PEU À PEU.
Things were in this situation, when one day Marriott made her appearance
at her lady’s toilette with a face which at once proclaimed that
something had discomposed her, and that she was impatient to be asked
what it was.
“What is the matter, Marriott?” said Lady Delacour; “for I know you want
me to ask.”
“Want you to ask! Oh, dear, my lady, no!--for I’m sure, it’s a thing
that goes quite against me to tell; for I thought, indeed, my lady,
_superiorly_ of the person in question; so much so, indeed, that I
wished what I declare I should now be ashamed to mention, especially in
the presence of Miss Portman, who deserves the best that this world can
afford of every denomination. Well, ma’am, in one word,” continued she,
addressing herself to Belinda, “I am extremely rejoiced that things are
as they are, though I confess that was not always my wish or opinion,
for which I beg Mr. Vincent’s pardon and yours; but I hope to be
forgiven, since I’m now come entirely round to my Lady Anne Percival’s
way of thinking, which I learnt from good authority at Oakly-park; and
I am now convinced and confident, Miss Portman, that every thing is for
the best.”
“Marriott will inform us, in due course of time, what has thus suddenly
and happily converted her,” said Lady Delacour to Belinda, who was
thrown into some surprise and confusion by Marriott’s address; but
Marriott went on with much warmth--
Dear me! I’m sure I thought we had got rid of all double-dealers, when
the house was cleared of Mr. Champfort; but, oh, mercy! there’s not
traps enough in the world for them all; I only wish they were all
caught as finely as some people were. “Tis what all double-dealers, and
Champfort at the head of the whole regiment, deserve--that’s certain.”
“We must take patience, my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, calmly,
“till Marriott has exhausted all the expletives in and out of the
English language; and presently, when she has fought all her battles
with Champfort over again, we may hope to get at the fact.”
“Dear! my lady, it has nothing to do with Mr. Champfort, nor any such
style of personage, I can assure you; for, I’m positive, I’d rather
think contemptibly of a hundred million Mr. Champforts than of one such
gentleman as Mr. Clarence Hervey.”
“Clarence Hervey!” exclaimed Lady Delacour: taking it for granted that
Belinda blushed, her ladyship, with superfluous address, instantly
turned, so as to hide her friend’s face from Mrs. Marriott. “Well,
Marriott, what of Mr. Hervey?”
“Oh, my lady, something you’ll be surprised to hear, and Miss Portman,
too. It is not, by any means, that I am more of a prude than is
becoming, my lady: nor that I take upon me to be so innocent as not to
know that young gentlemen of fortune will, if it be only for fashion’s
sake, have such things as kept mistresses (begging pardon for mentioning
such trash); but no one that has lived in the world thinks any thing of
that, except,” added she, catching a glimpse of Belinda’s countenance,
“except, to be sure, ma’am, morally speaking, it’s very wicked and
shocking, and makes one blush before company, till one’s used to it,
and ought certainly to be put down by act of parliament, ma’am; but, my
lady, you know, in point of surprising any body, or being discreditable
in a young gentleman of Mr. Hervey’s fortune and pretensions, it would
be mere envy and scandal to deem it any thing--worth mentioning.”
“Then, for mercy’s sake, or mine,” said Lady Delacour, “go on to
something that is worth mentioning.”
“Well, my lady, you must know, then, that yesterday I wanted some
hempseed for my bullfinch--Miss Helena’s bullfinch, I mean; for it was
she found it by accident, you know, Miss Portman, the day after we came
here. Poor thing! it got itself so entangled in the net over the morello
cherry tree, in the garden, that it could neither get itself in nor out;
but very luckily Miss Helena saw it, and saved, and brought it in: it
was almost dead, my lady.”
“Was it?--I mean I am very sorry for it: that is what you expect me to
say. Now, go on--get us once past the bullfinch, or tell us what it has
to do with Clarence Hervey.”
