A DECLARATION.
“I’ve found it!--I’ve found it, mamma!” cried little Charles Percival,
running eagerly into the room with a plant in his hand. “Will you send
this in your letter to Helena Delacour, and tell her that is the thing
that gold fishes are so fond of? And tell her that it is called lemna,
and that it may be found in any ditch or pool.”
“But how can she find ditches and pools in Grosvenor-square, my dear?”
“Oh, I forgot that. Then will you tell her, mamma, that I will send her
a great quantity?”
“How, my dear?”
“I don’t know, mamma, yet--but I will find out some way.”
“Would it not be as well, my dear,” said his mother, smiling, “to
consider how you can perform your promises before you make them?”
“A gentleman,” said Mr. Vincent, “never makes a promise that he cannot
perform.”
“I know that very well,” said the boy, proudly: “Miss Portman, who is
very good-natured, will, I am sure, be so good, when she goes back to
Lady Delacour, as to carry food for the gold fishes to Helena--you see
that I have found out a way to keep my promise.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Belinda; “for I am not going back to Lady
Delacour’s.”
“Then I am very glad of it!” said the boy, dropping the weed, and
clapping his hands joyfully; “for then I hope you will always stay here,
don’t you, mamma?--don’t _you_, Mr. Vincent? Oh, _you_ do, I am sure,
for I heard you say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so
red?”
His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question,
and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where
he found the food for the gold fishes.
Belinda, to Mr. Vincent’s great relief, seemed not to take any notice of
the child’s question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was
intently copying Westall’s sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family,
and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour’s name,
to many painful and some pleasing recollections. “What a charming woman,
and what a charming family!” said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the
drawing; “and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic
happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods
and goddesses, that ever were drawn!”
“Yes,” said Belinda, “and how much more interesting this picture is to
us, from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is
real, not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in
the countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round
her, are what they seem to be--the pride and pleasure of her life!”
“There cannot,” exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, “be a more
delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not
feel what you can paint so well?”
“Is it possible, sir,” said Belinda, “that you should suspect me of
such wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of
feeling?”
“You misunderstand--you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No;
there is not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all
hypocrisy, all affectation. But I imagined--I feared--”
As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily
turned over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table.
Belinda’s eye was caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the
character of the comic muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that
had subsisted between her ladyship and Miss Portman--she sighed from
the recollection of Clarence Hervey, and of all that had passed at the
masquerade.
“What a contrast!” said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour
beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. “What a contrast! Compare
their pictures--compare their characters--compare--”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Belinda; “Lady Delacour was once my friend, and
I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have
never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne
Percival.”
“I have been more fortunate, I _have_ seen one--one equally worthy of
esteem--admiration--love.”
Mr. Vincent’s voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda,
prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady,
simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, “You are indeed
very fortunate--peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies----”
“West-Indian ladies!” interrupted Mr. Vincent. “Surely, Miss Portman
cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian
lady!” Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. “Charming Miss
Portman,” continued he, “I have learnt to admire _European beauty,
European excellence_! I have acquired new ideas of the female
character--ideas--feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely
happy or exquisitely miserable.”
Miss Portman had been too often called “_charming_” to be much startled
or delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but
there was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent’s manner, that she
could no longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident
confusion. Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover
came into her mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and
dreaded that he should read her thoughts. “Exquisitely miserable!” said
she, in a tone of raillery: “I should not suppose, from what I have seen
of Mr. Vincent, that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable.”
“Then you do not know my character--you do not know my heart: it is in
_your_ power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold,
hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion,”
cried he, seizing her hand.
