A WEDDING.
Belinda and Mr. Vincent could never agree in their definition of
the-word _flattery_; so that there were continual complaints on the one
hand of a breach of treaty, and, on the other, solemn protestations of
the most scrupulous adherence to his compact. However this might be,
it is certain that the gentleman gained so much, either by truth or
fiction, that, in the course of some weeks, he got the lady as far as
“gratitude and esteem.”
One evening, Belinda was playing with little Charles Percival at
spillikins. Mr. Vincent, who found pleasure in every thing that amused
Belinda, and Mr. Percival, who took an interest in every thing which
entertained his children, were looking on at this simple game.
“Mr. Percival,” said Belinda, “condescending to look at a game of
jack-straws!”
“Yes,” said Lady Anne; “for he is of Dryden’s opinion, that, if a straw
can be made the instrument of happiness, he is a wise man who does not
despise it.”
“Ah! Miss Portman, take care!” cried Charles, who was anxious that she
should win, though he was playing against her. “Take care! don’t touch
that knave.”
“I would lay a hundred guineas upon the steadiness of Miss Portman’s
hand,” cried Mr. Vincent.
“I’ll lay you sixpence, though,” cried Charles, eagerly, “that she’ll
stir the king, if she touches that knave--I’ll lay you a shilling.”
“Done! done!” cried Mr. Vincent.
“Done! done!” cried the boy, stretching out his hand, but his father
caught it.
“Softly! softly, Charles!--No betting, if you please, my dear. Done and
done sometimes ends in--undone.”
“It was my fault--it was I who was in the wrong,” cried Vincent
immediately.
“I am sure you are in the right, now,” said Mr. Percival; “and, what
is better than my saying so, Miss Portman thinks so, as her smile tells
me.”
“You moved, Miss Portman!” cried Charles:--“Oh, indeed! the king’s head
stirred, the very instant papa spoke. I knew it was impossible that you
could get that knave clear off without shaking the king. Now, papa, only
look how they were balanced.”
“I grant you,” said Mr. Vincent, “I should have made an imprudent bet.
So it is well I made none; for now I see the chances were ten to one,
twenty to one, a hundred to one against me.”
“It does not appear to me to be a matter of chance,” said Mr. Percival.
“This is a game of address, not chance, and that is the reason I like
it.”
“Oh, papa! Oh, Miss Portman! look how nicely these are balanced. There!
my breath has set them in motion. Look, they shake, shake, shake, like
the great rocking-stones at Brimham Crags.”
“That is comparing small things to great, indeed!” said Mr. Percival.
“By-the-by,” cried Mr. Vincent, “Miss Portman has never seen those
wonderful rocking-stones--suppose we were to ride to see them
to-morrow?”
The proposal was warmly seconded by the children, and agreed to by every
one. It was settled, that after they had seen Brimham Crags they should
spend the remainder of the day at Lord C----‘s beautiful place in the
neighbourhood.
The next morning was neither too hot nor too cold, and they set out on
their little party of pleasure; the children went with their mother, to
their great delight, in the _sociable_; and Mr. Vincent, to his great
delight, rode with Belinda. When they came within sight of the Crags,
Mr. Percival, who was riding with them, exclaimed--“What is that yonder,
on the top of one of the great rocking-stones?”
“It looks like a statue,” said Vincent. “It has been put up since we
were here last.”
“I fancy it has got up of itself,” said Belinda, “for it seems to be
getting down of itself. I think I saw it stoop. Oh! I see now, it is a
man who has got up there, and he seems to have a gun in his hand, has
not he? He is going through his manual exercise for his diversion--for
the diversion of the spectators below, I perceive--there is a party of
people looking at him.”
“Him!” said Mr. Percival.
“I protest it is a woman!” said Vincent.
“No, surely,” said Belinda: “it cannot be a woman!”
“Not unless it be Mrs. Freke,” replied Mr. Percival.
