HELENA
Whilst they were at breakfast the next morning in Lady Delacour’s
dressing-room, Marriott knocked at the door, and immediately opening
it, exclaimed in a joyful tone, “Miss Portman, they’re eating it! Ma’am,
they’re eating it as fast as ever they can!”
“Bring them in; your lady will give you leave, Marriott, I fancy,” said
Miss Portman. Marriott brought in her gold fishes; some green leaves
were floating on the top of the water in the glass globe.
“See, my lady,” said she, “what Miss Portman has been so good as to
bring from Oakly-park for my poor gold fishes, who, I am sure, ought
to be much obliged to her, as well as myself.” Marriott set the globe
beside her lady, and retired.
“From Oakly-park! And by what name impossible to pronounce must I call
these green leaves, to please botanic ears?” said Lady Delacour.
“This,” replied Belinda, “is what
‘Th’unlearned, duckweed--learned, lemna, call;
and it is to be found in any ditch or standing pool.”
“And what possessed you, my dear, for the sake of Marriott and her gold
fishes, to trouble yourself to bring such stuff a hundred and seventy
miles?”
“To oblige little Charles Percival,” said Miss Portman. “He was anxious
to keep his promise of sending it to your Helena. She found out in some
book that she was reading with him last summer, that gold fishes are
fond of this plant; and I wish,” added Belinda, in a timid voice, “that
she were here at this instant to see them eat it.”
Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes, and kept her eye steadily
upon the gold fishes. At length she said, “I never shall forget how
well the poor little creature behaved about those gold fishes. I
grew amazingly fond of her whilst she was with me. But you know,
circumstanced as I was, after you left me, I could not have her at
home.”
“But now I am here,” said Belinda, “will she he any trouble to you? And
will she not make your home more agreeable to you, and to Lord Delacour,
who was evidently very fond of her?”
“Ah, my dear!” said Lady Delacour, “you forget, and so do I at times,
what I have to go through. It is in vain to talk, to think of making
home, or any place, or any thing, or any person, agreeable to me now.
What am I? The outside rind is left--the sap is gone. The tree lasts
from day to day by miracle--it cannot last long. You would not wonder to
hear me talk in this way, if you knew the terrible time I had last night
after we parted. But I have these nights constantly now. Let us talk of
something else. What have you there--a manuscript?”
“Yes, a little journal of Edward Percival’s, which he sent for the
entertainment of Helena.”
Lady Delacour stretched out her hand for it. “The boy will write as like
his father as possible,” said she, turning over the leaves. “I wish
to have this poor girl with me--but I have no spirits. And you know,
whenever Lord Delacour can find a house that will suit us, we shall
leave town, and I could not take Helena with me. But this may be the
last opportunity I may ever have of seeing her; and I _can_ refuse you
nothing, my dear. So will you go for her? She can stay with us a few
days. Lady Boucher, that most convenient dowager, who likes going about,
no matter where, all the morning, will go with you to Mrs. Dumont’s
academy in Sloane-street. I would as soon go to a bird-fancier’s as to a
boarding-school for young ladies: indeed, I am not well enough to go
any where. So I will throw myself upon a sofa, and read this child’s
journal. I wonder how that or any thing else can interest me now.”
Belinda, who had been used to the variations of Lady Delacour’s spirits,
was not much alarmed by the despondent strain in which she now spoke,
especially when she considered that the thoughts of the dreadful trial
this unfortunate woman was soon to go through must naturally depress
her courage. Rejoiced at the permission that she had obtained to go for
Helena, Miss Portman sent immediately to Lady Boucher, who took her to
Sloane-street.
“Now, my dear, considerate Miss Portman,” said Lady Boucher, “I must
beg, and request that you will hurry Miss Delacour into the carriage
as fast as possible. I have not a moment to spare; for I am to be at a
china auction at two, that I would not miss for the whole world. Well,
what’s the matter with the people? Why does not James knock at the door?
Can’t the man read? Can’t the man see?” cried the purblind dowager. “Is
not that Mrs. Dumont’s name on the door before his eyes?”
“No, ma’am, I believe this name is Ellicot,” said Belinda.
“Ellicot, is it? Ay, true. But what’s the man stopping for, then? Mrs.
