RECONCILIATION.
Aware that her remaining in town at such an unusual season of the
year would appear unaccountable to her fashionable acquaintance, Lady
Delacour contrived for herself a characteristic excuse; she declared
that there was no possibility of finding pleasure in any thing but
novelty, and that the greatest novelty to her would be to remain a whole
summer in town. Most of her friends, amongst whom she had successfully
established a character for caprice, were satisfied that this was merely
some new whim, practised to signalize herself by singularity. The real
reason that detained her was her dependence upon the empiric, who
had repeatedly visited and constantly prescribed for her. Convinced,
however, by the dreadful situation to which his prescriptions had lately
reduced her that he was unworthy of her confidence, she determined to
dismiss him: but she could not do this, as she had a considerable sum to
pay him, till Marriott’s return, because she could not trust any one but
Marriott to let him up the private staircase into the boudoir.
During Marriott’s absence, her ladyship suffered no one to attend her
but a maid who was remarkable for her stupidity. She thought that she
could have nothing to fear from this girl’s spirit of inquiry, for never
was any human being so destitute of curiosity. It was about noon when
Belinda and Marriott arrived. Lady Delacour, who had passed a restless
night, was asleep. When she awoke, she found Marriott standing beside
her bed.
“Then it is all in vain, I see,” cried her ladyship: “Miss Portman is
not with you?--Give me my laudanum.”
“Miss Portman is come, my lady,” said Marriott; “she is in the
dressing-room: she would not come in here with me, lest she should
startle you.”
“Belinda is come, do you say? Admirable Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour,
and she clasped her hands with ecstasy.
“Shall I tell her, my lady, that you are awake?”
“Yes--no--stay--Lord Delacour is at home. I will get up immediately.
Let my lord be told that I wish to speak with him--that I beg he will
breakfast with me in my dressing-room half an hour hence. I will dress
immediately.”
Marriott in vain represented that she ought not to hurry herself in
her present weak state. Intent upon her own thoughts, she listened to
nothing that was said, but frequently urged Marriott to be expeditious.
She put on an unusual quantity of rouge: then looking at herself in the
glass, she said, with a forced smile, “Marriott, I look so charmingly,
that Miss Portman, perhaps, will be of Lord Delacour’s opinion, and
think that nothing is the matter with me. Ah! no; she has been behind
the scenes--she knows the truth too well!--Marriott, pray did she
ask you many questions about me?--Was not she very sorry to leave
Oakly-park?--Were not they all extremely concerned to part with
her?--Did she ask after Helena?--Did you tell her that I insisted upon
my lord’s parting with Champfort?”
At the word Champfort, Marriott’s mouth opened eagerly, and she began to
answer with her usual volubility. Lady Delacour waited not for any reply
to the various questions which, in the hurry of her mind, she had
asked; but, passing swiftly by Marriott, she threw open the door of her
dressing-room. At the sight of Belinda she stopped short; and, totally
overpowered, she would have sunk upon the floor, had not Miss Portman
caught her in her arms, and supported her to a sofa. When she came to
herself, and heard the soothing tone of Belinda’s voice, she looked up
timidly in her face for a few moments without being able to speak.
“And are you really here once more, my dear Belinda?” cried she at last;
“and may I still call you my friend?--and do you forgive me?--Yes,
I _see_ you do--and from you I can endure the humiliation of being
forgiven. Enjoy the noble sense of your own superiority.”
“My dear Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, “you see all this in too strong a
light: you have done me no injury--I have nothing to forgive.”
“I _cannot_ see it in too strong a light.--Nothing to forgive!--Yes, you
have; that which it is the most difficult to forgive--injustice. Oh, how
you must have despised me for the folly, the meanness of my suspicions!
Of all tempers that which appears to me, and I am sure to you, the most
despicable, the most intolerable, is a suspicious temper. Mine was once
open, generous as your own--you see how the best dispositions may be
depraved--what am I now? Fit only
‘To point a moral, or adorn a tale’--
a mismatched, misplaced, miserable, perverted being.”
“And now you have abused yourself till you are breathless, I may have
some chance,” said Belinda, “of being heard in your defence. I perfectly
agree with you in thinking that a suspicious temper is despicable and
intolerable; but there is a vast difference between an acute fit of
jealousy, as our friend Dr. X---- would say, and a chronic habit
of suspicion. The noblest natures may be worked up to suspicion by
designing villany; and then a handkerchief, or a hammercloth, ‘trifles
as light as air’--”
“Oh, my dear, you are too good. But my folly admits of no excuse, no
palliation,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “mine was jealousy without
love.”
“That indeed would admit of no excuse,” said Belinda; “therefore you
will pardon me if I think it incredible--especially as I have detected
you in feeling something like affection for your little daughter, after
you had done your best, I mean your worst, to make me believe that you
were a monster of a mother.”
“That was quite another affair, my dear. I did not know Helena was worth
loving. I did not imagine my little daughter could love me. When I found
my mistake, I changed my tone. But there is no hope of mistake with my
poor husband. Your own sense must show you, that Lord Delacour is not a
man to beloved.”