“That is what I am aiming at, as fast as possible, my lady. So I sent
for some hempseed for the bullfinch, and along with the hempseed they
brought me wrapped round it, as it were, a printed handbill, as it might
be, or advertisement, which I threw off, disregardingly, taking for
granted it might have been some of those advertisements for lozenges or
razor-strops, that meet one wherever one goes; but Miss Delacour picked
it up, and found it was a kind of hue and cry after a stolen or strayed
bullfinch. Ma’am, I was so provoked, I could have cried, when I learnt
it was the exact description of our little Bobby to a feather--gray upon
the back, and red on----”
“Oh! spare me the description to a feather. Well, you took the bird,
bullfinch, or Bobby, as you call it, home to its rightful owner, I
presume? Let me get you so far on your way.”
“No, I beg your pardon, my lady, that is not the thing.”
“Then you did not take the bird home to its owner--and you are a
bird-stealer? With all my heart: be a dog-stealer, if you will--only go
on.”
“But, my lady, you hurry me so, it puts every thing topsy-turvy in my
head; I could tell it as fast as possible my own way.”
“Do so, then.”
“I was ready to cry, when I found our little Bobby was claimed from
us, to be sure; but Miss Delacour observed, that those with whom it
had lived till it was grey must be sorrier still to part with it: so I
resolved to do the honest and genteel thing by the lady who advertised
for it, and to take it back myself, and to refuse the five guineas
reward offered. The lady’s name, according to the advertisement, was
Ormond.”
“Ormond!” repeated Lady Delacour, looking eagerly at Belinda: “was not
that the name Sir Philip Baddely mentioned to us--you remember?”
“Yes, Ormond was the name, as well as I recollect,” said Belinda, with
a degree of steady composure that provoked her ladyship. “Go on,
Marriott.”
“And the words were, to leave the bird at a perfumer’s in Twickenham,
opposite to ----; but that’s no matter. Well, my lady, to the perfumer’s
I went with the bird, this morning. Now, I had my reasons for wishing
to see this Mrs. Ormond myself, because, my lady, there was one thing
rather remarkable about this bullfinch, that it sings a very particular
tune, which I never heard any bullfinch, or any human creature, sing
anything like before: so I determined, in my own cogitations, to ask
this Mrs. Ormond to name the tunes her bullfinch could sing, before I
produced it; and if she made no mention of its knowing any one out of
the common way, I resolved to keep my bird to myself, as I might very
conscientiously and genteelly too. So, my lady, when I got to the
perfumer’s, I inquired where Mrs. Ormond was to be found? I was told
that she received no visits from any, at least from the female sex; and
that I must leave the bird there till called for. I was considering what
to do, and the strangeness of the information made about the female sex,
when in there came, into the shop, a gentleman, who saved me all the
indelicacy of asking particulars. The bullfinch was at this time piping
away at a fine rate, and, as luck would have it, that very remarkable
strange tune that I mentioned to you. Says the gentleman, as he came
into the shop, fixing his eyes on the bullfinch as if they would have
come fairly out of his head, ‘How did that bird come here?’--‘I brought
it here, sir,’ said I. Then he began to offer me mountains of gold in a
very strange way, if I could tell him any tidings of the lady to whom
it belonged. The shopman from behind the counter now bent forward, and
whispered the gentleman that he could give him some information, if he
would make it worth his while; and they both went together to a little
parlour behind the shop, and I saw no more of them. But, my lady, very
opportunely for me, that was dying with curiosity, out of the parlour
they turned a young woman in, to attend the shop, who proved to be an
acquaintance of mine, whom I had done some little favours to when in
service in London. And this young woman, when I told her my distress
about the advertisement and the bullfinch, let me into the whole of the
affair. ‘Ma’am,’ said she, ‘all that is known about Mrs. Ormond, in
this house, or any where else, is from me; so there was no occasion for
turning me out of the parlour. I lived with Mrs. Ormond, ma’am,”
says she, “‘for half a year, in the very house she now occupies, and
consequently nobody can be better informed than I am:’--to which I
agreed. Then she told me that the reason that Mrs. Ormond never saw any
company of any sort was, because she is not fit to see company--proper
company--for she’s not a proper woman. She has a most beautiful young
creature there, shut up, who has been seduced, and is now deserted in a
most cruel manner by a Mr. Hervey. Oh, my lady! how the name struck
upon my ear! I hoped, however, it was not our Mr. Hervey; but it was the
identical Mr. Clarence Hervey. I made the young woman describe him,
for she had often and often seen him, when he visited the unfortunate
creature; and the description could suit none but our Mr. Hervey, and
besides it put it beyond a doubt, she told me his linen was all marked
C. H. So our Mr. Hervey, ma’am,” added Marriott, turning to Belinda, “it
certainly proved to be, to my utter dismay and confusion.”