At this instant one of the children came in with some flowers to
Belinda; and, glad of the interruption, she hastily put up her drawings
and left the room, observing that she should scarcely have time to dress
before dinner. However, as soon as she found herself alone, she forgot
how late it was; and though she sat down before the glass to dress,
she made no progress in the business, but continued for some time
motionless, endeavouring to recollect and to understand all that had
passed. The result of her reflections was the conviction that her
partiality for Clarence Hervey was greater than she ever had till this
moment suspected. “I have told my aunt Stanhope,” thought she, “that the
idea of Mr. Hervey had no influence in my refusal of Sir Philip Baddely;
I have said that my affections are entirely at my own command: then why
do I feel this alarm at the discovery of Mr. Vincent’s views? Why do I
compare him with one whom I thought I had forgotten?--And yet how are we
to judge of character? How can we form any estimate of what is amiable,
of what will make us happy or miserable, but by comparison? Am I to
blame for perceiving superiority? Am I to blame if one person be more
agreeable, or seem to be more agreeable, than another? Am I to blame if
I cannot love Mr. Vincent?”
Before Belinda had answered these questions to her satisfaction, the
dinner-bell rang. There happened to dine this day at Mr. Percival’s a
gentleman who had just arrived from Lisbon, and the conversation turned
upon the sailors’ practice of stilling the waves over the bar of Lisbon
by throwing oil upon the water. Charles Percival’s curiosity was excited
by this conversation, and he wished to see the experiment. In the
evening his father indulged his wishes. The children were delighted at
the sight, and little Charles insisted upon Belinda’s following him to
a particular spot, where he was well convinced that she could see better
than any where else in the world. “Take care,” cried Lady Anne, “or you
will lead your friend into the river, Charles.” The boy paused, and
soon afterwards asked his father several questions about swimming and
drowning, and bringing people to life after they had been drowned.
“Don’t you remember, papa,” said he, “_that_ Mr. Hervey, who was almost
drowned in the Serpentine river in London?”--Belinda coloured at hearing
unexpectedly the name of the person of whom she was at that instant
thinking, and the child continued--“I liked that Mr. Hervey very much--I
liked him from the first day I saw him. What a number of entertaining
things he told us at dinner! We used to call him the good-natured
gentleman: I like him very much--I wish he was here this minute. Did you
ever see him, Miss Portman? Oh, yes, you must have seen him; for it was
he who carried Helena’s gold fishes to her mother, and he used often to
be at Lady Delacour’s--was not he?”
“Yes, my dear, often.”
“And did not you like him very much?”--This simple question threw
Belinda into inexpressible confusion: but fortunately the crimson on
her face was seen only by Lady Anne Percival. To Belinda’s great
satisfaction, Mr. Vincent forbore this evening any attempt to renew
the conversation of the morning; he endeavoured to mix, with his usual
animation and gaiety, in the family society; and her embarrassment was
much lessened when she heard the next day, at breakfast, that he was
gone to Harrowgate. Lady Anne Percival took notice that she was this
morning unusually sprightly.
After breakfast, as they were passing through the hall to take a walk in
the park, one of the little boys stopped to look at a musical instrument
which hung up against the wall.
“What is this, mamma?--It is not a guitar, is it?”
“No, my dear, it is called a banjore; it is an African instrument, of
which the negroes are particularly fond. Mr. Vincent mentioned it the
other day to Miss Portman, and I believe she expressed some curiosity to
see one. Juba went to work immediately to make a banjore, I find. Poor
fellow! I dare say that he was very sorry to go to Harrowgate, and to
leave his African guitar half finished; especially as it was intended
for an offering to Miss Portman. He is the most grateful, affectionate
creature I ever saw.”
“But why, mamma,” said Charles Percival, “is Mr. Vincent gone away? I
am sorry he is gone; I hope he will soon come back. In the mean time, I
must run and water my carnations.”
“His sorrow for his friend Mr. Vincent’s departure does not seem to
affect his spirits much,” said Lady Anne. “People who expect sentiment
from children of six years old will be disappointed, and will probably
teach them affectation. Surely it is much better to let their natural
affections have time to expand. If we tear the rosebud open we spoil the
flower.” Belinda smiled at this parable of the rosebud, which, she said,
might be applied to men and women, as well as to children.