In fact it was Mrs. Freke, who had been out shooting with a party of
gentlemen, and who had scrambled upon this rocking-stone, on the summit
of which she went through the manual exercise at the word of command
from her officer. As they rode nearer to the scene of action, Belinda
heard the shrill screams of a female voice, and they descried amongst
the gentlemen a slight figure in a riding habit.
“Miss Moreton, I suppose,” said Mr. Vincent.
“Poor girl! what are they doing with her?” cried Belinda.
“They seem to be forcing her up to the top of that place, where she has
no mind to go. Look how Mrs. Freke drags her up by the arm!”
As they drew nearer, they heard Mrs. Freke laughing loud as she rocked
this frightened girl upon the top of the stone.
“We had better keep out of the way, I think,” said Belinda: “for
perhaps, as she has vowed vengeance against me, she might take a fancy
to setting me upon that pinnacle of glory.”
“She dare not,” cried Vincent, his eyes flashing with anger: “you may
trust to us to defend you.”
“Certainly!--But I will not run into danger on purpose to give you the
pleasure of defending me,” said Belinda; and as she spoke, she turned
her horse another way.
“You won’t turn back, Miss Portman?” cried Vincent eagerly, laying his
hand on her bridle.--“Good Heavens, ma’am! we can’t run away!--We came
here to look at these rocking-stones!--We have not half seen them. Lady
Anne and the children will be here immediately. You would not deprive
them of the pleasure of seeing these things!”
“I doubt whether they would have much pleasure in seeing _some of these
things!_ and as to the rest, if I disappoint the children now, Mr.
Percival will, perhaps, have the goodness to bring them some other day.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Percival: “Miss Portman shows her usual prudence.”
“The children are so good tempered, that I am sure they will forgive
me,” continued Belinda; “and Mr. Vincent will be ashamed not to follow
their example, though he seems to be rather angry with me at present for
obliging him to turn back--out of the path of danger.”
“You must not be surprised at that,” said Mr. Percival, laughing; “for
Mr. Vincent is a lover and a hero. You know it is a ruled case, in all
romances, that when a lover and his mistress go out riding together,
some adventure must befal them. The horse must run away with the lady,
and the gentleman must catch her in his arms just as her neck is about
to be broken. If the horse has been too well trained for the heroine’s
purpose, ‘some footpad, bandit fierce, or mountaineer,’ some jealous
rival must make his appearance quite unexpectedly at the turn of a road,
and the lady must be carried off--robes flying--hair streaming--like
Bürger’s Leonora. Then her lover must come to her rescue just in the
proper moment. But if the damsel cannot conveniently be run away with,
she must, as the last resource, tumble into a river to make herself
interesting, and the hero must be at least half drowned in dragging her
out, that she may be under eternal obligations to him, and at last be
forced to marry him out of pure gratitude.”
“Gratitude!” interrupted Mr. Vincent: “he is no hero, to my mind, who
would be content with gratitude, instead of love.”
“You need not alarm yourself: Miss Portman does not seem inclined to
put you to the trial, you see,” said Mr. Percival, smiling. “Now it
is really to be regretted, that she deprived you of an opportunity of
fighting some of the gentlemen in Mrs. Freke’s train, or of delivering
her from the perilous height of one of those rocking-stones. It would
have been a new incident in a novel.”
“How that poor girl screamed!” said Belinda. “Was her terror real or
affected?”
“Partly real, partly affected, I fancy,” said Mr. Percival.
“I pity her,” said Mr. Vincent; “for Mrs. Freke leads her a weary life.”
“She is certainly to be pitied, but also to be blamed,” said Mr.