“Oh, Marriott! my poor head!” exclaimed Lady Delacour, starting from
under her hands: “that cruel comb went at least half an inch into my
head--heads have feeling as well as hearts, believe me.” And, as she
spoke, she snatched out the comb with which Marriott had just fastened
up her hair, and flung it on a sofa at some yards’ distance. While
Marriott went to fetch it, Lady Delacour thought that Belinda would
have time to recover from that utter dismay and confusion into which she
hoped that she must now be thrown. “Come, Marriott, make haste. I
have done _you_ at least a great favour, for you have all this hair to
perform upon again, and you will have leisure to finish this story
of yours--which, at all events, if it is not in any other respect
wonderful, we must allow is wonderfully long.”
“Well, my lady, to be short, then--I was more curious than ever, when
I heard all this, to hear more; and asked my friend how she could ever
think of staying in a house with ladies of such a description! Upon
which she justified herself by assuring me, upon her honour, that at
first she believed the young lady was married privately to Mr. Hervey,
for that a clergyman came in secret, and read prayers, and she verily
believes that the unfortunate young creature was deceived barbarously,
and made to fancy herself married to all intents and purposes, till
all at once Mr. Hervey threw off the mask, and left off visiting her,
pretending a necessity to take a journey, and handing her over to that
vile woman, that Mrs. Ormond, who bid her to be comforted, and all the
things that are said by such women, on such occasions, by all accounts.
But the poor deluded young thing saw how it was now too plain, and she
was ready to break her heart; but not in a violent, common sort of way,
ma’am, but in silent grief, pining and drooping. My friend could not
stand the sight, nor endure to look upon Mrs. Ormond now she knew
what she was; and so she left the house, without giving any reason,
immediately. I forgot to mention, that the unfortunate girl’s maiden
name was St. Pierre, my lady: but her Christian name, which was rather
an out o’ the way name, I quite forget.”
“No matter,” said Lady Delacour; “we can live without it; or we can
imagine it.”
“To be sure--I beg pardon; such sort of people’s names can’t be of any
consequence, and, I’m sure, I blame myself now for going to the house,
after all I had heard.”
“You did go to the house, then?”
“To my shame be it spoken; my curiosity got the better of me, and I
went---but only on account of the bullfinch in the eyes of the world. It
was a great while before I could get in: but I was so firm, that I would
not give up the bird to no one but the lady herself, that I got in at
last. Oh, never did my eyes light upon so beautiful a creature, nor so
graceful, nor so innocent to look at!”--Belinda sighed--Marriott echoed
the sigh, and continued “She was by herself, and in tears, when I was
shown in, ma’am, and she started as if she had never seen any body
before in her life. But when she saw the bullfinch, ma’am, she clapped
her hands, and, smiling through her tears like a child, she ran up to
me, and thanked me again and again, kissing the bird between times, and
putting it into her bosom. Well, I declare, if she had talked to all
eternity, she could never have made me pity her half so much as all this
did, for it looked so much like innocence. I’m sure, nobody that was
not--or, at least, that did not think themselves innocent, could have
such ways, and such an innocent affection for a little bird. Not but
what I know ladies of a certain description often have birds, but then
their fondness is all affectation and fashion; but this poor thing was
all nature. Ah! poor unfortunate girl, thought I--but it’s no matter
what I thought now,” said Marriott, shutting her eyes, to hide the tears
that came into them at this instant; “I was ashamed of myself, when I
saw Mrs. Ormond just then come into the room, which made me recollect
what sort of company I was in. La! my lady, how I detested the sight
of her! She looked at me, too, more like a dragon than any thing else;
though in a civil way, and as if she was frightened out of her wits,
she asked Miss St. Pierre, as she called her, how I had got in (in a
whisper), and she made all sorts of signs afterward to her, to go out
of the room. Never having been in such a situation before, I was quite
robbed of all fluency, and could not--what with the anger I felt for the
one, and sorrow for the other--get out a word of common sense, or even
recollect what pretence brought me into the room, till the bird very
luckily put it into my head by beginning to sing; so then I asked,
whether they could certify it to be theirs by any particular tune of its
own? ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss St. Pierre; and she sung the very same tune. I
never heard so sweet a voice; but, poor thing, something came across her
mind in the middle of it, and she stopped; but she thanked me again for
bringing back the bird, which, she said, had been hers for a great
many years, and that she loved it dearly. I stood, I believe, like one
stupified, till I was roused by _the woman’s_ offering to put the five
guineas reward, mentioned in the advertisement, into my hand. The touch
of her gold made me start, as if it had been a snake, and I pushed it
from me; and when she pressed it again, I threw it on the table, scarce
knowing what I did; and just then, in her iniquitous hand, I saw a
letter, directed to Clarence Hervey, Esq. Oh, how I hated the sight of
his name, and every thing belonging to him, ma’am, at that minute!
