LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.
The only interest that honest people can take in the fate of rogues
is in their detection and punishment; the reader, then, will be so far
interested in the fate of Mr. Champfort, as to feel some satisfaction at
his being safely lodged in Newgate. The circumstance which led to this
desirable catastrophe was the anonymous letter to Mr. Vincent. From
the first moment that Marriott saw or heard of the letter, she was
convinced, she said, that “Mr. Champfort _was at the bottom of it_.”
Lady Delacour was equally convinced that Harriot Freke was the author of
the epistle; and she supported her opinion by observing, that Champfort
could neither write nor spell English. Marriott and her lady were both
right. It was a joint, or rather a triplicate performance. Champfort, in
conjunction with the stupid maid, furnished the intelligence, which Mrs.
Freke manufactured; and when she had put the whole into proper style and
form, Mr. Champfort got her rough draught fairly copied at his leisure,
and transmitted his copy to Mr. Vincent. Now all this was discovered by
a very slight circumstance. The letter was copied by Mr. Champfort upon
a sheet of mourning paper, off which he thought that he had carefully
cut the edges; but one bit of the black edge remained, which did not
escape Marriott’s scrutinizing eye. “Lord bless my stars! my lady,” she
exclaimed, “this must be the paper--I mean may be the paper--that Mr.
Champfort was cutting a quire of, the very day before Miss Portman left
town. It’s a great while ago, but I remember it as well as if it was
yesterday. I saw a parcel of black jags of paper littering the place,
and asked what had been going on? and was told, that it was only
Mr. Champfort who had been cutting some paper; which, to be sure, I
concluded my lord had given to him, having no further occasion for,--as
my lord and you, my lady, were just going out of mourning at that time,
as you may remember.”
Lord Delacour, when the paper was shown to him, recognized it
immediately by a private mark which he had put on the outside sheet of
a division of letter paper, which, indeed, he had never given to
Champfort, but which he had missed about the time Marriott mentioned.
Between the leaves of this paper his lordship had put, as it was often
his practice, some bank notes: they were notes but of small value, and
when he missed them he was easily persuaded by Champfort that, as he had
been much intoxicated the preceding night, he had thrown them away with
some useless papers. He rummaged through his writing-desk in vain, and
then gave up the search. It was true that on this very occasion he
gave Champfort the remainder of some mourning paper, which he made no
scruple, therefore, of producing openly. Certain that he could swear
to his own private mark, and that he could identify his notes by their
numbers, &c., of which he had luckily a memorandum, Lord Delacour,
enraged to find himself both robbed and duped by a favourite servant, in
whom he had placed implicit confidence, was effectually roused from his
natural indolence: he took such active and successful measures, that Mr.
Champfort was committed to gaol, to take his trial for the robbery. To
make peace for himself, he confessed that he had been instigated by Mrs.
Freke to get the anonymous letter written. This lady was now suffering
just punishment for her _frolics_, and Lady Delacour thought her fallen
so much below indignation, that she advised Belinda to take no manner
of notice of her conduct, except by simply returning the letter to
her, with “Miss Portman’s, Mr. Vincent’s, and Lord and Lady Delacour’s,
compliments and thanks to _a sincere friend_, who had been the means of
bringing villany to justice.”
So much for Mrs. Freke and Mr. Champfort, who, both together, scarcely
deserve an episode of ten lines.
Now to return to Mr. Vincent. Animated by fresh hope, he pressed his
suit with Belinda with all the ardour of his sanguine temper. Though
little disposed to fear any future evil, especially in the midst of
present felicity, yet he was aware of the danger that might ensue to
him from Clarence Hervey’s arrival; he was therefore impatient for the
intermediate day to pass, and it was with heartfelt joy that he saw the
carriages at last at the door, which were actually to convey them
to Oakly-park. Mr. Vincent, who had all the West Indian love for
magnificence, had upon this occasion an extremely handsome equipage.
Lady Delacour, though she was disappointed by Clarence Hervey’s not
appearing, did not attempt to delay their departure. She contented
herself with leaving a note, to be delivered to him on his arrival,
which, she still flattered herself, would induce him immediately to go
to Harrowgate. The trunks were fastened upon the carriages, the imperial
was carrying out, Marriott was full of a world of business, Lord
Delacour was looking at his horses as usual, Helena was patting Mr.
Vincent’s great dog, and Belinda was rallying her lover upon his taste
for “the pomp, pride, and circumstance” of glorious travelling--when an
express arrived from Oakly-park. It was to delay their journey for a
few weeks. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne wrote word, that they were
unexpectedly called from home by--. Lady Delacour did not stay to read
by what, or by whom, she was so much delighted by this reprieve.
Mr. Vincent bore the disappointment as well as could be expected;
particularly when Belinda observed, to comfort him, that “the mind
is its own place;” and that hers, she believed, would be the same at
Twickenham as at Oakly-park. Nor did _she_ give him any reason to regret
that she was not immediately under the influence of his own friends. The
dread of being unduly biassed by Lady Delacour, and the strong desire
Belinda felt to act honourably by Mr. Vincent, to show him that she
was not trifling with his happiness, and that she was incapable of the
meanness of retaining a lover as a _pis-aller_, were motives which acted
more powerfully in his favour than all that even Lady Anne Percival
could have looked or said. The contrast between the openness and
decision of his conduct towards her, and Clarence Hervey’s vacillation
and mystery; the belief that Mr. Hervey was or ought to be attached to
another woman; the conviction that Mr. Vincent was strongly attached to
her, and that he possessed many of the good qualities essential to her
happiness, operated every day more and more strongly upon Belinda’s
mind.