Percival. “You do not know her history. Miss Moreton ran away from her
friends to live with this Mrs. Freke, who has led her into all kinds
of mischief and absurdity. The girl is weak and vain, and believes that
every thing becomes her which Mrs. Freke assures her is becoming. At one
time she was persuaded to go to a public ball with her arms as bare as
Juno’s, and her feet as naked as Mad. Tallien’s. At another time Miss
Moreton (who unfortunately has never heard the Greek proverb, that half
is better than the whole,) was persuaded by Mrs. Freke to lay aside, her
half boots, and to equip herself in men’s whole boots; and thus she rode
about the country, to the amazement of all the world. These are trifles;
but women who love to set the world at defiance in trifles seldom
respect its opinion in matters of consequence. Miss Moreton’s whole
boots in the morning, and her bare feet in the evening, were talked of
by every body, till she gave them more to talk of about her attachment
to a young officer. Mrs. Freke, whose philosophy is professedly
latitudinarian in morals, laughed at the girl’s prejudice in favour of
the ceremony of marriage. So did the officer; for Miss Moreton had
no fortune. It is suspected that the young lady did not feel the
difficulty, which philosophers are sometimes said to find in suiting
their practice to their theory. The _unenlightened_ world reprobated the
theory much, and the practice more. I am inclined, in spite of scandal,
to think the poor girl was only imprudent: at all events, she repents
her folly too late. She has now no friend upon earth but Mrs. Freke, who
is, in fact, her worst enemy, and who tyrannizes over her without mercy.
Imagine what it is to be the butt of a buffoon!”
“What a lesson to young ladies in the choice of female friends!” said
Belinda. “But had Miss Moreton no relations, who could interfere to get
her out of Mrs. Freke’s hands?”
“Her father and mother were old, and, what is more contemptible,
old-fashioned: she would not listen to their advice; she ran away from
them. Some of her relations were, I believe, willing that she should
stay with Mrs. Freke, because she was a dashing, fashionable woman, and
they thought it might be what is called _an advantage_ to her. She had
one relation, indeed, who was quite of a different opinion, who saw the
danger of her situation, and remonstrated in the strongest manner--but
to no purpose. This was a cousin of Miss Moreton’s, a respectable
clergyman. Mrs. Freke was so much incensed by his _insolent
interference_, as she was pleased to call it, that she made an effigy
of Mr. Moreton dressed in his canonicals, and hung the figure up as a
scarecrow in a garden close by the high road. He was so much beloved
and respected for his benevolence and unaffected piety, that Mrs. Freke
totally failed in her design of making him ridiculous; her scarecrow was
torn to pieces by his parishioners; and though, in the true spirit of
charity, he did all he could to moderate their indignation against
his enemy, the lady became such an object of detestation, that she was
followed with hisses and groans whenever she appeared, and she dared not
venture within ten miles of the village.
“Mrs. Freke now changed the mode of her persecution: she was acquainted
with a nobleman from whom our clergyman expected a living, and she
worked upon his lordship so successfully, that he insisted upon having
an apology made to the lady. Mr. Moreton had as much dignity of mind as
gentleness of character; his forbearance was that of principle, and so
was his firmness: he refused to make the concessions that were required.
His noble patron bullied. Though he had a large family to provide for,
the clergyman would not degrade himself by any improper submission. The
incumbent died, and the living was given to a more compliant friend. So
ends the history of one of Mrs. Freke’s numerous frolics.”
“This was the story,” said Mr. Vincent, “which effectually changed my
opinion of her. Till I heard it, I always looked upon her as one of
those thoughtless, good-natured people, who, as the common saying is, do
nobody any harm but themselves.”
“It is difficult in society,” said Mr. Percival, “especially for women,
to do harm to themselves, without doing harm to others. They may begin
in frolic, but they must end in malice. They defy the world--the world
in return excommunicates them--the female outlaws become desperate, and
make it the business and pride of their lives to disturb the peace of
their sober neighbours. Women who have lowered themselves in the public
opinion cannot rest without attempting to bring others to their own
level.”
“Mrs. Freke, notwithstanding the blustering merriment that she affects,
is obviously unhappy,” said Belinda; “and since we cannot do her any
good, either by our blame or our pity, we had better think of something
else.”