Dumont’s is the next door, tell the blind dunce. Mercy on us! To waste
one’s time in this way! I shall, as sure as fate, be too late for the
china auction. What upon earth stops us?”
“Nothing but a little covered cart, which stands at Mrs. Dumont’s door.
There, now it is going; an old man is drawing it out of the way as fast
as he can.”
“Open the coach-door, James!” cried Lady Boucher the moment that they
had drawn up. “Now, my dear, considerate Miss Portman, remember the
auction, and don’t let Miss Delacour stay to change her dress or any
thing.”
Belinda promised not to detain her ladyship a minute. The door at Mrs.
Dumont’s was open, and a servant was assisting an old man to carry in
some geraniums and balsams out of the covered cart which had stopped the
way. In the hall a crowd of children were gathered round a high stand,
on which they were eagerly arranging their flower-pots; and the busy hum
of voices was so loud, that when Miss Portman first went in, she could
neither hear the servant, nor make him hear her name. Nothing was to be
heard but “Oh, how beautiful! Oh, how sweet! That’s mine! That’s yours!
The great rose geranium for Miss Jefferson! The white Provence rose for
Miss Adderly! No, indeed, Miss Pococke, that’s for Miss Delacour; the
old man said so.”
“_Silence, silence, mesdemoiselles!_” cried the voice of a French woman,
and all was silence. The little crowd looked towards the hall door;
and from the midst of her companions, Helena Delacour, who now caught
a glimpse of Belinda, sprang forward, throwing down her white Provence
rose as she passed.
“Lady Boucher’s compliments, ma’am,” said the servant to Mrs. Dumont;
“she’s in indispensable haste, and she begs you won’t let Miss Delacour
think of changing her dress.”
It was the last thing of which Miss Delacour was likely to think at this
instant. She was so much overjoyed, when she heard that Belinda was come
by her mamma’s desire to take her home, that she would scarcely stay
whilst Mrs. Dumont was tying on her straw hat, and exhorting her to let
Lady Delacour know how it happened that she was “so far from fit to be
seen.”
“Yes, ma’am; yes, ma’am, I’ll remember; I’ll be sure to remember,” said
Helena, tripping down the steps. But just as she was getting into the
carriage she stopped at the sight of the old man, and exclaimed, “Oh,
good old man! I must not forget you.”
“Yes, indeed, you must, though, my dear Miss Delacour,” said Lady
Boucher, pulling her into the carriage: “‘tis no time to think of good
old men now.”
“But I must. Dear Miss Portman, will you speak for me? I must pay--I
must settle--and I have a great deal to say.”
Miss Portman desired the old man to call in Berkley-square at Lady
Delacour’s; and this satisfying all parties, they drove away.
When they arrived in Berkley-square, Marriott told them that her lady
was just gone to lie down. Edward Percival’s little journal, which she
had been reading, was left on the sofa, and Belinda gave it to Helena,
who eagerly began to look over it.
“Thirteen pages! Oh, how good he has been to write so much for me!” said
she; and she had almost finished reading it before her mother came into
the room.
Lady Delacour shrunk back as her daughter ran towards her; for she
recollected too well the agony she had once suffered from an embrace of
Helena’s. The little girl appeared more grieved than surprised at this;
and after kissing her mother’s hand, without speaking, she again looked
down at the manuscript.
“Does that engross your attention so entirely, my dear,” said Lady
Delacour, “that you can neither spare one word nor one look for your
mother?”
“Oh, mamma! I only tried to read, because I thought you were angry with
me.”
“An odd reason for trying to read, my dear!” said Lady Delacour with a
smile: “have you any better reason for thinking I was angry with you?”
“Ah, I know you are not angry now, for you smile,” said Helena; “but
I thought at first that you were, mamma, because you gave me only your
hand to kiss.”
“Only my hand! The next time, simpleton, I’ll give you only my foot
to kiss,” said her ladyship, sitting down, and holding out her foot
playfully.
Her daughter threw aside the book, and kneeling down kissed her foot,
saying, in a low voice, “Dear mamma, I never was so happy in my life;
for you never looked so very, _very_ kindly at me before.”
