DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.
There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness
with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda, that was peculiarly
agreeable to her agitated and harassed mind.
“You see, Lady Anne,” said Belinda, “that I come to you at last, after
having so often refused your kind invitations.”
“So you surrender yourself at discretion, just when I was going to raise
the siege in despair,” said Lady Anne: “now I may make my own terms; and
the only terms I shall impose are, that you will stay at Oakly-park with
us, as long as we can make it agreeable to you, and no longer. Whether
those who cease to please, or those who cease to be pleased, are most to
blame,[6] it may sometimes be difficult to determine; so difficult,
that when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps had
better part than venture upon the discussion.”
Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something
disagreeable had passed between Lady Delacour and Belinda; but she
was not troubled with the disease of idle curiosity, and her example
prevailed upon Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who dined with her, to refrain
from all questions and comments.
The prejudice which this lady had conceived against our heroine, as
being a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s, had lately been vanquished by the
favourable representations of her conduct which she had heard from her
nephew, and by the kindness that Belinda had shown to little Helena.
“Madam,” said Mrs. Delacour, addressing herself to Miss Portman
with some formality, but much dignity, “permit me, as one of my Lord
Delacour’s nearest relations now living, to return you my thanks for
having, as my nephew informs me, exerted your influence over Lady
Delacour for the happiness of his family. My little Helena, I am sure,
feels her obligations towards you, and I rejoice that I have had an
opportunity of expressing, in person, my sense of what our family owes
to Miss Portman. As to the rest, her own heart will reward her. The
praise of the world is but an inferior consideration. However, it
deserves to be mentioned, as an instance of the world’s candour, and
for the singularity of the case, that every body agrees in speaking well
even of so handsome a young lady as Miss Portman.”
“She must have had extraordinary prudence,” said Lady Anne; “and the
world does justly to reward it with extraordinary esteem.”
Belinda, with equal pleasure and surprise, observed that all this was
said sincerely, and that the report, which she had feared was public,
had never reached Mrs. Delacour or Lady Anne Percival.
In fact, it was known and believed only by those who had been prejudiced
by the malice or folly of Sir Philip Baddely. Piqued by the manner in
which his addresses had been received by Belinda, he readily listened to
the comfortable words of his valet de chambre, who assured him that he
had it from the best possible authority (Lord Delacour’s own gentleman,
Mr. Champfort), that his lordship was deeply _taken_ with Miss
Portman--that the young lady managed every thing in the house--that she
had been very prudent, to be sure, and had refused large presents--but
that there was no doubt of her becoming Lady Delacour, if ever his
lordship should be at liberty. Sir Philip was the person who mentioned
this to Clarence Hervey, and Sir Philip was the person who hinted it
to Mrs. Stanhope, in the very letter which he wrote to implore
her influence in favour of his own proposal. This manoeuvring lady
represented this report as being universally known and believed, in
hopes of frightening her niece into an immediate match with the baronet.
In the whole extent of Mrs. Stanhope’s politic imagination, she had
never foreseen the possibility of her niece’s speaking the simple truth
to Lady Delacour, and she had never guarded against this danger. She
never thought of Belinda’s mentioning this report to her ladyship,
because she would never have dealt so openly, had she been in the place
of her niece. Thus her art and falsehood operated against her own views,
and produced consequences diametrically opposite to her expectations.
It was her exaggerations that made Lady Delacour believe, when Belinda
repeated what she had said, that this report was universally known and
credited; her own suspicions were by these means again awakened, and her
jealousy and rage were raised to such a pitch, that, no longer mistress
of herself, she insulted her friend and guest. Miss Portman was then
obliged to do the very thing that Mrs. Stanhope most dreaded--to leave
Lady Delacour’s house and all its advantages. As to Sir Philip Baddely,
Belinda never thought of him from the moment she read her aunt’s letter,
till after she had left her ladyship; her mind was firmly decided upon
this subject; yet she could not help fearing that her aunt would not
understand her reasons, or approve her conduct. She wrote to Mrs.