“That could not _always_ have been your ladyship’s opinion,” said
Belinda, with an arch smile.
“Lord! my dear,” said Lady Delacour, a little embarrassed, “in the
highest paroxysm of my madness, I never suspected that you could _love_
Lord Delacour; I surely only hinted that you were in love with his
coronet. That was absurd enough in all conscience--don’t make me more
absurd than I am.”
“Is it then the height of absurdity to love a husband?”
“Love! Nonsense!--Impossible!--Hush! here he comes, with his odious
creaking shoes. What man can ever expect to be loved who wears creaking
shoes?” pursued her ladyship, as Lord Delacour entered the room,
his shoes creaking at every step; and assuming an air of levity, she
welcomed him as a stranger to her dressing-room. “No speeches, my lord!
no speeches, I beseech you,” cried she, as he was beginning to speak to
Miss Portman. “Believe me, that explanations always make bad worse. Miss
Portman is here, thank Heaven! and her; and Champfort is gone, thank
you--or your boots. And now let us sit down to breakfast, and forget as
soon as possible every thing that is disagreeable.”
When Lady Delacour had a mind to banish painful recollections, it was
scarcely possible to resist the magical influence of her conversation
and manners; yet her lord’s features never relaxed to a smile during
this breakfast. He maintained an obstinate silence, and a profound
solemnity--till at last, rising from table, he turned to Miss Portman,
and said, “Of all the caprices of fine ladies, that which surprises me
the most is the whim of keeping their beds without being sick. Now, Miss
Portman, you would hardly suppose that my Lady Delacour, who has been so
lively this morning, has kept her bed, as I am informed, a fortnight--is
not this astonishing?”
“Prodigiously astonishing, that my Lord Delacour, like all the rest of
the world, should be liable to be deceived by appearances,” cried her
ladyship. “Honour me with your attention for a few minutes, my lord, and
perhaps I may increase your astonishment.”
His lordship, struck by the sudden change of her voice from gaiety
to gravity, fixed his eyes upon her and returned to his seat. She
paused--then addressing herself to Belinda, “My incomparable friend,”
said she, “I will now give you a convincing proof of the unlimited power
you have over my mind. My lord, Miss Portman has persuaded me to the
step which I am now going to take. She has prevailed upon me to make a
decisive trial of your prudence and kindness. She has determined me to
throw myself on your mercy.”
“Mercy!” repeated Lord Delacour; and a confused idea, that she was
now about to make a confession of the justice of some of his former
suspicions, took possession of his mind: he looked aghast.
“I am going, my lord, to confide to you a secret of the utmost
importance--a secret which is known to but three people in the
world--Miss Portman, Marriott, and a man whose name I cannot reveal to
you.”
“Stop, Lady Delacour!” cried his lordship, with a degree of emotion and
energy which he had never shown till now: “stop, I conjure, I command
you, madam! I am not sufficiently master of myself--I once loved you
too well to hear such a stroke. Trust me with no such secret--say no
more--you have said enough--too much. I forgive you, that is all I can
do: but we must part, Lady Delacour!” said he, breaking from her with
agony expressed in his countenance.
“The man has a heart, a soul, I protest! You knew him better than I did,
Miss Portman. Nay, you are not gone yet, my lord! You really love me, I
find.”
“No, no, no,” cried he, vehemently: “weak as you take me to be, Lady
Delacour, I am incapable of loving a woman who has disgraced me,
disgraced herself, her family, her station, her high endowments, her--”
His utterance failed.
“Oh, Lady Delacour!” cried Belinda, “how can you trifle in this manner?”
“I meant not,” said her ladyship, “to trifle: I am satisfied. My lord,
it is time that you should be satisfied. I _can_ give you the most
irrefragable proof, that whatever may have been the apparent levity of
my conduct, you have had no serious cause for jealousy. But the proof
will shock--disgust you. Have you courage to know more?--Then follow
me.”
He followed her.--Belinda heard the boudoir door unlocked.--In a few
minutes they returned.--Grief, and horror, and pity, were painted in
Lord Delacour’s countenance, as he passed hastily through the room.
“My dearest friend, I have taken your advice: would to Heaven I had
taken it sooner!” said Lady Delacour to Miss Portman. “I have revealed
to Lord Delacour my real situation. Poor man! he was shocked beyond
expression. He behaved incomparably well. I am convinced that he would,
as he said, let his hand be cut off to save my life. The moment his
foolish jealousy was extinguished, his love for me revived in full
force. Would you believe it? he has promised me to break with odious
Mrs. Luttridge. Upon my charging him to keep my secret from her, he
instantly, in the handsomest manner in the world, declared he would
never see her more, rather than give me a moment’s uneasiness. How I
reproach myself for having been for years the torment of this man’s
life!”
“You may do better than reproach yourself, my dear Lady Delacour,” said
Belinda; “you may yet live for years to be the blessing and pride of his
life. I am persuaded that nothing but your despair of obtaining domestic
happiness has so long enslaved you to dissipation; and now that you find
a friend in your husband, now that you know the affectionate temper of
your little Helena, you will have fresh views and fresh hopes; you will
have the courage to live for yourself, and not for what is called the
world.”