“Scandal,” said Mr. Vincent, “does not seem to give you much pleasure,
Miss Portman. You will be glad to hear that Mrs. Freke’s malice against
poor Mr. Moreton has not ruined him. Do you know Mr. Percival, that he
has just been presented to a good living by a generous young man, who
heard of his excellent conduct?”
“I am extremely glad of it,” said Mr. Percival. “Who is this generous
young man? I should like to be acquainted with him.”
“So should I,” said Mr. Vincent: “he is a Mr. Hervey.”
“Clarence Hervey, perhaps?”
“Yes, Clarence was his name.”
“No man more likely to do a generous action than Clarence Hervey,” said
Mr. Percival.
“Nobody more likely to do a generous action than Mr. Hervey,” repeated
Belinda, in rather a low tone. She could now praise Clarence Hervey
without blushing, and she could think even of his generosity without
partiality, though not without pleasure. By strength of mind, and
timely exertion, she had prevented her prepossession from growing into a
passion that might have made her miserable. Proud of this conquest over
herself, she was now disposed to treat Mr. Vincent with more favour
than usual. Self-complacency generally puts us in good-humour with our
friends.
After spending some pleasant hours in Lord C------‘s beautiful grounds,
where the children explored to their satisfaction every dingle and bushy
dell, they returned home in the cool of the evening. Mr. Vincent thought
it the most delightful evening he had ever felt.
“What! as charming as a West Indian evening?” said Mr. Percival. “This
is more than I expected ever to hear you acknowledge in favour of
England. Do you remember how you used to rave of the climate and of the
prospects of Jamaica?”
“Yes, but my taste has quite changed.”
“I remember the time,” said Mr. Percival, “when you thought it
impossible that your taste should ever change; when you told me that
taste, whether for the beauties of animate or inanimate nature, was
immutable.”
“You and Miss Portman have taught me better sense. First loves are
generally silly things,” added he, colouring a little. Belinda coloured
also.
“First loves,” continued Mr. Percival, “are not necessarily more foolish
than others; but the chances are certainly against them. From poetry or
romance, young people usually form their earlier ideas of love, before
they have actually felt the passion; and the image which they have in
their own minds of the _beau ideal_ is cast upon the first objects they
afterward behold. This, if I may be allowed the expression, is Cupid’s
Fata Morgana. Deluded mortals are in ecstasy whilst the illusion lasts,
and in despair when it vanishes.”
Mr. Percival appeared to be unconscious that what he was saying was any
way applicable to Belinda. He addressed himself to Mr. Vincent solely,
and she listened at her ease.
“But,” said she, “do not you think that this prejudice, as I am willing
to allow it to be, in favour of first loves, may _in our sex_ be
advantageous? Even when a woman may be convinced--that she ought not
to indulge a _first_ love, should she not be prevented by delicacy from
thinking of a second?”
“Delicacy, my dear Miss Portman, is a charming word, and a still more
charming thing, and Mrs. Freke has probably increased our affection for
it; but even delicacy, like all other virtues, must be judged of by the
test of utility. We should run into romance, and error, and misery, if
we did not constantly refer to this standard. Our reasonings as to the
conduct of life, as far as moral prudence is concerned, must depend
ultimately upon facts. Now, of the numbers of people in this world, how
many do you think have married their _first loves?_ Probably not one
out of ten. Then, would you have nine out of ten pine all their lives in
celibacy, or fret in matrimony, because they cannot have the persons who
first struck their _fancy?_”
“I acknowledge this would not add to the happiness of society,” said
Belinda.