I’m sure, I could not have kept myself from saying something quite
outrageous, if I had not taken myself out of the house, as I did, that
instant.
“When there are women enough born and bred good for nothing, and ladies
enough to flirt with, that would desire no better, that a gentleman like
Mr. Clarence Hervey, ma’am, should set his wits, as one may say, to
be the ruin of such a sweet, innocent-looking young creature, and then
desert her in that barbarous way, after bringing a clergyman to deceive
her with a mock ceremony, and all--oh! there is no fashion, nor nothing
can countenance such wickedness! ‘tis the worst of wickedness and
cruelty--and I shall think and say so to the latest hour of my life.”
“Well said, Marriott,” cried Lady Delacour.
“And now you know the reason, ma’am,” added Marriott, “that I said,
I was glad _things are as they are_. To be sure I and every body once
thought--but that’s all over now--and I am glad _things are as they
are_.”
Lady Delacour once more turned her quick eyes upon Belinda, and was
much pleased to see that she seemed to sympathize with Marriott’s
indignation.
In the evening, when they were alone, Lady Delacour touched upon
the subject again, and observed, that as they should now, in all
probability, see Mr. Hervey in a few days, they might be able to form
a better judgment of this affair, which she doubted not had been
exaggerated. “You should judge from the whole of Clarence’s conduct and
character, and not from any particular part,” said her ladyship. “Do not
his letters breathe a spirit of generosity?”
“But,” interrupted Miss Portman, “I am not called upon to judge of Mr.
Hervey’s whole conduct and character, nor of any part of it; his letters
and his generosity are nothing--”
“To you?” said Lady Delacour with a smile.
“This is no time, and no subject for raillery, my dear friend,” said
Belinda; “you assured me, and I believed you, that the idea of Mr.
Hervey’s return was entirely out of the question, when you prevailed
upon me to delay my journey to Oakly-park. As I now understand that your
ladyship has changed your mind, I must request your ladyship will permit
me--”
“I will permit you to do what you please, dearest Belinda, except
to call me _your ladyship_ twice in one sentence. You shall go to
Oakly-park the day after to-morrow: will that content you, my dear? I
admire your strength of mind--you are much fitter to conduct yourself
than I am to conduct you. I have done with raillery: my first, my only
object, is your happiness. I respect and esteem as much as I love you,
and I love you better than any thing upon earth--power excepted, you
will say--power not excepted, believe me; and if you are one of those
strange people that cannot believe without proof, you shall have proof
positive upon the spot,” added she, ringing the bell as she spoke. “I
will no longer contend for power over your mind with your friends
at Oakly-park. I will give orders, in your presence, to Marriott, to
prepare for our march--I did not call it retreat; but there is nothing
shows so much generalship as a good retreat, unless it be a great
victory. I am, I confess, rather prejudiced in favour of victory.”
“So am I,” said Belinda, with a smile; “I am so strongly prejudiced in
favour of victory, that rather than obtain no other, I would even be
content with a victory over myself.”
Scarcely had Belinda pronounced these words, when Lord Delacour, who had
dined in town, entered the room, accompanied by Mr. Vincent.