Stanhope in the most kind and respectful manner; assured her that there
had been no foundation whatever for the report which had produced
so much uneasiness; that Lord Delacour had always treated her with
politeness and good-nature, but that such thoughts or views as had been
attributed to him, she was convinced had never entered his lordship’s
mind; that hearing of the publicity of this report had, however, _much
affected_ Lady D----. “I have, therefore,” said Belinda, “thought it
prudent to quit her ladyship, and to accept of an invitation from Lady
Anne Percival to Oakly-park. I hope, my dear aunt, that you will not be
displeased by my leaving town without seeing Sir Philip Baddely again.
Our meeting could indeed answer no purpose, as it is entirely out of my
power to return his partiality. Of his character, temper, and manners,
I know enough to be convinced, that our union could tend only to make
us both miserable. After what I have seen, nothing can ever tempt me to
marry from any of the common views of interest or ambition.”
On this subject Belinda, though she declared her own sentiments with
firm sincerity, touched as slightly as she could, because she anxiously
wished to avoid all appearance of _braving_ the opinions of an aunt to
whom she was under obligations. She was tempted to pass over in silence
all that part of Mrs. Stanhope’s letter which related to Clarence
Hervey; but upon reflection, she determined to conquer her repugnance
to speak of him, and to make perfect sincerity the steady rule of her
conduct. She therefore acknowledged to her aunt, that of all the persons
she had hitherto seen, this gentleman was the most agreeable to her; but
at the same time she assured her, that the refusal of Sir Philip Baddely
was totally independent of all thoughts of Mr. Hervey--that, before she
had received her aunt’s letter, circumstances had convinced her that Mr.
Hervey was attached to another woman. She concluded by saying, that she
had neither romantic hopes nor wishes, and that her affections were at
her own command.
Belinda received the following angry answer from Mrs. Stanhope:--
“Henceforward, Belinda, you may manage your own affairs as you think
proper; I shall never more interfere with my advice. Refuse whom you
please--go where you please--get what friends, and what admirers, and
what establishment you can--I have nothing more to do with it--I will
never more undertake the management of young people. There’s your sister
Tollemache has made a pretty return for all my kindness! she is going to
be parted from her husband, and basely throws all the blame upon me. But
‘tis the same with all of you. There’s your cousin Joddrell refused me a
hundred guineas last week, though the piano-forte and harp I bought
for her before she was married stood me in double that sum, and are
now useless lumber on my hands; and she never could have had Joddrell
without them, as she knows as well as I do. As for Mrs. Levit, she
never writes to me, and takes no manner of notice of me. But this is no
matter, for her notice can be of no consequence now to any body. Levit
has run out every thing he had in the world!--All his fine estates
advertised in to-day’s paper--an execution in the House, I’m told. I
expect that she will have the assurance to come to me in her distress:
but she shall find my doors shut, I promise her. Your cousin Valleton’s
match has, through her own folly, turned out like all the rest. She, her
husband, and all his relations are at daggers-drawing; and Valleton will
die soon, and won’t leave her a farthing in his will, I foresee, and all
the fine Valleton estate goes to God knows whom!
“If she had taken my advice after marriage as before, it would have been
all her own at this instant. But the passions run away with people, and
they forget every thing--common sense, gratitude, and all--as you
do, Belinda. Clarence Hervey will never think of you, and I give you
up!--Now manage for yourself as you please, and as you can! I’ll have
nothing more to do with the affairs of young ladies who will take no
advice.
“SELINA STANHOPE.
“P. S. If you return directly to Lady Delacour’s, and marry Sir Philip
Baddely, I will forgive the past.”
The regret which Belinda felt at having grievously offended her aunt was
somewhat alleviated by the reflection that she had acted with integrity
and prudence. Thrown off her guard by anger, Mrs. Stanhope had
inadvertently furnished her niece with the best possible reasons against
following her advice with regard to Sir Philip Baddely, by stating that
her sister and cousins, who had married with mercenary views, had made
themselves miserable, and had shown their aunt neither gratitude nor
respect.