“The world!” cried Lady Delacour, with a tone of disdain: “how long has
that word enslaved a soul formed for higher purposes!” She paused, and
looked up towards heaven with an expression of fervent devotion, which
Belinda had once, and but once, before seen in her countenance. Then,
as if forgetful even that Belinda was present, she threw herself upon
a sofa, and fell, or seemed to fall, into a profound reverie. She
was roused by the entrance of Marriott, who came into the room to ask
whether she would now take her laudanum. “I thought I had taken it,”
said she in a feeble voice; and as she raised her eyes and saw Belinda,
she added, with a faint smile, “Miss Portman, I believe, has been
laudanum to me this morning: but even that will not do long, you see;
nothing will do for me now but _this_,” and she stretched out her hand
for the laudanum. “Is not it shocking to think,” continued she, after
she had swallowed it, “that in laudanum alone I find the means of
supporting existence?”
She put her hand to her head, as if partly conscious of the confusion of
her own ideas: and ashamed that Belinda should witness it, she desired
Marriott to assist her to rise, and to support her to her bedchamber.
She made a sign to Miss Portman not to follow her. “Do not take it
unkindly, but I am quite exhausted, and wish to be alone; for I am grown
fond of being alone some hours in the day, and perhaps I shall sleep.”
Marriott came out of her lady’s room about a quarter of an hour
afterward, and said that her lady seemed disposed to sleep, but that she
desired to have her hook left by her bedside. Marriott searched among
several which lay upon the table, for one in which a mark was put.
Belinda looked over them along with Marriott, and she was surprised to
find that they had almost all methodistical titles. Lady Delacour’s mark
was in the middle of Wesley’s Admonitions. Several pages in other
books of the same description Miss Portman found marked in pencil, with
reiterated lines, which she knew to be her ladyship’s customary mode of
distinguishing passages that she particularly liked. Some were highly
oratorical, but most of them were of a mystical cast, and appeared
to Belinda scarcely intelligible. She had reason to be astonished
at meeting with such books in the dressing-room of a woman of Lady
Delacour’s character. During the solitude of her illness, her ladyship
had first begun to think seriously on religious subjects, and the
early impressions that had been made on her mind in her childhood, by a
methodistical mother, recurred. Her understanding, weakened perhaps by
disease, and never accustomed to reason, was incapable of distinguishing
between truth and error; and her temper, naturally enthusiastic, hurried
her from one extreme to the other--from thoughtless scepticism to
visionary credulity. Her devotion was by no means steady or permanent;
it came on by fits usually at the time when the effect of opium was
exhausted, or before a fresh dose began to operate. In these intervals
she was low-spirited--bitter reflections on the manner in which she had
thrown away her talents and her life obtruded themselves; the idea of
the untimely death of Colonel Lawless, of which she reproached herself
as the cause, returned; and her mind, from being a prey to remorse,
began to sink in these desponding moments under the most dreadful
superstitious terrors--terrors the more powerful as they were secret.
Whilst the stimulus of laudanum lasted, the train of her ideas always
changed, and she was amazed at the weak fears and strange notions by
which she had been disturbed; yet it was not in her power entirely
to chase away these visions of the night, and they gained gradually a
dominion over her, of which she was heartily ashamed. She resolved to
conceal this _weakness_, as in her gayer moments she thought it, from
Belinda, from whose superior strength of understanding she dreaded
ridicule or contempt. Her experience of Miss Portman’s gentleness
and friendship might reasonably have prevented or dispelled such
apprehensions; but Lady Delacour was governed by pride, by sentiment, by
whim, by enthusiasm, by passion--by any thing but reason.
When she began to revive after her fit of languor, and had been
refreshed by opium and sleep, she rang for Marriott, and inquired for
Belinda. She was much provoked when Marriott, by way of proving to her
that Miss Portman could not have been tired of being left alone, told
her that she had been in the dressing-room _rummaging over the books_.
“What books?” cried Lady Delacour. “I forgot that _they_ were left
there. Miss Portman is not reading them still, I suppose? Go for them,
and let them be locked up in my own bookcase, and bring me the key.”
Her ladyship appeared in good spirits when she saw Belinda again. She
rallied her upon the serious studies she had chosen for her morning’s
amusements. “Those methodistical books, with their strange quaint
titles,” said she, “are, however, diverting enough to those who, like
myself, can find diversion in the height of human absurdity.”
Deceived by the levity of her manner, Belinda concluded that the marks
of approbation in these books were ironical, and she thought no more
of the matter; for Lady Delacour suddenly gave a new turn to the
conversation by exclaiming, “Now we talk of the height of human
absurdity, what are we to think of Clarence Hervey?”
“Why should we think of him at all?” said Belinda.
