got home, Lady Delacour sent her daughter to practise
a new lesson upon the piano forte. “And now sit down, my dear Belinda,”
said she, “and satisfy my curiosity. It is the curiosity of a friend,
not of an impertinent busybody. Has Clarence declared himself? He chose
an odd time and place; but that is no matter; I forgive him, and so
do you, I dare say. But why do you tear that unfortunate carnation to
pieces? Surely you cannot be embarrassed in speaking to me! What’s
the matter? I once did tell you, that I would not give up my claim to
Clarence’s adorations during my life; but I intend to live a few years
longer after the amazonian operation is performed, you know; and I could
not have the conscience to keep you waiting whole years. It is better
to do things with a good grace, lest one should be forced at last to do
them with an ill grace. Therefore I give up all manner of claim to
every thing but--flattery! that of course you will allow me from poor
Clarence. So now do not begin upon another flower; but, without any
farther superfluous modesty, let me hear all the pretty things Clarence
said or swore.”
Whilst Belinda was pulling the carnation to pieces, she recollected what
Mr. Hervey had said to her about mysteries: his words still sounded
in her ear. “_I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from
foolish mysteries--from the want of courage to speak the truth_.” I will
have the courage to speak the truth, thought she, whatever it may cost
me.
“The only pretty thing that Mr. Hervey said was, that he never saw any
woman who had so much prudence and so little art,” said Belinda.
“A very pretty thing indeed, my dear! But it might have been said in
open court by your grandfather, or your great-grandfather. I am sorry,
if that was all, that Helena did not stay to hear such a charming moral
compliment--_Moralité à la glace_. The last thing I should have expected
in a _tête-à-tête_ with Clarence Hervey. Was it worth while to pull that
poor flower to pieces for such a pretty speech as this? And so that was
all?”
“No, not all: but you overpower me with your wit; and I cannot stand the
‘lightning of your eyes.’”
“There!” said her ladyship, letting down her veil over her face, “the
fire of my eyes is not too much for you now.”
“Helena was showing me Westall’s drawing of Lady Anne Percival and her
children--”
“And Mr. Hervey wished that he was the father of such a charming group
of children, and you the mother--hey? was not that it? It was not put in
such plain terms, but that was the purport, I presume?”
“No, not at all; he said nothing about Lady Anne Percival’s children,
but--”
“But--why then did you bring in her ladyship and her children? To gain
time?--Bad policy!--Never, whilst you live, when you have a story
to tell, bring in a parcel of people who have nothing to do with the
beginning, the middle, or the end of it. How could I suspect you of
such false taste! I really imagined these children were essential to the
business; but I beg pardon for giving you these elements of criticism. I
assure you I interrupt you, and talk on so fast, from pure good-nature,
to give you time to recollect yourself; for I know you’ve the worst of
memories, especially for what Clarence Hervey says. But come, my dear,
dash into the middle of things at once, in the true Epic style.”
“Then to dash into the midst of things at once,” said Miss Portman,
speaking very quick: “Mr. Hervey observed that Miss Delacour was growing
very fond of me.”
“Miss Delacour, did you say?” cried her ladyship: “_Et puis_?”
At this instant Champfort opened the door, looked in, and seeing Lady
Delacour, immediately retired.
“Champfort, whom do you want--or what do you want?” said her ladyship.
“Miladi, c’est que--I did come from milord, to see if miladi and
mademoiselle were visible. I did tink miladi was not at home.”
“You see I am at home, though,” said her ladyship. “Has Lord Delacour
any business with me?”
“No, miladi: not with miladi,” said Champfort; “it was with
mademoiselle.”
“With me, Monsieur Champfort? then you will be so good as to tell Lord
Delacour I am here.”
“And that _I_ am not here, Champfort; for I must be gone to dress.”
She rose hastily to leave the room, but Miss Portman caught her hand:
“You won’t go, I hope, Lady Delacour,” said she, “till I have finished
my long story?” Lady Delacour sat down again, ashamed of her own
embarrassment.
Whether this be art, innocence, or assurance, thought she, I cannot
tell; but we shall see.
Lord Delacour now came in, with a half-unfolded newspaper, and a packet
of letters in his hand. He came to apologize to Miss Portman for having,
by mistake, broken the seal of a letter to her, which had been sent
under cover to him. He had simply asked Champfort whether the ladies
were at home, that he might not have the trouble of going up stairs if
they were out. Monsieur Champfort possessed, in an eminent degree, the
mischievous art of appearing mysterious about the simplest things in the
world.
“Though I was so thoughtless as to break the seal before I looked at the
direction of the letter,” said Lord Delacour, “I assure you I went no
farther than the first three words; for I knew ‘my dear niece’ could not
possibly mean me.” He gave Miss Portman the letter, and left the
room. This explanation was perfectly satisfactory to Belinda; but Lady
Delacour, prejudiced by the hesitation of Champfort, could not help
suspecting that this letter was merely the ostensible cause of his
lordship’s visit.
“From my aunt Stanhope,” said Miss Portman, as she opened her letter.
She folded it up again after glancing over the first page, and put it
into her pocket, colouring deeply.
All Lady Delacour’s suspicions about Mrs. Stanhope’s epistolary counsels
and secrets instantly recurred, with almost the force of conviction to
her mind.
“Miss Portman,” said she, “I hope your politeness to me does not prevent
you from reading your letter? Some ceremonious people think it vastly
rude to read a letter in company; but I am not one of them: I can write
whilst you read, for I have fifty notes and more to answer. So pray read
your letter at your ease.”
Belinda had but just unfolded her letter again, when Lord Delacour
returned, followed by Champfort, who brought with him a splendid
hammer-cloth.
“Here, my dear Lady Delacour,” said his lordship, “is a little surprise
for you: here is a new hammer-cloth, of my bespeaking and taste, which I
hope you will approve of.”
“Very handsome, upon my word!” said Lady Delacour, coldly, and she fixed
her eyes upon the fringe, which was black and orange: “Miss Portman’s
taste, I see!”
“Did you not say black and orange fringe, my dear?”
“No. I said blue and white, my lord.”
His lordship declared he did not know how the mistake had happened; it
was merely a mistake:--but her ladyship was convinced that it was
done on purpose. And she said to herself, “Miss Portman will order my
liveries next! I have not even the shadow of power left in my own house!
I am not treated with even a decent show of respect! But this shall go
on till I have full conviction of her views.”
Dissembling her displeasure, she praised the hammer-cloth, and
especially the fringe. Lord Delacour retired satisfied; and Miss Portman
sat down to read the following letter from her aunt Stanhope.