The tranquillity of Belinda’s mind was gradually restored by the society
that she enjoyed at Oakly-park. She found herself in the midst of a
large and cheerful family, with whose domestic happiness she could
not forbear to sympathize. There was an affectionate confidence, an
unconstrained gaiety in this house, which forcibly struck her, from its
contrast with what she had seen at Lady Delacour’s. She perceived that
between Mr. Percival and Lady Anne there was a union of interests,
occupations, taste, and affection. She was at first astonished by the
openness with which they talked of their affairs in her presence; that
there were no family secrets, nor any of those petty mysteries
which arise from a discordance of temper or struggle for power. In
conversation, every person expressed without constraint their wishes and
opinions; and wherever these differed, reason and the general good were
the standards to which they appealed. The elder and younger part of the
family were not separated from each other; even the youngest child in
the house seemed to form part of the society, to have some share and
interest in the general occupations or amusements The children
were treated neither as slaves nor as playthings, but as reasonable
creatures; and the ease with which they were managed, and with which
they managed themselves, surprised Belinda; for she heard none of that
continual lecturing which goes forward in some houses, to the great
fatigue and misery of all the parties concerned, and of all the
spectators. Without force or any factitious excitements, the taste for
knowledge, and the habits of application, were induced by example, and
confirmed by sympathy. Mr. Percival was a man of science and literature,
and his daily pursuits and general conversation were in the happiest
manner instructive and interesting to his family. His knowledge of the
world, and his natural gaiety of disposition, rendered his conversation
not only useful, but in the highest degree amusing. From the merest
trifles he could lead to some scientific fact, some happy literary
allusion, or philosophical investigation.
Lady Anne Percival had, without any pedantry or ostentation, much
accurate knowledge, and a taste for literature, which made her the
chosen companion of her husband’s understanding, as well as of his
heart. He was not obliged to reserve his conversation for friends of
his own sex, nor was he forced to seclude himself in the pursuit of any
branch of knowledge; the partner of his warmest affections was also
the partner of his most serious occupations; and her sympathy and
approbation, and the daily sense of her success in the education of
their children, inspired him with a degree of happy social energy,
unknown to the selfish solitary votaries of avarice and ambition.
In this large and happy family there was a variety of pursuits. One
of the boys was fond of chemistry, another of gardening; one of the
daughters had a talent for painting, another for music; and all their
acquirements and accomplishments contributed to increase their mutual
happiness, for there was no envy or jealousy amongst them.
Those who unfortunately have never enjoyed domestic happiness, such as
we have just described, will perhaps suppose the picture to be visionary
and romantic; there are others--it is hoped many others--who will
feel that it is drawn from truth and real life. Tastes that have been
vitiated by the stimulus of dissipation might, perhaps, think these
simple pleasures insipid.
Every body must ultimately judge of what makes them happy, from the
comparison of their own feelings in different situations. Belinda was
convinced by this comparison, that domestic life was that which could
alone make her really and permanently happy. She missed none of the
pleasures, none of the gay company, to which she had been accustomed at
Lady Delacour’s. She was conscious, at the end of each day, that it had
been agreeably spent; yet there were no extraordinary exertions made to
entertain her; every thing seemed in its natural course, and so did
her mind. Where there was so much happiness, no want of what is called
_pleasure_ was ever experienced. She had not been at Oakly-park a week
before she forgot that it was within a few miles of Harrowgate, and she
never once recollected her vicinity to this fashionable water-drinking
place for a month afterwards.