“Do not judge always of the kindness people feel for you, child, by
their looks; and remember that it is _possible_ a person might have felt
more than you could guess by their looks. Pray now, Helena, you are such
a good judge of physiognomy, should you guess that I was dying, by my
looks?”
The little girl laughed, and repeated “Dying? Oh, no, mamma.”
“Oh, no! because I have such a fine colour in my cheeks, hey?”
“Not for that reason, mamma,” said Helena, withdrawing her eyes from her
mother’s face.
“What, then you know rouge already when you see it?--You perceive some
difference, for instance, between Miss Portman’s colour and mine? Upon
my word, you are a nice observer. Such nice observers are sometimes
dangerous to have near one.”
“I hope, mother,” said Helena, “that you do not think I would try to
find out any thing that you wish, or that I imagined you wished, I
should not know.”
“I do not understand you, child,” cried Lady Delacour, raising herself
suddenly upon the sofa, and looking full in her daughter’s face.
Helena’s colour rose to her temples; but, with a firmness that surprised
even Belinda, she repeated what she had said nearly in the same words.
“Do you understand her, Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour.
“She expresses, I think,” said Belinda, “a very honourable sentiment,
and one that is easily understood.”
“Ay, in general, certainly,” said Lady Delacour, checking herself; “but
I thought that she meant to allude to something in particular--_that_
was what I did not understand. Undoubtedly, my dear, you have just
expressed a very honourable sentiment, and one that I should scarcely
have expected from a child of your age.
“Helena, my dear,” said her mother, after a silence of some minutes,
“did you ever read the Arabian Tales?--‘Yes, mamma,’ I know must be the
answer. But do you remember the story of Zobeide, who carried the porter
home with her on condition that, let him hear or see what he might, he
would ask no questions?”
“Yes, mamma.”
“On the same conditions should you like to stay with me for a few days?”
“Yes. On any conditions, mamma, I should like to stay with you.”
“Agreed, then, my dear!” said Lady Delacour. “Now let us go to the gold
fishes, and see them eat lemna, or whatever you please to call it.”
While they were looking at the gold fishes, the old man, who had been
desired by Miss Portman to call, arrived. “Who is this fine, gray-haired
old man?” said Lady Delacour. Helena, who did not know the share which
Belinda’s aunt and her own mother had in the transaction, began with
great eagerness to tell the history of the poor gardener, who had been
cheated by some fine ladies out of his aloe, &c. She then related how
kind Lady Anne Percival and her Aunt Margaret had been to him; that
they had gotten him a place as a gardener at Twickenham; and that he
had pleased the family to whom he was recommended so much by his good
behaviour, that, as they were leaving their house, and obliged to part
with him, they had given him all the geraniums and balsams out of the
green-house of which he had the care, and these he had been this day
selling to the young ladies at Mrs. Dumont’s. “I received the money for
him, and I was just going to pay him,” said Helena, “when Miss Portman
came; and that put every thing else out of my head. May I go and give
him his money now, mamma?”
“He can wait a few minutes,” said Lady Delacour, who had listened to
this story with much embarrassment and impatience. “Before you go,
Helena, favour us with the names of _the fine ladies who cheated_ this
old gardener out of his aloe.”
“Indeed, mamma, I don’t know their names.”
“No!--Did you never ask Lady Anne Percival, or your aunt Margaret?--Look
in my face, child! Did they never inform you?”
“No, ma’am, never. I once asked Lady Anne, and she said that she did not
choose to tell me; that it would be of no use to me to know.”
“I give Lady Anne Percival more credit and more thanks for this,” cried
Lady Delacour, “than for all the rest. I see she has not attempted to
lower me in my child’s opinion. I am the fine lady, Helena--I was
the cause of his being cheated--I was intent upon _the noble end_ of
outshining a certain Mrs. Luttridge--the _noble means_ I left to others,
and the means have proved worthy of the end. I deserve to be brought
to shame for my folly; yet my being ashamed will do nobody any good but
myself. Restitution is in these cases the best proof of repentance. Go,
Helena, my love! settle your little affairs with this old man, and bid
him call here again to-morrow. I will see what we can do for him.”