“And yet, upon reflection,” said Lady Anne, “the heart has nothing in
common with a rosebud. Nonsensical allusions pass off very prettily
in conversation. I mean, when we converse with partial friends: but
we should reason ill, and conduct ourselves worse, if we were to trust
implicitly to poetical analogies. Our affections,” continued Lady Anne,
“arise from circumstances totally independent of our will.”
“That is the very thing I meant to say,” interrupted Belinda, eagerly.
“They are excited by the agreeable or useful qualities that we discover
in things or in persons.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Belinda.
“Or by those which our fancies discover,” said Lady Anne.
Belinda was silent; but, after a pause, she said, “That it was certainly
very dangerous, especially for women, to trust to fancy in bestowing
their affections.” “And yet,” said Lady Anne, “it is a danger to which
they are much exposed in society. Men have it in their power to assume
the appearance of every thing that is amiable and estimable, and women
have scarcely any opportunities of detecting the counterfeit.”
“Without Ithuriel’s spear, how can they distinguish the good from the
evil?” said Belinda. “This is a common-place complaint, I know; the
ready excuse that we silly young women plead, when we make mistakes
for which our friends reproach us, and for which we too often reproach
ourselves.”
“The complaint is common-place precisely because it is general and
just,” replied Lady Anne. “In the slight and frivolous intercourse,
which fashionable belles usually have with those fashionable beaux who
call themselves their lovers, it is surprising that they can discover
any thing of each other’s real character. Indeed they seldom do; and
this probably is the cause why there are so many unsuitable and unhappy
marriages. A woman who has an opportunity of seeing her lover in private
society, in domestic life, has infinite advantages; for if she has any
sense, and he has any sincerity, the real character of both may perhaps
be developed.”
“True,” said Belinda (who now suspected that Lady Anne alluded to Mr.
Vincent); “and in such a situation a woman would readily be able to
decide whether the man who addressed her would suit her taste or not;
so she would be inexcusable if, either from vanity or coquetry, she
disguised her real sentiments.”
“And will Miss Portman, who cannot, by any one to whom she is known,
be suspected of vanity or coquetry, permit me to speak to her with the
freedom of a friend?”
Belinda, touched by the kindness of Lady Anne’s manner, pressed her
hand, and exclaimed, “Yes, dear Lady Anne, speak to me with freedom--you
cannot do me a greater favour. No thought of my mind, no secret feeling
of my heart, shall be concealed from you.”
“Do not imagine that I wish to encroach upon the generous openness of
your temper,” said Lady Anne; “tell me when I go too far, and I will be
silent. One who, like Miss Portman, has lived in the world, has seen a
variety of characters, and probably has had a variety of admirers, must
have formed some determinate idea of the sort of companion that would
make her happy, if she were to marry--unless,” said Lady Anne, “she has
formed a resolution against marriage.”
“I have formed no such resolution,” said Belinda. “Indeed, since I have
seen the happiness which you and Mr. Percival enjoy in your own family,
I have been much more disposed to think that a union--that a union such
as yours, would increase my happiness. At the same time, my aversion to
the idea of marrying from interest, or convenience, or from any motives
but esteem and love, is increased almost to horror. O Lady Anne! there
is nothing that I would not do to please the friends to whom I am under
obligations, except sacrificing my peace of mind, or my integrity, the
happiness of my life, by--”
Lady Anne, in a gentle tone, assured her, that she was the last person
in the world who would press her to any union which would make her
unhappy. “You perceive that Mr. Vincent has spoken to me of what passed
between you yesterday. You perceive that I am his friend, but do not
forget that I am also yours. If you fear _undue influence_ from any of
your relations in favour of Mr. Vincent’s large fortune, &c. let his
proposal remain a secret between ourselves, till you can decide, from
farther acquaintance with him, whether it will be in your power to
return his affection.”