“Give me leave, Lady Delacour, to introduce to you,” said his
lordship, “a young gentleman, who has a great, and, I am sure, a most
disinterested desire to cultivate your ladyship’s further acquaintance.”
Lady Delacour received him with all the politeness imaginable; and even
her prepossessions in favour of Clarence Hervey could not prevent her
from being struck with his appearance. Il a infiniment l’air d’un héros
de roman, thought she, and Belinda is not quite so great a philosopher
as I imagined. In due time her ladyship recollected that she had orders
to give to Marriott about her journey, that made it absolutely necessary
she should leave Miss Portman to entertain Mr. Vincent, if possible,
without her, for a few minutes; and Lord Delacour departed, contenting
himself with the usual excuse of--_letters to write_.
“I ought to be delighted with your gallantry, Mr. Vincent,” said
Belinda, “in travelling so many miles, to remind me of my promise about
Oakly-park; but on the contrary, I am sorry you have taken so much
unnecessary trouble: Lady Delacour is, at this instant, preparing
for our journey to Mr. Percival’s. We intend to set out the day after
to-morrow.”
“I am heartily glad of it--I shall be infinitely overpaid for my
journey, by having the pleasure of going back with you.”
After some conversation upon different subjects, Mr. Vincent, with an
air of frankness which was peculiarly pleasing to Belinda, put into her
hands an anonymous letter, which he had received the preceding day.
“It is not worth your reading,” said he; “but I know you too well to
fear that it should give you any pain; and I hope you know me too well,
to apprehend that it could make any impression on my mind.”
Belinda read with some surprise:--
“Rash young man! beware of connecting yourself with the lady to whom you
have lately been drawn in to pay your addresses: she is the most artful
of women. She has been educated, as you may find upon inquiry, by one,
whose successful trade it has been to draw in young men of fortune for
her nieces, whence she has obtained the appellation of _the match-maker
general_. The only niece whom she could not get rid of any other way,
she sent to the most dissipated and unprincipled viscountess in town.
The viscountess fell sick, and, as it was universally reported last
winter, the young lady was immediately, upon her friend’s death, to have
been married to the viscount widower. But the viscountess detected the
connexion, and the young lady, to escape from her friend’s rage, and
from public shame, was obliged to retreat to certain shades in the
neighbourhood of Harrowgate; where she passed herself for a saint upon
those who were too honourable themselves to be suspicious of others.
“At length the quarrel between her and the viscountess was made up, by
her address and boldness in declaring, that if she was not recalled, she
would divulge some secrets respecting a certain mysterious boudoir in
her ladyship’s house: this threat terrified the viscountess, who sent
off express for her late discarded humble companion. The quarrel
was hushed up, and the young lady is now with her noble friend at
Twickenham. The person who used to be let up the private stairs into
the boudoir, by Mrs. Marriott, is now more conveniently received at
Twickenham.”
Much more was said by the letter-writer in the same strain. The name
of Clarence Hervey, in the last page, caught Belinda’s eye; and with a
trepidation which she did not feel at the beginning of this epistle, she
read the conclusion.
“The viscount is not supposed to have been unrivalled in the young
lady’s favour. A young gentleman, of large fortune, great talents,
and uncommon powers of pleasing, has, for some months, been her secret
object; but he has been prudent enough to escape her matrimonial snares,
though he carries on a correspondence with her, through the means of her
friend the viscountess, to whom he privately writes. The noble lady has
bargained to make over to her confidante all her interest in Hervey’s
heart. He is expected every day to return from his tour; and, if the
schemes upon him can be brought to bear, the promised return to the
neighbourhood of Harrowgate will never be thought of. Mr. Vincent will
be left in the lurch; he will not even have the lady’s fair hand--her
_fair_ heart is Clarence Hervey’s, at all events. Further particulars
shall be communicated to Mr. Vincent, if he pays due attention to this
warning from
“A SINCERE FRIEND.”
As soon as Belinda had finished this curious production, she thanked Mr.
Vincent, with more kindness than she had ever before shown him, for the
confidence he placed in her, and for the openness with which he treated
her. She begged his permission to show this letter to Lady Delacour,
though he had previously dreaded the effect which it might have upon her
ladyship’s feelings.