“For two excellent reasons, my dear: because we cannot help it, and
because he deserves it. Yes, he deserves it, believe me, if it were only
for having written these charming letters,” said Lady Delacour, opening
a cabinet, and taking out a small packet of letters, which she put
into Belinda’s hands. “Pray, read them; you will find them amazingly
edifying, as well as entertaining. I protest I am only puzzled to
know whether I shall bind them up with Sterne’s Sentimental Journey
or Fordyce’s Sermons for Young Women. Here, my love, if you like
description,” continued her ladyship, opening one of the letters,
“here is a Radcliffean tour along the picturesque coasts of Dorset and
Devonshire. Why he went this tour, unless for the pleasure and glory of
describing it, Heaven knows! Clouds and darkness rest over the tourist’s
private history: but this, of course, renders his letters more _piquant_
and interesting. All who have a just taste either for literature or for
gallantry, know how much we are indebted to the obscure for the sublime;
and orators and lovers feel what felicity there is in the use of the
fine figure of suspension.”
“Very good description, indeed!” said Belinda, without raising her eyes
from the letter, or seeming to pay any attention to the latter part of
Lady Delacour’s speech; “very good description, certainly!”
“Well, my dear; but here is something better than _pure
description_--here is sense for you: and pray mark the politeness of
addressing sense to a woman--to a woman of sense, I mean--and which
of us is not? Then here is sentiment for you,” continued her ladyship,
spreading another letter before Belinda; “a story of a Dorsetshire lady,
who had the misfortune to be married to a man as _unlike_ Mr. Percival,
and as like Lord Delacour, as possible; and yet, oh, wonderful! they
make as happy a couple as one’s heart could wish. Now, I am truly candid
and good-natured to admire this letter; for every word of it is a lesson
to me, and evidently was so intended. But I take it all in good part,
because, to do Clarence justice, he describes the joys of domestic
Paradise in such elegant language, that he does not make me sick. In
short, my dear Belinda, to finish my panegyric, as it has been said of
some other epistles, if ever there were letters calculated to make you
fall in love with the writer of them, these are they.”
“Then,” said Miss Portman, folding up the letter which she was just
going to read, “I will not run the hazard of reading them.”
“Why, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, with a look of mingled concern,
reproach, and raillery, “have you actually given up my poor Clarence,
merely on account of this mistress in the wood, this Virginia St.
Pierre? Nonsense! Begging your pardon, my dear, the man loves you. Some
entanglement, some punctilio, some doubt, some delicacy, some folly,
prevents him from being just at this moment, where, I confess, he ought
to be--at your feet; and you, out of patience, which a young lady ought
never to be if she can help it, will go and marry--I know you will--some
stick of a rival, purely to provoke him.”
“If ever I marry,” said Belinda, with a look of proud humility, “I shall
certainly marry to please myself, and not to provoke any body else; and,
at all events, I hope I shall never marry _a stick_.”
“Pardon me that word,” said Lady Delacour. “I am convinced you never
will--but one is apt to judge of others by one’s self. I am willing to
believe that Mr. Vincent----”
“Mr. Vincent! How did you know----” exclaimed Belinda.
“How did I know? Why, my dear, do you think I am so little interested
about you, that I have not found out some of your secrets? And do
you think that Marriott could refrain from telling me, in her most
triumphant tone, that ‘Miss Portman has not gone to Oakly-park for
nothing; that she has made a conquest of a Mr. Vincent, a West Indian, a
ward, or lately a ward, of Mr. Percival’s, the handsomest man that ever
was seen, and the richest, &c. &c. &c.?’ Now simple I rejoiced at the
news; for I took it for granted you would never seriously think of
marrying the man.”
“Then why did your ladyship rejoice?”
“Why? Oh, you novice at Cupid’s chess-board! do not you see the next
move? Check with your new knight, and the game is your own. Now, if your
aunt Stanhope saw your look at this instant, she would give you up for
ever--if she have not done that already. In plain, unmetaphorical prose,
then, cannot you comprehend, my straight-forward Belinda, that if you
make Clarence Hervey heartily jealous, let the impediments to your union
be what they may, he will acknowledge himself to be heartily in love
with you? I should make no scruple of frightening him within an inch of
his life, for his good. Sir Philip Baddely was not the man to frighten
him; but this Mr. Vincent, by all accounts, is just the thing.”
“And do you imagine that I could use Mr. Vincent so ill?--And can you
think me capable of such double dealing?”
“Oh! in love and war, you know, all stratagems are allowable. But
you take the matter so seriously, and you redden with such virtuous
indignation, that I dare not say a word more--only--may I ask--are you
absolutely engaged to Mr. Vincent?”
“No. We have had the prudence to avoid all promises, all engagements.”
“There’s my good girl!” cried Lady Delacour, kissing her: “all may yet
turn out well. Read those letters--take them to your room, read them,
read them; and depend upon it, my dearest Belinda! you are not the
sort of woman that will, that can be happy, if you make a mere match
of convenience. Forgive me--I love you too well not to speak the truth,
though it may offend for a moment.”
“You do not offend, but you misunderstand me,” said Belinda. “Have
patience with me, and you shall find that I am incapable of making a
mere match of convenience.”