“Impossible!” some young ladies will exclaim. We hope others will feel
that it was perfectly natural. But to deal fairly with our readers, we
must not omit to mention a certain Mr. Vincent, who came to Oakly-park
during the first week of Belinda’s visit, and who stayed there during
the whole succeeding month of felicity. Mr. Vincent was a creole; he was
about two-and-twenty: his person and manners were striking and engaging;
he was tall, and remarkably handsome; he had large dark eyes, an
aquiline nose, fine hair, and a manly sunburnt complexion; his
countenance was open and friendly, and when he spoke upon any
interesting subject, it lighted up, and became full of fire and
animation. He used much gesture in conversation; he had not the common
manners of young men who are, or who aim at being thought, fashionable,
but he was perfectly at ease in company, and all that was uncommon about
him appeared foreign. He had a frank, ardent temper, incapable of art
or dissimulation, and so unsuspicious of all mankind, that he could
scarcely believe falsehood existed in the world, even after he had
himself been its dupe. He was in extreme astonishment at the detection
of any species of baseness in a _gentleman_; for he considered honour
and generosity as belonging indefeasibly, if not exclusively, to the
privileged orders. His notions of virtue were certainly aristocratic in
the extreme, but his ambition was to entertain such only as would best
support and dignify an aristocracy. His pride was magnanimous, not
insolent; and his social prejudices were such as, in some degree, to
supply the place of the power and habit of reasoning, in which he was
totally deficient. One principle of philosophy he practically possessed
in perfection; he enjoyed the present, undisturbed by any unavailing
regret for the past, or troublesome solicitude about the future. All the
goods of life he tasted with epicurean zest; all the evils he bore with
stoical indifference. The mere pleasure of existence seemed to keep him
in perpetual good humour with himself and others; and his never-failing
flow of animal spirits exhilarated even the most phlegmatic. To persons
of a cold and reserved temper he sometimes appeared rather too much
of an egotist: for he talked with fluent enthusiasm of the excellent
qualities and beauties of whatever he loved, whether it were his dog,
his horse, or his country: but this was not the egotism of vanity; it
was the overflowing of an affectionate heart, confident of obtaining
sympathy from his fellow-creatures, because conscious of feeling it for
all that existed.
He was as grateful as he was generous; and though high-spirited and
impatient of restraint, he would submit with affectionate gentleness to
the voice of a friend, or listen with deference to the counsel of those
in whose superior judgment he had confidence. Gratitude, respect, and
affection, all conspired to give Mr. Percival the strongest power over
his soul. Mr. Percival had been a guardian and a father to him. His own
father, an opulent merchant, on his death-bed requested that his son,
who was then about eighteen, might be immediately sent to England for
the advantages of a European education. Mr. Percival, who had a
regard for the father, arising from circumstances which it is not here
necessary to explain, accepted the charge of young Vincent, and managed
so well, that his ward when he arrived at the age of twenty-one did not
feel relieved from any restraint. On the contrary, his attachment to his
guardian increased from that period, when the laws gave him full command
over his fortune and his actions. Mr. Vincent had been at Harrowgate for
some time before Mr. Percival came into the country; but as soon as
he heard of Mr. Percival’s arrival, he left half finished a game of
billiards, of which, by-the-bye, he was extremely fond, to pay his
respects at Oakly-park. At the first sight of Belinda, he did not seem
much struck with her appearance; perhaps, from his thinking that there
was too little languor in her eyes, and too much colour in her cheeks;
he confessed that she was graceful, but her motions were not quite slow
enough to please him.
It is somewhat singular that Lady Delacour’s faithful friend, Harriot
Freke, should be the cause of Mr. Vincent’s first fixing his favourable
attention on Miss Portman.
He had a black servant of the name of Juba, who was extremely attached
to him: he had known Juba from a boy, and had brought him over with
him when he first came to England, because the poor fellow begged so
earnestly to go with young massa. Juba had lived with him ever since,
and accompanied him wherever he went. Whilst he was at Harrowgate, Mr.
Vincent lodged in the same house with Mrs. Freke. Some dispute arose
between their servants, about the right to a coach-house, which each
party claimed as exclusively their own. The master of the house was
appealed to by Juba, who sturdily maintained his massa’s right; he
established it, and rolled his massa’s curricle into the coach-house in
triumph. Mrs. Freke, who heard and saw the whole transaction from her
window, said, or swore, that she would make Juba repent of what she
called his insolence. The threat was loud enough to reach his ears, and
he looked up in astonishment to hear such a voice from a woman; but an
instant afterwards he began to sing very gaily, as he jumped into the
curricle to turn the cushions, and then danced himself up and down by
the springs, as if rejoicing in his victory. A second and a third time
Mrs. Freke repeated her threat, confirming it by an oath, and then
violently shut down the window and disappeared. Mr. Vincent, to whom
Juba, with much simplicity, expressed his aversion of the _man-woman_
who lived in the house with them, laughed at the odd manner in which the
black imitated her voice and gesture, but thought no more of the matter.