“Nor to its virtue,” said Mr. Percival. “I scarcely know an idea more
dangerous to domestic happiness than this belief in the unextinguishable
nature of a first flame. There are people who would persuade us that,
though it may be smothered for years, it must break out at last,
and blaze with destructive fury. Pernicious doctrine! false as it is
pernicious!--The struggles between duty and passion may be the charm of
romance, but must be the misery of real life. The woman who marries
one man, and loves another, who, in spite of all that an amiable and
estimable husband can do to win her confidence and affection, nourishes
in secret a _fatal_ prepossession for her first love, may perhaps, by
the eloquence of a fine writer, be made an interesting heroine;--but
would any man of sense or feeling choose to be troubled with such
a wife?--Would not even the idea that women admired such conduct
necessarily tend to diminish our confidence, if not in their virtue,
at least in their sincerity? And would not this suspicion destroy our
happiness? Husbands may sometimes have delicate feelings as well as
their wives, though they are seldom allowed to have any by these unjust
novel writers. Now, could a husband who has any delicacy be content to
possess the person without the mind?--the duty without the love?--Could
he be perfectly happy, if, in the fondest moments, he might doubt
whether he were an object of disgust or affection?--whether the smiles
of apparent joy were only the efforts of a suffering martyr?--Thank
Heaven! I am not married to one of these charming martyrs. Let those
live with them who admire them. For my part, I admire and love the wife,
who not only seems but is happy--as I,” added Mr. Percival smiling,
“have the fond credulity to believe. If I have spoken too long or
too warmly upon the chapter of _first loves_, I have at least been a
perfectly disinterested declaimer; for I can assure you, Miss Portman,
that I do not suspect Lady Anne Percival of sighing in secret for some
vision of perfection, any more than she suspects me of pining for the
charming Lady Delacour, who, perhaps, you may have heard was my _first
love_. In these days, however, so few people marry with even the
pretence to love of any sort, that you will think I might have spared
this tirade. No; there are ingenuous minds which will never be enslaved
by fashion or interest, though they may be exposed to be deceived by
romance, or by the _delicacy_ of their own imaginations.”
“I hear,” said Belinda, smiling, “I hear and understand the emphasis
with which you pronounce that word _delicacy_. I see you have not
forgotten that I used it improperly half an hour ago, as you have
convinced me.”
“Happy they,” said Mr. Percival, “who can be convinced in half an hour!
There are some people who cannot be convinced in a whole life, and who
end where they began, with saying--‘This is my opinion--I always thought
so, and always shall.’”
Mr. Vincent at all times loved Mr. Percival; but he never felt so much
affection for him as he did this evening, and his arguments appeared to
him unanswerable. Though Belinda had never mentioned to Mr. Vincent
the name of Clarence Hervey till this day, and though he did not in the
least suspect from her manner that this gentleman ever possessed any
interest in her heart; yet, with her accustomed sincerity, she had
confessed to him that an impression had been made upon her mind before
she came to Oakly-park.
After this conversation with Mr. Percival, Mr. Vincent perceived that he
gained ground more rapidly in her favour; and his company grew every day
more agreeable to her taste: he was convinced that, as he possessed her
esteem, he should in time secure her affections.
“In time,” repeated Lady Anne Percival: “you must allow her time, or you
will spoil all.”
It was with some difficulty that Mr. Vincent restrained his impatience,
even though he was persuaded of the prudence of his friend’s advice.
Things went on in this happy, but as he thought slow, state of
progression till towards the latter end of September.
One fine morning Lady Anne Percival came into Belinda’s room with a
bridal favour in her hand. “Do you know,” said she, “that we are to have
a wedding to-day? This favour has just been sent to my maid. Lucy, the
pretty girl whom you may remember to have seen some time ago with
that prettily turned necklace, is the bride, and James Jackson is the
bridegroom. Mr. Vincent has let them a very pretty little farm in the
neighbourhood, and--hark! there’s the sound of music.”