“I fear, my dear Lady Anne,” cried Belinda, “that it is not in my power
to return his affection.”
“And may I ask your objections?”
“Is it not a sufficient objection, that I am persuaded I cannot love
him?”
“No; for you may be mistaken in that persuasion. Remember what we said
a little while ago, about _fancy and spontaneous affections_. Does Mr.
Vincent appear to you defective in any of the qualities which you think
essential to happiness? Mr. Percival has known him from the time he was
a man, and can answer for his integrity and his good temper. Are not
these the first points you would consider? They ought to be, I am
sure, and I believe they are. Of his understanding I shall say nothing,
because you have had full opportunities of judging of it from his
conversation.”
“Mr. Vincent appears to have a good understanding,” said Belinda.
“Then to what do you object?--Is there any thing disgusting to you in
his person or manners?”
“He is very handsome, he is well bred, and his manners are unaffected,”
said Belinda; “but--do not accuse me of caprice--altogether he does not
suit my taste; and I cannot think it sufficient not to feel disgust for
a husband--though I believe this is the fashionable doctrine.”
“It is not mine, I assure you,” said Lady Anne. “I am not one of those
who think it ‘safest to begin with a little aversion;’ but since you
acknowledge that Mr. Vincent possesses the essential good qualities
that entitle him to your esteem, I am satisfied. We gradually acquire
knowledge of the good qualities of those who endeavour to please us;
and if they are really amiable, their persons become agreeable to us by
degrees, when we become accustomed to them.”
“Accustomed!” said Belinda, smiling: “one does grow accustomed even to
disagreeable things certainly; but at this rate, my dear Lady Anne, I do
not doubt but one might grow _accustomed_ to Caliban.”
“My belief in the reconciling power of custom does not go quite so far,”
said Lady Anne. “It does not extend to Caliban, or even to the hero of
La Belle et La Bête; but I do believe, that, in a mind so well regulated
as yours, esteem may certainly in time be improved into love. I will
tell Mr. Vincent so, my dear.”
“No, my dear Lady Anne! no; you must not--indeed you must not. You have
too good an opinion of me--my mind is not so well regulated--I am much
weaker, much sillier, than you imagine--than you can conceive,” said
Belinda.
Lady Anne soothed her with the most affectionate expressions, and
concluded with saying, “Mr. Vincent has promised not to return from
Harrowgate, to torment you with his addresses, if you be absolutely
determined against him. He is of too generous, and perhaps too proud
a temper, to persecute you with vain solicitations; and however Mr.
Percival and I may wish that he could obtain such a wife, we shall have
the common, or uncommon, sense and good-nature to allow our friends to
be happy their own way.”
“You are very good--too good. But am I then to be the cause of banishing
Mr. Vincent from all his friends--from Oakly-park?”
“Will he not do what is most prudent, to avoid the charming Miss
Portman,” said Lady Anne, smiling, “if he must not love her? This was at
least the advice I gave him, when he consulted us yesterday evening.
But I will not sign his writ of banishment lightly. Nothing but the
assurance that the heart is engaged can be a sufficient cause for
despair; nothing else could, in my eyes, justify you, my dear Belinda,
from the charge of caprice.”
“I can give you no such assurance, I hope--I believe,” said Belinda,
in great confusion; “and yet I would not for the world deceive you: you
have a right to my sincerity.” She paused; and Lady Anne said with a
smile, “Perhaps I can spare you the trouble of telling me in words what
a blush told me, or at least made me suspect, yesterday evening, when we
were standing by the river side, when little Charles asked you--”
“Yes, I remember--I saw you look at me.”
“Undesignedly, believe me.”
“Undesignedly, I am sure; but I was afraid you would think--”
“The truth.”
“No; but more than the truth. The truth you shall hear; and the rest I
will leave to your judgment and to your kindness.”