Some time afterward, however, Juba’s spirits forsook him; he was never
heard to sing or to whistle, he scarcely ever spoke even to his master,
who was much surprised by this sudden change from gaiety and loquacity
to melancholy taciturnity. Nothing could draw from the poor fellow any
explanation of the cause of this alteration in his humour; and though
he seemed excessively grateful for the concern which his master showed
about his health, no kindness or amusement could restore him to his
wonted cheerfulness. Mr. Vincent knew that he was passionately fond of
music; and having heard him once express a wish for a tambourine, he
gave him one: but Juba never played upon it, and his spirits seemed
every day to grow worse and worse. This melancholy lasted during the
whole time that he remained at Harrowgate, but from the first day of his
arrival at Oakly-park he began to mend: after he had been there a week,
he was heard to sing, and whistle, and talk as he used to do, and his
master congratulated him upon his recovery. One evening his master
asked him to go back to Harrowgate for his tambourine, as little Charles
Percival wished to hear him play upon it. This simple request had a
wonderful effect upon poor Juba; he began to tremble from head to foot,
his eyes became fixed, and he stood motionless; after some time, he
suddenly clasped his hands, fell upon his knees, and exclaimed:
“Oh, massa, Juba die! If Juba go back, Juba die!” and he wiped away the
drops that stood upon his forehead. “But me will go, if massa bid--me
will die!”
Mr. Vincent began to imagine that the poor fellow was out of his senses.
He assured him, with the greatest kindness, that he would almost as soon
hazard his own life as that of such a faithful, affectionate servant;
but he pressed him to explain what possible danger he dreaded from
returning to Harrowgate. Juba was silent, as if afraid to speak--“Don’t
fear to speak to me,” said Mr. Vincent; “I will defend you: if anybody
have injured you, or if you dread that any body will injure you, trust
to me; I will protect you.”
“Ah, massa, you no can! Me die, if me go back! Me no can say word more;”
and he put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head. Mr. Vincent
knew that Juba was excessively superstitious; and convinced, that, if
his mind were not already deranged, it would certainly become so, were
any secret terror thus to prey upon his imagination, he assumed a
very grave countenance, and assured him, that he should be extremely
displeased if he persisted in this foolish and obstinate silence.
Overcome by this, Juba burst into tears, and answered:
“Den me will tell all.”
This conversation passed before Miss Portman and Charles Percival, who
were walking in the park with Mr. Vincent, at the time he met Juba and
asked him to go for the tambourine. When he came to the words, “Me will
tell all,” he made a sign that he wished to tell it to his master alone.
Belinda and the little boy walked on, to leave him at liberty to speak;
and then, though with a sort of reluctant horror, he told that the
figure of an old woman, all in flames, had appeared to him in his
bedchamber at Harrowgate every night, and that he was sure she was one
of the obeah-women of his own country, who had pursued him to Europe to
revenge his having once, when he was a child, trampled upon an egg-shell
that contained some of her poisons. The extreme absurdity of this story
made Mr. Vincent burst out a laughing; but his humanity the next instant
made him serious; for the poor victim of superstitious terror, after
having revealed what, according to the belief of his country, it is
death to mention, fell senseless on the ground. When he came to himself,
he calmly said, that he knew he must now die, for that the obeah-women
never forgave those that talked of them or their secrets; and, with a
deep groan, he added, that he wished he might die before night, that he
might not see _her_ again. It was in vain to attempt to reason him out
of the idea that he had actually seen this apparition: his account of it
was, that it first appeared to him in the coach-house one night, when
he went thither in the dark--that he never afterwards went to the
coach-house in the dark--but that the same figure of an old woman, all
in flames, appeared at the foot of his bed every night whilst he stayed
at Harrowgate; and that he was then persuaded she would never let him
escape from her power till she had killed him. That since he had left
Harrowgate, however, she had not tormented him, for he had never seen
her, and he was in hopes that she had forgiven him; but that now he was
sure of her vengeance for having spoken of her.