Her first exclamation was, “This is one of Harriot Freke’s frolics;” but
as her ladyship’s indignation against Mrs. Freke had long since subsided
into utter contempt, she did not waste another thought upon the writer
of this horrible letter; but instantly the whole energy of her mind
and fire of her eloquence burst forth in an eulogium upon her friend.
Careless of all that concerned herself, she explained, without a
moment’s hesitation, every thing that could exalt Belinda: she described
all the difficult circumstances in which her friend had been placed; she
mentioned the secret with which she had been intrusted; the honour
with which, even at the hazard of her own reputation, she had kept
her promise of secrecy inviolable, when Lord Delacour, in a fit of
intoxication and jealousy, had endeavoured to wrest from Marriott the
key of _the mysterious boudoir_. She confessed her own absurd jealousy,
explained how it had been excited by the artifices of Champfort and Sir
Philip Baddely, how slight circumstances had worked her mind up almost
to frenzy. “The temper, the dignity, the gentleness, the humanity, with
which Belinda bore with me, during this paroxysm of madness,” said Lady
Delacour, “I never can forget; nor the spirit with which she left my
house, when she saw me unworthy of her esteem, and ungrateful for her
kindness; nor the magnanimity with which she returned to me, when I
thought myself upon my death-bed: all this has made an impression upon
my soul, which never, whilst I have life and reason, can be effaced. She
has saved my life. She has made my life worth saving. She has made
me feel my own value. She has made me know my own happiness. She has
reconciled me to my husband. She has united me with my child. She has
been my guardian angel.--_She_, the confidante of my intrigues!--_she_
leagued with me in vice!--No, I am bound to her by ties stronger
than vice ever felt; than vice, even in the utmost ingenuity of its
depravity, can devise.”
Exhausted by the vehemence with which she had spoken, Lady Delacour
paused; but Vincent, who sympathized in her enthusiasm, kept his eyes
fixed upon her, in hopes that she had yet more to say.
“I might, perhaps, you will think,” continued she, smiling, “have spared
you this history of myself, and of my own affairs, Mr. Vincent; but
I thought it necessary to tell you the plain facts, which malice has
distorted into the most odious form. This is the quarrel, this is
the reconciliation, of which your anonymous friend has been so well
informed. Now, as to Clarence Hervey.”
“I have explained to Mr. Vincent,” interrupted Belinda, “every thing
that he could wish to know on that subject, and I now wish you to tell
him that I faithfully remembered my promise to return to Oakly-park, and
that we were actually preparing for the journey.”
“Look here, sir,” cried Lady Delacour, opening the door of her
dressing-room, in which Marriott was upon her knees, locking a trunk,
“here’s dreadful note of preparation.”
“You are a happier man than you yet know, Mr. Vincent,” continued Lady
Delacour; “for I can tell you, that some persuasion, some raillery, and
some wit, I flatter myself, have been used, to detain Miss Portman from
you.”
“From Oakly-park,” interrupted Belinda.
“From Oakly-park, &c. a few days longer. Shall I be frank with you, Mr.
Vincent?--Yes, for I cannot help it--I am not of the nature of anonymous
letter-writers; I cannot, either secretly or publicly, sign or say
myself a _sincere friend_, without being one to the utmost extent of
my influence. I never give my vote without my interest, nor my interest
without my vote. Now Clarence Hervey is my friend. Start not at all,
sir,--you have no reason; for if he is my friend, Miss Portman is yours:
which has the better bargain? But, as I was going to tell you, Mr.
Clarence Hervey is my friend, and I am his. My vote, interest, and
influence, have consequently been all in his favour. I had reason to
believe that he has long admired _the dignity_ of Miss Portman’s _mind,
and the simplicity of her character_,” continued her ladyship, with an
arch look at Belinda; “and though he was too much a man of genius to
begin with the present tense of the indicative mood, ‘I love,’ yet I
was, and am, convinced, that he does love her.”
“Can you, dear Lady Delacour,” cried Belinda, “speak in this manner, and
recollect all we heard from Marriott this morning? And to what purpose
all this?”