Belinda gave a full account of her acquaintance with Clarence Hervey; of
the variations in his manner towards her; of his excellent conduct with
respect to Lady Delacour (of this, by-the-by, she spoke at large). But
she was more concise when she touched upon the state of her own heart;
and her voice almost failed when she came to the history of the lock of
beautiful hair, the Windsor incognita, and the picture of Virginia. She
concluded by expressing her conviction of the propriety of forgetting a
man, who was in all probability attached to another, and she declared
it to be her resolution to banish him from her thoughts. Lady Anne said,
“that nothing could be more prudent or praiseworthy than forming such
a resolution--except keeping it.” Lady Anne had a high opinion of Mr.
Hervey; but she had no doubt, from Belinda’s account, and from her own
observations on Mr. Hervey, and from slight circumstances which had
accidentally come to Mr. Percival’s knowledge, that he was, as Belinda
suspected, attached to another person. She wished, therefore, to confirm
Miss Portman in this belief, and to turn her thoughts towards one who,
beside being deserving of her esteem and love, felt for her the most
sincere affection. She did not, however, press the subject farther at
this time, but contented herself with requesting that Belinda would take
three days (the usual time given for deliberation in fairy tales) before
she should decide against Mr. Vincent.
The next day they went to look at a porter’s lodge, which Mr. Percival
had just built; it was inhabited by an old man and woman, who had for
many years been industrious tenants, but who, in their old age, had been
reduced to poverty, not by imprudence, but by misfortune. Lady Anne was
pleased to see them comfortably settled in their new habitation;
and whilst she and Belinda were talking to the old couple, their
grand-daughter, a pretty looking girl of about eighteen, came in with
a basket of eggs in her hand. “Well, Lucy,” said Lady Anne, “have you
overcome your dislike to James Jackson?” The girl reddened, smiled, and
looked at her grand-mother, who answered for her in an arch tone, “Oh,
yes, my lady! We are not afraid of Jackson _now_; we are grown very
great friends. This pretty cane chair for my good man was his handiwork,
and these baskets he made for me. Indeed, he’s a most industrious,
ingenious, good-natured youth; and our Lucy takes no offence at his
courting her now, my lady, I can assure you. That necklace, which is
never off her neck now, he turned for her, my lady; it is a present of
his. So I tell him he need not be discouraged, though so be she did not
take to him at the first; for she’s a good girl, and a sensible girl--I
say it, though she’s my own; and the eyes are used to a face after a
time, and then it’s nothing. They say, fancy’s all in all in love: now
in my judgment, fancy’s little or nothing with girls that have sense.
But I beg pardon for prating at this rate, more especially when I am so
old as to have forgot all the little I ever knew about such things.”
“But you have the best right in the world to speak about such things,
and your grand-daughter has the best reason in the world to listen to
you,” said Lady Anne, “because, in spite of all the crosses of fortune,
you have been an excellent and happy wife, at least ever since I can
remember.”
“And ever since I can remember, that’s more; no offence to your
ladyship,” said the old man, striking his crutch against the ground.
“Ever since I can remember, she has made me the happiest man in the
whole world, in the whole parish, as every body knows, and I best of
all!” cried he, with a degree of enthusiasm that lighted up his aged
countenance, and animated his feeble voice.
“And yet,” said the honest dame, “if I had followed my fancy, and taken
up with my first love, it would not ha’ been with _he_, Lucy. I had a
sort of a fancy (since my lady’s so good as to let me speak), I had a
sort of a fancy for an idle young man; but he, very luckily for me, took
it into his head to fall in love with another young woman, and then I
had leisure enough left me to think of your grandfather, who was not so
much to my taste like at first. But when I found out his goodness and
cleverness, and joined to all, his great tenderness for me, I thought
better of it, Lucy (as who knows but you may do, though there shall
not be a word said on my part to press you, for poor Jackson?); and my
thinking better is the cause why I have been so happy ever since, and am
so still in my old age. Ah, Lucy! dear, what a many years that same old
age lasts, after all! But young folks, for the most part, never think
what’s to come after thirty or forty at farthest. But I don’t say this
for you, Lucy; for you are a good girl, and a sensible girl, though my
own grand-daughter, as I said before, and therefore won’t be run away
with by fancy, which is soon past and gone: but make a prudent choice,
that you won’t never have cause to repent of. But I’ll not say a word
more; I’ll leave it all to yourself and James Jackson.”