Lord Delacour had this very morning sent home to her ladyship a handsome
diamond ring, which had been intended as a present for Mrs. Luttridge,
and which he imagined would therefore be peculiarly acceptable to his
lady. In the evening, when his lordship asked her how she liked the
ring, which he desired the jeweller to leave for her to look at it, she
answered, that it was a handsome ring, but that she hoped he had not
purchased it for her.
“It is not actually bought, my dear,” said his lordship; “but if it
suits your fancy, I hope you will do me the honour to wear it for my
sake.”
“I will wear it for your sake, my lord,” said Lady Delacour, “if you
desire it; and as a mark of your regard it is agreeable: but as to the
rest--
‘My taste for diamonds now is o’er,
The sparkling baubles please no more.’
If you wish to do me a kindness, I will tell you what I should like much
better than diamonds, though I know it is rather ungracious to dictate
the form and fashion of a favour. But as my dictatorship in all human
probability cannot last much longer--”
“Oh, my dear Lady Delacour! I must not hear you talk in this manner:
your dictatorship, as you call it, will I hope last many, many happy
years. But to the point--what should you like better, my dear, than this
foolish ring?”
Her ladyship then expressed her wish that a small annuity might be
settled upon a poor old man, whom she said she had unwittingly injured.
She told the story of the rival galas and the aloe, and concluded by
observing, that her lord was in some measure called upon to remedy
part of the unnumbered ills which had sprung from her hatred of Mrs.
Luttridge, as he had originally been the cause of her unextinguishable
ire. Lord Delacour was flattered by this hint, and the annuity was
immediately promised to the old gardener.
In talking to this old man afterward, Lady Delacour found, that the
family in whose service he lately lived had a house at Twickenham that
would just answer her purpose. Lord Delacour’s inquiries had hitherto
been unsuccessful; he was rejoiced to find what he wanted just as he
was giving up the search. The house was taken, and the old man hired
as gardener--a circumstance which seemed to give him almost as much
pleasure as the annuity; for there was a morello cherry-tree in the
garden which had succeeded the aloe in his affection: “it would have
grieved him sorely,” he said, “to leave his favourite tree to strangers,
after all the pains he had been at _in netting_ it to keep off the
birds.”
As the period approached when her fate was to be decided, Lady
Delacour’s courage seemed to rise; and at the same time her anxiety,
that her secret should not be discovered, appeared to increase.
“If I survive _this business_,” said she, “it is my firm intention to
appear in a new character, or rather to assert my real character. I will
break through the spell of dissipation--I will at once cast off all the
acquaintance that are unworthy of me--I will, in one word, go with you,
my dear Belinda, to Mr. Percival’s. I can bear to be mortified for my
good; and I am willing, since I find that Lady Anne Percival has behaved
generously to me, with regard to Helena’s affections, I am willing that
the recovery of my moral health should be attributed to the salubrious
air of Oakly-park. But it would be inexpressible, intolerable
mortification to me, to have it said or suspected in the world of
fashion, that I retreated from the ranks disabled instead of disgusted.
A voluntary retirement is graceful and dignified; a forced retreat is
awkward and humiliating. You must be sensible that I could not endure to
have it whispered--‘Lady Delacour now sets up for being a prude, because
she can no longer be a coquette.’ Lady Delacour would become the subject
of witticisms, epigrams, caricatures without end. It would just be the
very thing for Mrs. Luttridge; then she would revenge herself without
mercy for _the ass and her panniers_. We should have ‘Lord and Lady
D----, or the Domestic Tête-à-tête,’ or ‘The Reformed Amazon,’ stuck
up in a print-shop window! Oh, my dear, think of seeing such a thing! I
should die with vexation; and of all deaths, that is the death I should
like the least.”
Though Belinda could not entirely enter into those feelings, which
thus made Lady Delacour invent wit against herself, and anticipate
caricatures; yet she did every thing in her power to calm her ladyship’s
apprehension of a discovery.
“My dear,” said Lady Delacour, “I have perfect confidence in Lord
Delacour’s promise, and in his good-nature, of which he has within these
few days given me proofs that are not lost upon my heart; but he is not
the most discreet man in the world. Whenever he is anxious about any
thing, you may read it a mile off in his eyes, nose, mouth, and chin.
And to tell you all my fears in one word, Marriott informed me this
morning, that _the Luttridge_, who came from Harrowgate to Rantipole,
to meet Lord Delacour, finding that there was no drawing him to her, has
actually brought herself to town.