Then Miss Portman gave Lady Delacour a simple but full account of all
that had passed at Oakly-park relative to Mr. Vincent. She repeated the
arguments by which Lady Anne Percival had first prevailed upon her to
admit of Mr. Vincent’s addresses. She said, that she had been convinced
by Mr. Percival, that the omnipotence of a _first love_ was an idea
founded in error, and realized only in romance; and that to believe that
none could be happy in marriage, except with the first object of their
fancy or their affections, would be an error pernicious to individuals
and to society. When she detailed the arguments used by Mr. Percival on
this subject, Lady Delacour sighed, and observed that Mr. Percival was
certainly right, judging from _his own experience_, to declaim against
the folly of _first loves_; “and for the same reason,” added she,
“perhaps I may be pardoned if I retain some prejudice in their favour.”
She turned aside her head to hide a starting tear, and here the
conversation dropped. Belinda, recollecting the circumstances of her
ladyship’s early history, reproached herself for having touched on this
tender subject, yet at the same time she felt with increased force, at
this moment, the justice of Mr. Percival’s observations; for, evidently,
the hold which this prejudice had kept in Lady Delacour’s mind had
materially injured her happiness, by making her neglect, after her
marriage, all the means of content that were in her reach. Her incessant
comparisons between her _first love_ and her husband excited perpetual
contempt and disgust in her mind for her wedded lord, and for many years
precluded all perception of his good qualities, all desire to live with
him upon good terms, and all idea of securing that share of domestic
happiness that was actually in her power. Belinda resolved at some
future moment, whenever she could, with propriety and with effect, to
suggest these reflections to Lady Delacour, and in the mean time she
was determined to turn them to her own advantage. She perceived that
she should have need of all her steadiness to preserve her judgment
unbiassed by her ladyship’s wit and persuasive eloquence on the one
hand, and on the other by her own high opinion of Lady Anne Percival’s
judgment, and the anxious desire she felt to secure her approbation. The
letters from Clarence Hervey she read at night, when she retired to her
own room; and they certainly raised not only Belinda’s opinion of his
talents, but her esteem for his character. She saw that he had,
with great address, made use of the influence he possessed over Lady
Delacour, to turn her mind to every thing that could make her amiable,
estimable, and happy--she saw that Clarence, so far from attempting, for
the sake of his own vanity, to retain his pre-eminence in her ladyship’s
imagination, used on the contrary “his utmost skill” to turn the tide
of her affections toward her husband and her daughter. In one of his
letters, and but in one, he mentioned Belinda. He expressed great regret
in hearing from Lady Delacour that her friend, Miss Portman, was
no longer with her. He expatiated on the inestimable advantages and
happiness of having such a friend--but this referred to Lady Delacour,
not to himself. There was an air of much respect and some embarrassment
in all he said of Belinda, but nothing like love. A few words at the end
of this paragraph were cautiously obliterated, however; and, without
any obvious link of connexion, the writer began a new sentence with a
general reflection upon the folly and imprudence of forming romantic
projects. Then he enumerated some of the various schemes he had formed
in his early youth, and humorously recounted how they had failed, or how
they had been abandoned. Afterward, changing his tone from playful wit
to serious philosophy, he observed the changes which these experiments
had made in his own character.
“My friend, Dr. X----,” said he, “divides mankind into three classes:
those who learn from the experience of others--they are happy men; those
who learn from their own experience--they are wise men; and, lastly,
those who learn neither from their own nor from other people’s
experience--they are fools. This class is by far the largest. I am
content,” continued Clarence, “to be in the middle class--perhaps you
will say because I cannot be in the first: however, were it in my power
to choose my own character, I should, forgive me the seeming vanity of
the speech, still be content to remain in my present station upon
this principle--the characters of those who are taught by their own
experience must be progressive in knowledge and virtue. Those who learn
from the experience of others may become stationary, because they must
depend for their progress on the experiments that we brave volunteers,
at whose expense they are to live and learn, are pleased to try. There
may be much safety in thus snugly fighting, or rather seeing the battle
of life, behind the broad shield of a stouter warrior; yet it seems to
me to be rather an ignominious than an enviable situation.
“Our friend, Dr. X----, would laugh at my insisting upon being amongst
the class of learners by their own experience. He would ask me, whether
it be the ultimate end of my philosophy to try experiments, or to be
happy. And what answer should I make? I have none ready. Common sense
stares me in the face, and my feelings, even at this instant, alas!
confute my system. I shall pay too dear yet for some of my experiments.
‘Sois grand homme, et sois malheureux,’ is, I am afraid, the law of
nature, or rather the decree of the world. Your ladyship will not read
this without a smile; for you will immediately infer, that I think
myself a great man; and as I detest hypocrisy yet more than vanity,
I shall not deny the charge. At all events, I feel that I am at
present--however gaily I talk of it--in as fair a way to be unhappy for
life, as if I were, in good earnest, the greatest man in Europe.
“Your ladyship’s most respectful admirer, and sincere friend,
“CLARENCE HERVEY.”