“To what purpose, my dear? To convince your friend, Mr. Vincent, that I
am neither fool nor knave; but that I deal fairly by you, by him, and
by all the world. Mr. Hervey’s conduct towards Miss Portman has, I
acknowledge, sir, been undecided. Some circumstances have lately come
to my knowledge which throw doubts upon his honour and integrity--doubts
which, I firmly believe, he will clear up to _my_ satisfaction at
least, as soon as I see him, or as soon as it is in his power; with this
conviction, and believing, as I do, that no man upon earth is so well
suited to my friend,--pardon me, Mr. Vincent, if my wishes differ from
yours: though my sincerity may give you present, it may save you from
future, pain.”
“Your ladyship’s sincerity, whatever pain it may give me, I admire,”
said Mr. Vincent, with some pride in his manner; “but I see that I must
despair of the honour of your ladyship’s congratulations.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “there you are quite mistaken:
the man of Belinda’s choice _must_ receive my congratulations; he must
do more--he must become my friend I would never rest till I had won his
regard, nor should I in the least be apprehensive that he would not have
sufficient greatness of mind to forgive my having treated him with a
degree of sincerity which the common forms of politeness cannot justify,
and at which common souls would be scandalized past recovery.”
Mr. Vincent’s pride was entirely vanquished by this speech; and with
that frankness by which his manners were usually characterized, he
thanked her for having distinguished him from _common souls_; and
assured her that such sincerity as hers was infinitely more to his
taste than that refined politeness of which he was aware no one was more
perfect mistress than Lady Delacour.
Here their conversation ended, and Mr. Vincent, as it was now late, took
his leave.
“Really, my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, when he was gone, “I am
not surprised at your impatience to return to Oakly-park; I am not so
partial to my knight, as to compare him, in personal accomplishments,
with your hero. I acknowledge, also, that there is something vastly
prepossessing in the frankness of his manners; he has behaved admirably
well about this abominable letter; but, what is better than all in a
lady’s eyes he is _éperdument amoureux_.”
“Not _éperdument_, I hope,” said Belinda.
“Then, as you do not think it necessary for your hero to be _éperdument
amoureux_, I presume,” said Lady Delacour, “you do not think it
necessary that a heroine should be in love at all. So love and marriage
are to be separated by philosophy, as well as by fashion. This is Lady
Anne Percival’s doctrine! I give Mr. Percival joy. I remember the time,
when he fancied love essential to happiness.”
“I believe he not only fancies, but is sure of it now, from experience,”
said Belinda.
“Then he interdicts love only to his friends? He does not think it
essential that you should know any thing about the matter. You may marry
his ward, and welcome, without being in love with him.”
“But not without loving him,” said Belinda.
“I am not casuist enough in these matters to understand the subtle
distinction you make, with the true Percival emphasis, between loving
and falling in love. But I suppose I am to understand by loving, loving
as half the world do when they marry.”
“As it would be happy for half the world if they did,” replied Belinda,
mildly, but with a firmness of tone that her ladyship felt. “I should
despise myself and deserve no pity from any human being, if, after all I
have seen, I could think of marrying for convenience or interest.”
“Oh! pardon me; I meant not to insinuate such an idea: even your worst
enemy, Sir Philip Baddely, would acquit you there. I meant but to hint,
my dear Belinda, that a heart such as yours is formed for love in its
highest, purest, happiest state.”
A pause ensued.
“Such happiness can be secured only,” resumed Belinda, “by a union with
a man of sense and virtue.”
“A man of sense and virtue, I suppose, means Mr. Vincent,” said Lady
Delacour: “no doubt you have lately learned in the same sober style that
a little love will suffice with a great deal of esteem.”
“I hope I have learned lately that a great deal of esteem is the best
foundation for a great deal of love.”
“Possibly,” said Lady Delacour; “but we often see people working at the
foundation all their lives without getting any farther.”
“And those who build their castles of happiness in the air,” said
Belinda, “are they more secure, wiser, or happier?”
“Wiser! I know nothing about that,” said Lady Delacour; “but happier
I do believe they are; for the castle-building is always a _labour of
love_, but the foundation of drudgery is generally _love’s labour lost_.