“To town!--At this strange time of year! How will my lord resist this
unequivocal, unprecedented proof of passion? If she catch hold of him
again, I am undone. Or, even suppose him firm as a rock, her surprise,
her jealousy, her curiosity, will set all engines at work, to find out
by what witchcraft I have taken my husband from her. Every precaution
that prudence could devise against her malicious curiosity I have taken.
Marriott, you know, is above all temptation. That vile wretch (naming
the person whose quack medicines had nearly destroyed her), that vile
wretch will be silent from fear, for his own sake. He is yet to be paid
and dismissed. That should have been done long ago, but I had not money
both for him and Mrs. Franks the milliner. She is now paid: and Lord
Delacour--I am glad to tell his friend how well he deserves her good
opinion--Lord Delacour in the handsomest manner supplied me with the
means of satisfying this man. He is to be here at three o’clock to-day;
and this is the last interview he will ever have with Lady Delacour in
_the mysterious boudoir_.”
The fears which her ladyship expressed of Mrs. Luttridge’s malicious
curiosity were not totally without foundation. Champfort was at work for
her and for himself. The memorable night of Lady Delacour’s overturn,
and the bustle that Marriott made about the key of the boudoir, were
still fresh in his memory; and he was in hopes that, if he could
discover the mystery, he should at once regain his power over Lord
Delacour, reinstate himself in his lucrative place, and obtain a
handsome reward, or, more properly speaking, bribe, from Mrs. Luttridge.
The means of obtaining information of all that passed in Lady Delacour’s
family were, he thought, still in his power, though he was no longer
an inmate of the house. The _stupid maid_ was not so stupid as to be
impenetrable to the voice of flattery, or, as Mr. Champfort called
it, the voice of love. He found it his interest to court, and she her
pleasure to be courted. On these “coquettes of the _second_ table,”
on these underplots in the drama, much of the comedy, and some of the
tragedy, of life depend. Under the unsuspected mask of stupidity this
worthy mistress of our intriguing valet-de-chambre concealed the quick
ears of a listener, and the demure eyes of a spy. Long, however, did she
listen, and long did she spy in vain, till at last Mr. Champfort gave
her notice in writing that his love would not last another week, unless
she could within that time contrive to satisfy his curiosity; and that,
in short, she _must_ find out the reason why the boudoir was always
locked, and why Mrs. Marriott alone was to be trusted with the key. Now
it happened that this billet-doux was received on the very day appointed
for Lady Delacour’s last interview with the quack surgeon in the
mysterious boudoir. Marriott, as it was her custom upon such occasions,
let the surgeon in, and showed him up the back stairs into the boudoir,
locked the door, and bade him wait there till her lady came. The man had
not been punctual to the hour appointed; and Lady Delacour, giving up
all expectation of his coming till the next day, had retired to her
bedchamber, where she of late usually at this hour secluded herself to
read methodistical books, or to sleep. Marriott, when she went up to
let her lady know that _the person_, as she always called him, was come,
found her so fast asleep that she thought it a pity to waken her, as she
had not slept at all the preceding night. She shut the door very softly,
and left her lady to repose. At the bottom of the stairs she was met by
_the stupid maid_, whom she immediately despatched with orders to wash
some lace: “Your lady’s asleep,” said she, “and pray let me have no
running up and down stairs.” The room into which the stupid maid went
was directly underneath the boudoir; and whilst she was there she
thought that she heard the steps of a man’s foot walking over head. She
listened more attentively--she heard them again. She armed herself
with a glass of jelly in her hand, _for my lady_, and hurried up stairs
instantly to _my lady’s_ room. She was much surprised to see my lady
fast asleep. Her astonishment at finding that Mrs. Marriott had told her
the truth was such, as for a moment to bereave her of all presence of
mind, and she stood with the door ajar in her hand. As thus she stood
she was roused by the sound of some one clearing his throat very softly
in the boudoir--_his_ throat; for she recollected the footsteps she
had heard before, and she was convinced it could be no other than a
masculine throat. She listened again, and stooped down to try whether
any feet could be seen under the door. As she was in this attitude, her
lady suddenly turned on her bed, and the book which she had been reading
fell from the pillow to the floor with a noise, that made the listener
start up instantaneously in great terror. The noise, however, did not
waken Lady Delacour, who was in that dead sleep which is sometimes the
effect of opium. The noise was louder than what could have been made by
the fall of a book alone, and the girl descried a key that had fallen
along with the book. It occurred to her that this might possibly be the
key of the boudoir. From one of those irresistible impulses which some
people make an excuse for doing whatever they please, she seized it,
resolved at all hazards to open the mysterious door. She was cautiously
putting the key into the key-hole, so as not to make the least noise,
when she was suddenly startled by a voice behind her, which said, “Who
gave you leave to open that door?”