They looked out of the window, and they saw a troop of villagers,
gaily dressed, going to the wedding. Lady Anne, who was always eager to
promote innocent festivity, sent immediately to have a tent pitched
in the park; and all the rural company were invited to a dance in the
evening: it was a very cheerful spectacle. Belinda heard from all sides
praises of Mr. Vincent’s generosity; and she could not be insensible to
the simple but enthusiastic testimony which Juba bore to his master’s
goodness. Juba had composed, in his broken dialect, a little song
in honour of his master, which he sang to his banjore with the most
touching expression of joyful gratitude. In some of the stanzas Belinda
could distinguish that her own name was frequently repeated. Lady Anne
called him, and desired to have the words of this song. They were a
mixture of English and of his native language; they described in the
strongest manner what had been his feelings whilst he was under the
terror of Mrs. Freke’s fiery obeah-woman, then his joy on being
relieved from these horrors, with the delightful sensations of returning
health;--and thence he suddenly passed to his gratitude to Belinda, the
person to whom he owed his recovery. He concluded with wishing her all
sorts of happiness, and, above all, that she might be fortunate in
her love; which Juba thought the highest degree of felicity. He had no
sooner finished his song, which particularly touched and pleased
Miss Portman, than he begged his master to offer to her the little
instrument, which he had made with much pains and ingenuity. She
accepted the banjore with a smile that enchanted Mr. Vincent; but at
this instant they were startled by the sound of a carriage driving
rapidly into the park. Belinda looked up, and between the heads of
the dancers she just caught a glimpse of a well-known livery. “Good
heavens!” she exclaimed, “Lady Delacour’s carriage!--Can it be Lady
Delacour?”
The carriage stopped, and Marriott hastily jumped out of it. Belinda
pressed forward to meet her; poor Marriott was in great agitation:--“Oh,
Miss Portman! my poor lady is very ill--very ill, indeed. She has sent
me for you--here’s her letter. Dear Miss Portman, I hope you won’t
refuse to come; she _has_ been very ill, and is very ill; but she would
be better, if she could see you again. But I’ll tell every thing, ma’am,
when we are by ourselves, and when you have read your letter.”
Miss Portman immediately accompanied Marriott towards the house; and as
they walked thither, she learned that Lady Delacour had applied to
the quack-doctor in whom she had such implicit faith, and had in vain
endeavoured to engage him to perform for her the operation to which she
had determined to submit. He was afraid to hazard it, and he prevailed
upon her to give up the scheme, and to try some new external remedy from
which he promised wonders. No one knew what his medicines were, but they
affected her head in the most alarming manner.
In her delirium she called frequently upon Miss Portman; sometimes
accusing her of the basest treachery, sometimes addressing her as if she
were present, and pouring forth the warmest expressions of friendship.
“In her lucid intervals, ma’am,” continued Marriott, “she for some weeks
scarcely ever mentioned your name, nor could bear to hear me mention
it. One day, when I was saying how much I wished that you were with her
again, she darted at me the most terrible look that ever I beheld.
“‘When I am in my grave, Marriott,’ cried my lady, ‘it will be time
enough for Miss Portman again to visit this house, and you may then
express your attachment to her with more propriety than at present.’