“P. S.--Is there any hope that your friend, Miss Portman, may spend the
winter in town?”
Though Lady Delacour had been much fatigued by the exertion of her
spirits during the day, she sat up at night to write to Mr. Hervey. Her
love and gratitude to Miss Portman interested her most warmly for her
happiness, and she was persuaded that the most effectual way to secure
it would be to promote her union with her _first love_. Lady Delacour,
who had also the best opinion of Clarence Hervey, and the most sincere
friendship for him, thought she was likewise acting highly for his
interest; and she felt that she had some merit in at once parting with
him from the train of her admirers, and urging him to become a dull,
married man. Besides these generous motives, she was, perhaps, a little
influenced by jealousy of the superior power which Lady Anne Percival
had in so short a time acquired over Belinda’s mind. “Strange,” thought
she, “if love and I be not a match for Lady Anne Percival and reason!”
To do Lady Delacour justice, it must be observed, that she took the
utmost care in her letter not to _commit_ her friend; she wrote with all
the delicate address of which she was mistress. She began by rallying
her correspondent on his indulging himself so charmingly in _the
melancholy of genius_; and she prescribed as a cure to her _malheureux
imaginaire_, as she called him, those joys of domestic life which he so
well knew how to paint.
“_Précepte commence, exemple achève_,” said her ladyship. “You will
never see me _la femme comme il y en a peu_, till I see you _le bon
mari_. Belinda Portman has this day returned to me from Oakly-park,
fresh, blooming, wise, and gay, as country air, flattery, philosophy,
and love can make her. It seems that she has had full employment for
her head and heart. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne, by right of science
and reason, have taken possession of the head, and a Mr. Vincent, their
ci-devant ward and declared favourite, has laid close siege to the
heart, of which he is in a fair way, I think, to take possession, by the
right of conquest. As far as I can understand--for I have not yet seen
_le futur_--he deserves my Belinda; for besides being as handsome as any
hero of romance, ancient or modern, he has a soul in which neither
spot nor blemish can be found, except the amiable weakness of being
desperately in love--a weakness which we ladies are apt to prefer to the
most philosophic stoicism: apropos of philosophy--we may presume,
that notwithstanding Mr. V---- is a creole, he has been bred up by his
guardian in the class of men who learn by the experience of others. As
such, according to your system, he has a right to expect to be a _happy
man_, has not he? According to Mrs. Stanhope’s system, I am sure that he
has: for his thousands and tens of thousands, as I am credibly informed,
pass the comprehension of the numeration table.
“But these will weigh not a grain in the estimation of her truly
disinterested and noble-minded niece. Mrs. Stanhope knows nothing of
Mr. Vincent’s proposals; and it is well for him she does not, for her
worldly good word would mar the whole. Not so as to Lady Anne and Mr.
Percival’s approbation--their opinion is all in all with my friend. How
they have contrived it, I know not, but they have gained over Belinda’s
mind a degree of power almost equal to parental authority; so you may
guess that the doubtful beam will not much longer nod from side to
side: indeed it seems to me scarcely necessary to throw in the sword of
authority to turn the scale.
“If you can persuade yourself to finish your picturesque tour before the
ides of the charming month of November, do, my dear Clarence! make haste
and come back to us in time for Belinda’s wedding--and do not forget my
commission about the Dorsetshire angel; bring me one in your right hand
with a gold ring upon her taper finger--so help you, Cupid! or never
more expect a smile
“From your sincere friend and admirer,
“T.C.H. DELACOUR.”
“P.S. Observe, my good sir, that I am not in such a desperate hurry to
congratulate you on your marriage, that I should be satisfied with an
ordinary Mrs. Hervey: so do not, under pretence of obliging me, or for
any other consideration, yoke yourself to some damsel that you will be
ashamed to produce. For one woman worthy to be Clarence Hervey’s wife, I
have seen, at a moderate computation, a hundred fit to be his mistress.
If he should, on this subject, mistake the _fitness of things or of
persons_, he would indeed be _in a fair way to be unhappy for life_.
“The substance of a lady’s letter, it has been said, always is comprised
in the postscript.”
After Lady Delacour had finished this letter, which she had no doubt
would bring Clarence immediately to town, she left it with Marriott,
with orders to have it sent by the next post. Much fatigued, she then
retired to rest, and was not visible the next day till near dinner-time.
When Miss Portman returned the packet of Mr. Hervey’s letters,
her ladyship was dissatisfied with the measured terms of Belinda’s
approbation, and she said, with a sarcastic smile, “So, they have made a
complete philosopher of you at Oakly-park! You are perfect in the first
lesson--not to admire. And is the torch of Cupid to be extinguished on
the altar of Reason?”
“Rather to be lighted there, if possible,” said Belinda; and she
endeavoured to turn the conversation to what she thought must be more
immediately interesting to Lady Delacour--her own health. She assured
her, with perfect truth, that she was at present more intent upon her
situation than upon Cupid or his torch.