She turned, and saw Helena standing at the half open bedchamber door.
“Mercy, Miss Delacour! who thought of seeing you? For God’s sake, don’t
make a noise to waken my lady!”
“Did my mother desire you to go into that room?” repeated Helena.
“Dear me! no, miss,” said the maid, putting on her stupid face; “but
I only thought to open the door, to let in a little air to freshen the
room, which my lady always likes, and bids me to do--and I thought--”
Helena took the key gently from her hand without listening to any more
of her thoughts, and the woman left the room muttering something about
_jelly_ and _my lady_, Helena went to the side of her mother’s bed,
determined to wait there till she awakened, then to give her the key,
and tell her the circumstance. Notwithstanding the real simplicity of
this little girl’s character, she was, as her mother had discovered, _a
nice observer_, and she had remarked that her mother permitted no one
but Marriott to go into the boudoir. This remark did not excite her
to dive into the mystery: on the contrary, she carefully repressed all
curiosity, remembering the promise she had given to her mother when she
talked of Zobeide and the porter. She had not been without temptation to
break this promise; for the maid who usually attended her toilette had
employed every art in her power to stimulate her curiosity. As she was
dressing Helena this morning, she had said to her, “The reason I was so
late calling you, miss, this morning, was because I was so late
myself last night; for I went to the play, miss, last night, which was
Bluebeard. Lord bless us! I’m sure, if I had been Bluebeard’s wife, I
should have opened the door, if I’d died for it; for to have the notion
of living all day long, and all night too, in a house in which there
was a room that one was never to go into, is a thing I could not put up
with.” Then after a pause, and after waiting in vain for some reply
from Helena, she added, “Pray, Miss Delacour, did you ever go into that
little room within my lady’s bedchamber, that Mrs. Marriott keeps the
key of always?”
“No,” said Helena.
“I’ve often wondered what’s in it: but then that’s only because I’m a
simpleton. I thought to be sure, _you_ knew.”
Observing that Helena looked much displeased, she broke off her speech,
hoping that what she had said would operate in due time, and that she
should thus excite the young lady to get the secret from Marriott, which
she had no doubt afterward of _worming_ from Miss Delacour.
In all this she calculated ill; for what she had said only made Helena
distrust and dislike her. It was the recollection of this conversation
that made her follow the maid to her mother’s bedchamber, to see what
detained her there so long. Helena had heard Marriott say, that “she
ought not to run up and down stairs, because her lady was asleep,” and
it appeared extraordinary that but a few minutes after this information
she should have gone into the room with a glass of jelly in her hand.
“Ah, mamma!” thought Helena, as she stood beside her mother’s bed, “you
did not understand, and perhaps you did not believe me, when I said that
I would not try to find out any thing that you wished me not to know.
Now I hope you will _understand_ me better.”
Lady Delacour opened her eyes: “Helena,” cried she, starting up, “how
came you by that key?”
“Oh, mother! don’t look as if you suspected me.” She then told her
mother how the key came into her hands.
“My dear child, you have done me an essential service,” said Lady
Delacour: “you know not its importance, at least in my estimation. But
what gives me infinitely more satisfaction, you have proved yourself
worthy of my esteem--my love.”
Marriott came into the room, and whispered a few words to her lady.
“You may speak out, Marriott, before my Helena,” said Lady Delacour,
rising from the bed as she spoke: “child as she is, Helena has deserved
my confidence; and she shall be convinced that, where her mother has
once reason to confide, she is incapable of suspicion. Wait here for a
few minutes, my dear.”