These were my lady’s own words--I shall never forget them: they struck
and astonished me, ma’am, so much, I stood like one stupified, and then
left the room to think them over again by myself, and make sense of
them, if I could. Well, ma’am, to be sure, it then struck me like a
flash of lightning, that my lady was jealous--and, begging your pardon,
ma’am--of you. This seemed to me the most unnatural thing in the world,
considering how easy my lady had always seemed to be about my lord; but
it was now clear to me, that this was the cause of your leaving us so
suddenly, ma’am. Well, I was confident that Mr. Champfort was at the
bottom of the business from the first; and now that I knew what scent to
go upon, I went to work with fresh spirit to find him out, which was a
thing I was determined upon--and what I’m determined upon, I generally
do, ma’am. So I put together things about Miss Portman and my lord, that
had dropped at odd times from Sir Philip Baddely’s gentleman; and I,
partly serious and partly flirting, which in a good cause is no sin,
drew from him (for he pretends to be a little an admirer of mine, ma’am,
though I never gave him the smallest encouragement) all he knew or
suspected, or had heard reported, or whispered; and out it came, ma’am,
that Mr. Champfort was the original of all; and that he had told a heap
of lies about some bank-notes that my lord had given you, and that you
and my lord were to be married as soon as my lady was dead; and I
don’t know what, which he maliciously circulated through Sir Philip’s
gentleman to Sir Philip himself, and so round again to my lady. Now, Sir
Philip’s man behaved like a gentleman upon the occasion, which I shall
ever be free to acknowledge and remember: and when I represented things
properly, and made him sensible of the mischief, which, he assured me,
was done purely with an eye to serve Sir Philip, his master, he very
candidly offered to assist me to unmask that villain Champfort, which
he could easily do with the assistance of a few bottles of claret, and
a few fair words; which, though I can’t abide hypocrisy, I thought
quite allowable upon such an occasion. So, ma’am, when Mr. Champfort was
thrown off his guard by the claret, Sir Philip’s gentleman began to talk
of my lord and my lady, and Miss Portman; and he observed that my lord
and my lady were coming together more than they used to be since Miss
Portman left the house. To which Champfort replied with an oath, like an
unmannered reprobate as he is, and in his gibberish, French and English,
which I can’t speak; but the sense of it was this:--‘My lord and lady
shall never come together, if I can help it. It was to hinder this I got
Miss Portman banished; for my lord was quite another man after she got
Miss Helena into the house; and I don’t doubt but he might have been
brought to leave off his burgundy, and set up for a sober, regular man;
which would not suit me at all. If my lady once was to get power over
him again, I might go whistle--so (with another reprobate oath) my lord
and my lady shall never come together again whilst I live.’
“Well, ma’am,” continued Marriott, “as soon as I was in possession of
this precious speech, I carried it and a letter of Sir Philip Baddely’s
gentleman vouching it to my lady. My lady was thunderstruck, and so
vexed to have been, as she said, a dupe, that she sent for my lord
directly, and insisted upon his giving up Mr. Champfort. My lord
demurred, because my lady spoke so high, and said _insist_. He would
have done it, I’m satisfied, of his own accord with the greatest
pleasure, if my lady had not, as it were, commanded it. But he answered
at last, ‘My Lady Delacour, I’m not a man to be governed by a wife--I
shall keep or part with my own servants in my own house, according to my
own pleasure;’ and saying so, he left the room. I never saw my lady so
angry as she was at this refusal of my lord to part with him. The house
was quite in a state of distraction for some days. I never would sit
down to the same table, ma’am, with Mr. Champfort, nor speak to him, nor
look at him, and parties ran high above and below stairs. And at last my
lady, who had been getting better, took to her bed again with a nervous
fever, which brought her almost to death’s door; she having been so
much weakened before by the quack medicines and convulsions, and all
her sufferings in secret. She would not see my lord on no account, and
Champfort persuaded him her illness was pretence, to bring him to her
purpose; which was the more readily believed, because nobody was ever
let into my lady’s bedchamber but myself. All this time she never
mentioned your name, ma’am; but once, when I was sitting by her bedside,
as she was asleep, she started suddenly, and cried out, ‘Oh, my dearest
Belinda! are you come back to me?’--She awakened herself with the start;
and raising herself quite up in her bed, she pulled back the curtains,
and looked all round the room. I’m sure she expected to see you; and
when she found it was a dream, she gave a heavy sigh, and sank down upon
her pillow. I then could not forbear to speak, and this time my lady was
greatly touched when I mentioned your name:--she shed tears, ma’am; and
you know it is not a little thing that can draw tears from my lady. But
when I said something about sending for you, she answered, she was sure
you would not return to her, and that she would never condescend to
ask a favour in vain, even from you. Then I replied that I was sure you
loved her still, and as well as ever: and that the proof of that was,
that Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke together, by all their wiles,
could not draw you over to their party at Harrowgate, and that you had
affronted Mrs. Freke by defending her ladyship. My lady was all surprise
at this, and eagerly asked how I came to know it. Now, ma’am, I had it
all by a post letter from Mrs. Luttridge’s maid, who is my cousin, and
knows every thing that’s going on. My lady from this moment forward
could scarce rest an instant without wishing for you, and fretting for
you as I knew by her manner. One day my lord met me on the stairs as I
was coming down from my poor lady’s room, and he asked me how she was,
and why she did not send for a physician. ‘The best physician, my lord,
she could send for,’ said I, ‘would be Miss Portman; for she’ll never be
well till that good young lady comes back again, in my humble opinion.’