Poor Vincent will find it so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Belinda; “for already his solid good qualities--”
“Solid good qualities!” interrupted Lady Delacour: “I beg your pardon
for interrupting you, but, my dear, you know we never fall in love with
good qualities, except, indeed, when they are joined to an aquiline
nose--oh! that aquiline nose of Mr. Vincent’s! I am more afraid of it
than of all his solid good qualities. He has again, I acknowledge it,
much the advantage of Clarence Hervey in personal accomplishments. But
you are not a woman to be decided by personal accomplishments.”
“And you will not allow me to be decided by solid good qualities,” said
Belinda. “So by what must I be determined?”
“By your heart, my dear; by your heart: trust your heart only.”
“Alas!” said Belinda, “how many, many women have deplored their having
trusted to their hearts only.”
“_Their_ hearts! but I said _your_ heart: mind your pronouns, my dear;
that makes all the difference. But, to be serious, tell me, do you
really and _bona fide_, as my old uncle the lawyer used to say, love Mr.
Vincent?”
“No,” said Belinda, “I do not love him yet.”
“But for that emphatic _yet_, how I should have worshipped you! I wish I
could once clearly understand the state of your mind about Mr. Vincent,
and then I should be able to judge how far I might indulge myself in
raillery without being absolutely impertinent. So without intruding upon
your confidence, tell me whatever you please.”
“I will tell you all I know of my own mind,” replied Belinda, looking up
with an ingenuous countenance. “I esteem Mr. Vincent; I am grateful
to him for the proofs he has given me of steady attachment, and of
confidence in my integrity. I like his manners and the frankness of
his temper; but I do not yet love him, and till I do, no earthly
consideration could prevail upon me to marry him.”
“Perfectly satisfactory, my dear Belinda; and yet I cannot be quite
at ease whilst Mr. Vincent is present, and my poor Clarence absent:
proximity is such a dangerous advantage even with the wisest of us. The
absent lose favour so quickly in Cupid’s court, as in all other courts;
and they are such victims to false reports and vile slanderers!”
Belinda sighed.
“Thank you for that sigh, my dear,” said Lady Delacour. “May I ask,
would you, if you discovered that Mr. Vincent had a Virginia, discard
him for ever from your thoughts?”
“If I discovered that he had deceived and behaved dishonourably to any
woman, I certainly should banish him for ever from my regard.”
“With as much ease as you banished Clarence Hervey?”
“With more, perhaps.”
“Then you acknowledge--that’s all I want--that you liked Clarence better
than you do Vincent?”
“I acknowledge it,” said Belinda, colouring up to her temples; “but that
time is entirely past, and I never look back to it.”
“But if you were forced to look back to it, my dear,--if Clarence Hervey
proposed for you,--would not you cast a lingering look behind?”
“Let me beg of you, my dear Lady Delacour, as my friend,” cried Belinda,
speaking and looking with great earnestness; “let me beg of you to
forbear. Do not use your powerful influence over my heart to make me
think of what I ought not to think, or do what I ought not to do. I have
permitted Mr. Vincent to address me. You cannot imagine that I am so
base as to treat him with duplicity, or that I consider him only as a
_pis-aller_; no--I have treated, I will treat him honourably. He knows
exactly the state of my mind. He shall have a fair trial whether he can
win my love; the moment I am convinced that he cannot succeed, I will
tell him so decidedly: but if ever I should feel for him that affection
which is necessary for my happiness and his, I hope I shall without
fear, even of Lady Delacour’s ridicule or displeasure, avow my
sentiments, and abide by my choice.”
“My dear, I admire you,” said Lady Delacour; “but I am incorrigible;
I am not fit to hear myself convinced. After all, I am impelled by the
genius of imprudence to tell you, that, in spite of Mr. Percival’s cure
for _first loves_, I consider love as a distemper that can be had but
once.”
“As you acknowledge that you are not fit to hear yourself convinced,”
said Belinda, “I will not argue this point with you.”
“But you will allow,” said Lady Delacour, “as it is said or sung in
Cupid’s calendar, that--
‘Un peu d’amour, un peu de soin,
Menent souvent un coeur bien loin;’”
and she broke off the conversation by singing that beautiful French air.