She went to her boudoir, paid and dismissed the surgeon expeditiously,
then returned, and taking her daughter by the hand, she said, “You
look all simplicity, my dear! I see you have no vulgar, school-girl
curiosity. You will have all your mother’s strength of mind; may you
never have any of her faults, or any of her misfortunes! I speak to you
not as to a child, Helena, for you have reason far above your years; and
you will remember what I now say to you as long as you live. You will
possess talents, beauty, fortune; you will be admired, followed, and
flattered, as I have been: but do not throw away your life as I have
thrown away mine--to win the praise of fools. Had I used but half the
talents I possess, as I hope you will use yours, I might have been an
ornament to my sex--I might have been a Lady Anne Percival.”
Here Lady Delacour’s voice failed; but commanding her emotion, she in a
few moments went on speaking.
“Choose your friends well, my dear daughter! It was my misfortune, my
folly, early in life to connect myself with a woman, who under the name
of frolic led me into every species of mischief. You are too young, too
innocent, to hear the particulars of my history now; but you will hear
them all at a proper time from my best friend, Miss Portman. I shall
leave you to her care, my dear, when I die.”
“When you die!--Oh, mother!” said Helena, “but why do you talk of
dying?” and she threw her arms round her mother.
“Gently, my love!” said Lady Delacour, shrinking back; and she seized
this moment to explain to her daughter why she shrunk in this manner
from her caresses, and why she talked of dying.
Helena was excessively shocked.
“I wished, my dear,” resumed her mother, calmly, “I wished to have
spared you the pain of knowing all this. I have given you but little
pleasure in my life; it is unjust to give you so much pain. We shall go
to Twickenham to-morrow, and I will leave you with your Aunt Margaret,
my dear, till all is over. If I die, Belinda will take you with her
immediately to Oakly-park--you shall have as little sorrow as possible.
If you had shown me less of your affectionate temper, you would have
spared yourself the anguish that you now feel, and you would have spared
me--”
“My dear, kind mother,” interrupted Helena, throwing herself on her
knees at her mother’s feet, “do not send me away from you--I don’t wish
to go to my Aunt Margaret--I don’t wish to go to Oakly-park--I wish
to stay with you. Do not send me away from you; for I shall suffer ten
times more if I am not with you, though I know I can be of no use.”
Overcome by her daughter’s entreaties, Lady Delacour at last consented
that she should remain with her, and that she should accompany her to
Twickenham.
The remainder of this day was taken up in preparations for their
departure. The _stupid maid_ was immediately dismissed. No questions
were asked, and no reasons for her dismissal assigned, except that Lady
Delacour had no farther occasion for her services. Marriott alone was
to attend her lady to Twickenham. Lord Delacour, it was settled, should
stay in town, lest the unusual circumstance of his attending his lady
should excite public curiosity. His lordship, who was naturally a
good-natured man, and who had been touched by the kindness his wife had
lately shown him, was in extreme agitation during the whole of this day,
which he thought might possibly be the last of her existence. She, on
the contrary, was calm and collected; her courage seemed to rise with
the necessity for its exertion.
In the morning, when the carriage came to the door, as she parted
with Lord Delacour, she put into his hand a paper that contained some
directions and requests with which, she said, she hoped that he would
comply, if they should prove to be her _last_. The paper contained only
some legacies to her servants, a provision for Marriott, and a bequest
to her excellent and beloved friend, Belinda Portman, of the cabinet in
which she kept Clarence Hervey’s letters.
Interlined in this place, Lady Delacour had written these words: “My
daughter is nobly provided for; and lest any doubt or difficulty should
arise from the omission, I think it necessary to mention that the said
cabinet contains the valuable jewels left to me by my late uncle,
and that it is my intention that the said jewels should be part of
my bequest to the said Belinda Portman.--If she marry a man of good
fortune, she will wear them for my sake: if she do not marry an opulent
husband, I hope she will sell the jewels without scruple, as they are
intended for her convenience, and not as an ostentatious bequest. It is
fit that she should be as independent in her circumstances as she is in
her mind.”
Lord Delacour with much emotion looked over this paper, and assured her
ladyship that she should be obeyed, if--he could say no more.
“Farewell, then, my lord!” said she: “keep up your spirits, for I intend
to live many years yet to try them.”