“I believe you, my generous Belinda!” said Lady Delacour; “and for that
very reason I am interested in your affairs, I am afraid, even to the
verge of impertinence. May I ask why this _preux chevalier_ of yours did
not attend you, or follow you to town?”
“Mr. Vincent?--He knew that I came to attend your ladyship. I told him
that you had been confined by a nervous fever, and that it would be
impossible for me to see him at present; but I promised, when you could
spare me, to return to Oakly-park.”
Lady Delacour sighed, and opened Clarence Hervey’s letters one after
another, looking over them without seeming well to know what she was
about. Lord Delacour came into the room whilst these letters were still
in her hand. He had been absent since the preceding morning, and he now
seemed as if he were just come home, much fatigued. He began in a tone
of great anxiety to inquire after Lady Delacour’s health. She was piqued
at his having left home at such a time, and, merely bowing her head to
him, she went on reading. His eyes glanced upon the letters which she
held in her hand; and when he saw the well-known writing of Clarence
Hervey, his manner immediately altered, and, stammering out some
common-place phrases, he threw himself into an arm-chair by the
fireside, protesting that he was tired to death--that he was half
dead--that he had been in a post-chaise for three hours, which he
hated--had ridden fifty miles since yesterday; and he muttered that he
was a fool for his pains--an observation which, though it reached her
ladyship’s ears, she did not think proper to contradict.
His lordship had then recourse to his watch, his never-failing friend
in need, which he always pulled out with a particular jerk when he was
vexed.
“It is time for me to be gone--I shall be late at Studley’s.”
“You dine with his lordship then?” said Lady Delacour, in a careless
tone.
“Yes; and his good burgundy, I hope, will wind me up again,” said he,
stretching himself, “for I am quite down.”
“Quite down? Then we may conclude that my friend Mrs. Luttridge is not
yet come to _Rantipole_. Rantipole, my dear,” continued Lady Delacour,
turning to Miss Portman, “is the name of Harriot Freke’s villa in Kent.
However strange it may sound to your ears and mine, I can assure you
the name has _made fortune_ amongst a certain description of wits. And
candour must allow that, if not elegant, it is appropriate; it gives a
just idea of the manners and way of life of the place, for every thing
at Rantipole is rantipole. But I am really concerned, my lord, you
should have ridden yourself down in this way for nothing. Why did not
you get better intelligence before you set out? I am afraid you feel
the loss of Champfort. Why did not you contrive to learn for certain, my
dear good lord, whether _the Luttridge_ was at Rantipole, before you set
out on this wild goose chase?”
“My dear good lady,” replied Lord Delacour, assuming a degree of spirit
which startled her as much as it became him, “why do you not get better
intelligence before you suspect me of being a brute and a liar? Did not
I promise you yesterday, that I would break with _the Luttridge_, as you
call her? and how could you imagine that the instant afterwards, just
at the time I was wrung to the soul, as you know I was--how could you
imagine I would leave you to go to Rantipole, or to any woman upon
earth?”
“Oh, my lord! I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon a thousand times,”
cried Lady Delacour, rising with much emotion; and, going towards him
with a sudden impulse, she kissed his forehead.
“And so you ought to beg my pardon,” said Lord Delacour, in a faltering
voice, but without moving his posture.
“You will acknowledge you left me, however, my lord? That is clear.”
“Left you! Yes, so I did; to ride all over the country in search of a
house that would suit you. For what else did you think I _could_ leave
you at such a time as this?”
Lady Delacour again stooped, and leaned her arm upon his shoulder.
“I wish to Heaven, my dear,” said his lordship, shrinking as he put away
her hand, which still held Clarence Hervey’s letters, “I wish to Heaven,
my dear, you would not hold those abominable perfumed papers just under
my very nose. You know I cannot stand perfumes.”
“Are they perfumed? Ay; so every thing is that I keep in that cabinet
of curiosities. Thank you, my dear Miss Portman,” said her ladyship,
as Belinda rose to take the letters from her hand. “Will you have the
goodness to put them back into their cabinet, if you can endure to touch
them, if the perfume has not overcome you as well as my lord? After all,
it is only ottar of roses, to which few people’s olfactory nerves have
an antipathy.”
“I have the honour to be one of the few,” said his lordship, rising
from his seat with so sudden a motion as to displace Lady Delacour’s arm
which leaned upon him. “For my part,” continued he, taking down one
of the Argand lamps from the chimney-piece, and trimming it, “I would
rather a hundred to one snuff up the oil of this cursed lamp.”
Whilst his lordship applied himself to trimming the lamp with great
earnestness, Lady Delacour negligently walked away to the farthest
end of the room, where stood the cabinet, which Belinda was trying to
unlock.
“Stay, my love; it has a secret lock, which I alone can manage.”
“Oh, my dear Lady Delacour!” whispered Belinda, holding her hand as
she gave her the key, “I never can love or esteem you if you use Lord
Delacour ill now.”
“Ill now? ill now? This lock is spoilt, I do believe,” said she aloud.
“Nay, you understand me, Lady Delacour! You see what is passing in his
mind.”