Mr. Vincent knew the astonishing power which the belief in this species
of sorcery[7] has over the minds of the Jamaica negroes; they pine
and actually die away from the moment they fancy themselves under the
malignant influence of these witches. He almost gave poor Juba over for
lost. The first person that he happened to meet after his conversation
was Belinda, to whom he eagerly related it, because he had observed,
that she had listened with much attention and sympathy to the beginning
of the poor fellow’s story. The moment that she heard of the flaming
apparition, she recollected having seen a head drawn in phosphorus,
which one of the children had exhibited for her amusement, and it
occurred to her that, perhaps, some imprudent or ill-natured person
might have terrified the ignorant negro by similar means. When she
mentioned this to Mr. Vincent, he recollected the threat that had been
thrown out by Mrs. Freke, the day that Juba had taken possession of
the disputed coach-house; and from the character of this lady, Belinda
judged that she would be likely to play such a trick, and to call it,
as usual, fun or frolic. Miss Portman suggested that one of the children
should show him the phosphorus, and should draw some ludicrous figure
with it in his presence. This was done, and it had the effect that she
expected. Juba, familiarized by degrees with the object of his secret
horror, and convinced that no obeah-woman was exercising over him her
sorceries, recovered his health and spirits. His gratitude to Miss
Portman, who was the immediate cause of his cure, was as simple and
touching as it was lively and sincere. This was the circumstance which
first turned Mr. Vincent’s attention towards Belinda. Upon examining the
room in which the negro used to sleep at Harrowgate, the strong smell
of phosphorus was perceived, and part of the paper was burnt on the very
spot where he had always seen the figure, so that he was now perfectly
convinced that this trick had been purposely played to frighten him, in
revenge for his having kept possession of the coach-house.
Mrs. Freke, when she found herself detected, gloried in the jest, and
told the story as a good joke wherever she went--triumphing in the
notion, that it was she who had driven both _master and man_ from
Harrowgate.
The exploit was, however, by no means agreeable in its consequences to
her friend Mrs. Luttridge, who was now at Harrowgate. For reasons of her
own, she was very anxious to fix Mr. Vincent in her society, and she
was much provoked by Mrs. Freke’s conduct. The ladies came to high words
upon the occasion, and an irreparable breach would have ensued had
not Mrs. Freke, in the midst of her rage, recollected Mrs. Luttridge’s
electioneering interest: and suddenly changing her tone, she declared
that “she was really sorry to have driven Mr. Vincent from Harrowgate;
that her only intention was to get rid of his black; she would lay any
wager, that, with Mrs. Luttridge’s assistance, they could soon get the
gentleman back again;” and she proposed, as a certain method of
fixing Mr. Vincent in Mrs. Luttridge’s society, to invite Belinda to
Harrowgate.
“You may be sure,” said Mrs. Freke, “that she must by this time be
cursedly tired of her visit to those stupid good people at Oakly-park,
and never woman _wanted_ an excuse to do any thing she liked: so trust
to her own ingenuity to make some decent apology to the Percivals for
running away from them. As to Vincent, you may be sure Belinda Portman
is his only inducement for staying with that precious family-party; and
if we have her we have him. Now we can be sure of her, for she has just
quarrelled with our dear Lady Delacour. I had the whole story from
my maid, who had it from Champfort. Lady Delacour and she are at
daggers-drawing, and it will be delicious to her to hear her ladyship
handsomely abused. We are the declared enemies of her enemy, so we must
be her friends. Nothing unites folk so quickly and so solidly, as hatred
of some common foe.”
This argument could not fail to convince Mrs. Luttridge, and the next
day Mrs. Freke commenced her operations. She drove in her _unicorn_ to
Oakly-park to pay Miss Portman a visit. She had no acquaintance either
with Mr. Percival or Lady Anne, and she had always treated Belinda, when
she met her in town, rather cavalierly, as an humble companion of Lady
Delacour. But it cost Mrs. Freke nothing to change her tone: she was one
of those ladies who can remember or forget people, be perfectly familiar
or strangely rude, just as it suits the convenience, fashion, or humour
of the minute.