“You do right,” said Lady Anne: “good morning to you! Farewell, Lucy!
That’s a pretty necklace, and is very becoming to you--fare ye well!”
She hurried out of the cottage with Belinda, apprehensive that the
talkative old dame might weaken the effect of her good sense and
experience by a farther profusion of words.
“One would think,” said Belinda, with an ingenuous smile, “that this
lesson upon the dangers of _fancy_ was intended for me: at any rate, I
may turn it to my own advantage!”
“Happy those who can turn all the experience of others to their own
advantage!” said Lady Anne: “this would be a more valuable privilege
than the power of turning every thing that is touched to gold.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes; and then Miss Portman,
pursuing the train of her own thoughts, and unconscious that she had
not explained them to Lady Anne, abruptly exclaimed, “But if I should be
entangled, so as not to be able to retract!--and if it should not be
in my power to love him at last, he will think me a coquette, a jilt,
perhaps: he will have reason to complain of me, if I waste his time, and
trifle with his affections. Then is it not better that I should avoid,
by a decided refusal, all possibility of injury to Mr. Vincent, and of
blame to myself?”
“There is no danger of Mr. Vincent’s misunderstanding or misrepresenting
you. The risk that he runs is by his voluntary choice; and I am sure
that if, after farther acquaintance with him, you find it impossible to
return his affection, he will not consider himself as ill-used by your
refusal.”
“But after a certain time--after the world suspects that two people are
engaged to each other, it is scarcely possible for the woman to recede:
when they come within a certain distance, they are pressed to unite, by
the irresistible force of external circumstances. A woman is too often
reduced to this dilemma: either she must marry a man she does not love,
or she must be blamed by the world--either she must sacrifice a portion
of her reputation, or the whole of her happiness.”
“The world is indeed often too curious, and too rash in these affairs,”
said Lady Anne. “A young woman is not in this respect allowed sufficient
time for freedom of deliberation. She sees, as Mr. Percival once said,
‘the drawn sword of tyrant custom suspended over her head by a single
hair.’”
“And yet, notwithstanding you are so well aware of the danger, your
ladyship would expose me to it?” said Belinda.
“Yes; for I think the chance of happiness, in this instance,
overbalances the risk,” said Lady Anne. “As we cannot alter the common
law of custom, and as we cannot render the world less gossiping, or less
censorious, we must not expect always to avoid censure; all we can do
is, never to deserve it--and it would be absurd to enslave ourselves to
the opinion of the idle and ignorant. To a certain point, respect for
the opinion of the world is prudence; beyond that point, it is weakness.
You should also consider that the _world_ at Oakly-park and in London
are two different worlds. In London if you and Mr. Vincent were seen
often in each other’s company, it would be immediately buzzed about that
Miss Portman and Mr. Vincent were going to be married; and if the match
did not take place, a thousand foolish stories might be told to account
for its being broken off. But here you are not surrounded by busy eyes
and busy tongues. The butchers, bakers, ploughmen, and spinsters, who
compose our world, have all affairs of their own to mind. Besides, their
comments can have no very extensive circulation; they are used to see
Mr. Vincent continually here; and his staying with us the remainder of
the autumn will not appear to them any thing wonderful or portentous.”
Their conversation was interrupted. Mr. Vincent returned to
Oakly-park--but upon the express condition that he should not make his
attachment public by any particular attentions, and that he should draw
no conclusions in his favour from Belinda’s consenting to converse with
him freely upon every common subject. To this treaty of amity Lady Anne
Percival was guarantee.