“To be sure: I am not a fool, though he is. I see he is jealous, though
he has had such _damning proof_ that all’s right--the man’s a fool,
that’s all. Are you sure this is the key I gave you, my dear?”
“And can you think him a fool,” pursued Belinda, in a still more earnest
whisper, “for being more jealous of your mind than of your person? Fools
have seldom so much penetration, or so much delicacy.”
“But, Lord! what would you have me do? what would you have me say? That
Lord Delacour writes better letters than these?”
“Oh, no! but show him these letters, and you will do justice to him, to
yourself, to Cla----, to every body.”
“I am sure I should be happy to do justice to _every body_.”
“Then pray do this very instant, my dearest Lady Delacour! and I shall
love you for it all my life.”
“Done!--for who can withstand that offer?--Done!” said her ladyship.
Then turning to Lord Delacour, “My lord, will you come here and tell us
what can be the matter with this lock?”
“If the lock be spoiled, Lady Delacour, you had better send for a
locksmith,” replied his lordship, who was still employed about the
wick of the Argand: “I am no locksmith--I do not pretend to understand
locks--especially secret locks.”
“But you will not desert us at our utmost need, I am sure, my lord,”
said Belinda, approaching him with a conciliatory smile.
“You want the light, I believe, more than I do,” said his lordship,
advancing with the lamp to meet her. “Well! what is the matter with this
confounded lock of yours, Lady Delacour? I know I should be at Studley’s
by this time--but how in the devil’s name can you expect me to open a
secret lock when I do not know the secret, Lady Delacour?”
“Then I will tell you the secret, Lord Delacour--that there is no secret
at all in the lock, or in the letters. Here, if you can stand the odious
smell of ottar of roses, take these letters and read them, foolish man;
and keep them till the shocking perfume is gone off.”
Lord Delacour could scarcely believe his senses; he looked in Lady
Delacour’s eyes to see whether he had understood her rightly.
“But I am afraid,” said she, smiling, “that you will find the perfume
too overcoming.”
“Not half so overcoming,” cried he, seizing her hand, and kissing it
often with eager tenderness, “not half so overcoming as this confidence,
this kindness, this condescension from you.”
“Miss Portman will think us both a couple of old fools,” said her
ladyship, making a slight effort to withdraw her hand. “But she is
almost as great a simpleton herself, I think,” continued she, observing
that the tears stood in Belinda’s eyes.
“My lord,” said a footman who came in at this instant, “do you dress?
The carriage is at the door, as you ordered, to go to Lord Studley’s.”
“I’d see Lord Studley at the devil, sir, and his burgundy along with
him, before I’d go to him to-day; and you may tell him so, if you
please,” cried Lord Delacour.
“Very well, my lord,” said the footman.
“My lord dines at home--they may put up the carriage--that’s all,” said
Lady Delacour: “only let us have dinner directly,” added she, as the
servant shut the door. “Miss Portman will be famished amongst us: there
is no living upon sentiment.”
“And there is no living with such belles without being something more of
a beau,” said Lord Delacour, looking at his splashed boots. “I will
be ready for dinner before dinner is ready for me.” With activity very
unusual to him, he hurried out of the room to change his dress.
“O day of wonders!” exclaimed Lady Delacour. “And, O night of wonders!
if we can get him through the evening without the help of Lord Studley’s
wine. You must give us some music, my good Belinda, and make him
accompany you with his flute. I can tell you he has really a very pretty
taste for music, and knows fifty times more of the matter than half
the dilettanti, who squeeze the human face divine into all manner of
ridiculous shapes, by way of persuading you that they are in ecstasy!
And, my dear, do not forget to show us the charming little portfolio of
drawings that you have brought from Oakly-park. Lord Delacour was with
me at Harrowgate in the days of his courtship: he knows the charming
views that you have been taking about Knaresborough and Fountain’s
Abbey, and all those places. I will answer for it, he remembers them
a hundred times better than I do. And, my love, I assure you he is a
better judge of drawing than many whom we saw ogling Venus rising from
the sea, in the Orleans gallery. Lord Delacour has let his talents go to
sleep in a shameless manner; but really he has talents, if they could be
wakened. By-the-by, pray make him tell you the story of Lord Studley’s
original Titian: he tells that story with real humour. Perhaps you have
not found it out, but Lord Delacour has a vast deal of drollery in his
own way, and----”
“Dinner’s ready, my lady!”
“That is a pity!” whispered Lady Delacour; “for if they had let me go
on in my present humour, I should have found out that my lord has every
accomplishment under the sun, and every requisite under the moon, to
make the marriage state happy.”
With the assistance of Belinda’s portfolio and her harp, and the
good-humour and sprightliness of Lady Delacour’s wit, his lordship
got through the evening much to his own satisfaction. He played on the
flute, he told the story of Studley’s original Titian, and he detected a
fault that had escaped Mr. Percival in the perspective of Miss Portman’s
sketch of Fountain’s Abbey. The perception that his talents were _called
out_, and that he appeared to unusual advantage, made him _excellent
company_: he found that the spirits can be raised by self-complacency
even more agreeably than by burgundy.