“‘And what should prevent that good young lady from coming back again?
Not I, surely,’ rejoined my lord, ‘for I wish she were here with all my
heart.’
“‘It is not easy to suppose, my lord,’ said I, ‘after all that has
passed, that the young lady would choose to return, or that my lady
would ask her, whilst Mr. Champfort remains paramount in the house.’
‘If that’s all,’ cried my lord, ‘tell your lady I’ll part with Champfort
upon the spot; for the rascal has just had the insolence to insist upon
it, that a pair of new boots are not too tight for me, when I said they
were. I’ll show him I can be master, and will, in my own house.’ Ma’am,
my heart leaped for joy within me at hearing these words, and I ran up
to my lady with them. I easily concluded in my own mind, that my lord
was glad of the pretence of the boots, to give up handsomely after his
standing out so long. To be sure, my lord’s mightily jealous of being
master, and mighty fond of his own way; but I forgive him every thing
for doing as I would have him at last, and dismissing that prince of
mischief-makers, Mr. Champfort. My lady called for her writing-desk
directly, and sat up in her bed, and with her trembling hand, as you see
by the writing, ma’am, wrote a letter to you as fast as ever she could,
and the postchaise was ordered. I don’t know what fancy seized her--but
if you remember, ma’am, the hammercloth to her new carriage had orange
and black fringe at first: she would not use it, till this had been
changed to blue and white. Well, ma’am, she recollected this on a
sudden, as I was getting ready to come for you; and she set the servants
at work directly to take off the blue and white, and put on the black
and orange fringe again, which she said must be done before your coming.
And my lady ordered her own footman to ride along with me; and I have
come post, and have travelled night and day, and will never rest till
I get back. But, ma’am, I won’t keep you any longer from reading your
letter, only to say, that I hope to Heaven you will not refuse to return
to my poor lady, if it be only to put her mind at ease before she dies.
She cannot have long to live.”
As Marriott finished these words they reached the house, and Belinda
went to her own room to read Lady Delacour’s letter. It contained none
of her customary ‘_éloquence du billet_,’ no sprightly wit, no real, no
affected gaiety; her mind seemed to be exhausted by bodily suffering,
and her high spirit subdued. She expressed the most poignant anguish
for having indulged such unjust suspicions and intemperate passions.
She lamented having forfeited the esteem and affection of the only
real friend she had ever possessed--a friend of whose forbearance,
tenderness, and fidelity, she had received such indisputable proofs.
She concluded by saying, “I feel my end fast approaching, and perhaps,
Belinda, your humanity will induce you to grant my last request, and to
let me see you once more before I die.”
Belinda immediately decided to return to Lady Delacour--though it was
with real regret that she thought of leaving Lady Anne Percival, and the
amiable and happy family to whom she had become so much attached. The
children crowded round her when they heard that she was going, and Mr.
Vincent stood in silent sorrow--but we spare our readers this parting
scene Miss Portman promised to return to Oakly-park as soon as she
possibly could. Mr. Vincent anxiously requested permission to follow her
to town: but this she positively refused; and he submitted with as good
a grace as a lover can submit to any thing that crosses his passion.