Where was Clarence Hervey all this time? Lady Delacour, alas! could not
divine. She every morning was certain that he would appear that day, and
every night she was forced to acknowledge her mistake. No inquiries--and
she had made all that could be made, by address and perseverance--no
inquiries could clear up the mystery of Virginia and Mrs. Ormond; and
her impatience to see her friend Clarence every hour increased. She was
divided between her confidence in him and her affection for Belinda;
unwilling to give him up, yet afraid to injure her happiness, or to
offend her, by injudicious advice, and improper interference. One thing
kept Lady Delacour for some time in spirits--Miss Portman’s assurance
that she would not bind herself by any promise or engagement to Mr.
Vincent, even when decided in his favour; and that she should hold both
him and herself perfectly free till they were actually married. This was
according to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival’s principles; and Lady Delacour
was never tired of expressing directly or indirectly her admiration of
the prudence and propriety of their doctrine.
Lady Delacour recollected her own promise, to give her _sincere
congratulations to the victorious knight_; and she endeavoured to treat
Mr. Vincent with impartiality. She was, however, now still less inclined
to like him, from a discovery, which she accidentally made, of his being
still upon good terms with _odious Mrs. Luttridge_. Helena, one morning,
was playing with Mr. Vincent’s large dog, of which he was excessively
fond. It was called Juba, after his faithful servant.
“Helena, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, “take care! don’t trust your hand
in that creature’s monstrous mouth.”
“I can assure your ladyship,” cried Mr. Vincent, “that he is the very
quietest and best creature in the world.”
“No doubt,” said Belinda, smiling, “since he belongs to you; for you
know, as Mr. Percival tells you, every thing animate or inanimate that
is under your protection, you think must be the best of its kind in the
universe.”
“But, really, Juba is the best creature in the world,” repeated Mr.
Vincent, with great eagerness. “Juba is, without exception, the best
creature in the universe.”
“Juba, the dog, or Juba, the man?” said Belinda: “you know, they cannot
be both the best creatures in the universe.”
“Well! Juba, the man, is the best man--and Juba, the dog, is the best
dog, in the universe,” said Mr. Vincent, laughing, with his usual
candour, at his own foible, when it was pointed out to him. “But,
seriously, Lady Delacour, you need not be in the least afraid to trust
Miss Delacour with this poor fellow; for, do you know, during a whole
month that I lent him to Mrs. Luttridge, at Harrowgate, she used
constantly to let him sleep in the room with her; and now, whenever he
sees her, he licks her hand as gently as if he were a lapdog; and it
was but yesterday, when I had him there, she declared he was more gentle
than any lapdog in London.”
At the name of Luttridge, Lady Delacour changed countenance, and she
continued silent for some time. Mr. Vincent, attributing her sudden
seriousness to dislike or fear of his dog, took him out of the room.
“My dear Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, observing that she still retained
an air of displeasure, “I hope your antipathy to _odious Mrs. Luttridge_
does not extend to every body who visits her.”
“Tout au contraire,” cried Lady Delacour, starting from her reverie, and
assuming a playful manner: “I have made a general gaol-delivery of
all my old hatreds; and even odious Mrs. Luttridge, though a hardened
offender, must be included in this act of grace: so you need not fear
that Mr. Vincent should fall under my royal displeasure for consorting
with this state criminal. Though I can’t sympathize with him, I forgive
him, both for liking that great dog, and that little woman; especially,
as I shrewdly suspect, that he likes the lady’s E O table better than
the lady.”
“E O table! Good Heavens! you do not imagine Mr. Vincent----”
“Nay, my dear, don’t look so terribly alarmed! I assure you, I did not
mean to hint that there was any serious, _improper_ attachment to the E
O table; only a little flirtation, perhaps, to which his passion for you
has, doubtless, put a stop.”
“I’ll ask him the moment I see him,” cried Belinda, “if he is fond of
play: I know he used to play at billiards at Oakly-park, but merely as
an amusement. Games of address are not to be put upon a footing with
games of hazard.’
“A man may, however, contrive to lose a good deal of money at billiards,
as poor Lord Delacour can tell you. But I beseech you, my dear, do not
betray me to Mr. Vincent; ten to one I am mistaken, for his great dog
put me out of humour----”
“But with such a doubt upon my mind, unsatisfied----”
“It shall be satisfied; Lord Delacour shall make inquiries for me. Lord
Delacour _shall_ make inquiries, did I say?--_will_, I should have
said. If Champfort had heard me, to what excellent account he might have
turned that unlucky _shall_. What a nice grammarian a woman had need to
be, who would live well with a husband inferior to her in understanding!
With a superior or an equal, she might use _shall_ and _will_ as
inaccurately as she pleases. Glorious privilege! How I shall envy it
you, my dear Belinda! But how can you ever hope to enjoy it? Where is
your superior? Where is your equal?”
Mr. Vincent, who had by this time seen his dog fed, which was one of his
daily pleasures, returned, and politely assured Lady Delacour that Juba
should not again intrude. To make her peace with Mr. Vincent, and to
drive the E O table from Belinda’s thoughts, her ladyship now turned the
conversation from Juba the dog, to Juba the man. She talked of Harriot
Freke’s phosphoric Obeah woman, of whom, she said, she had heard an
account from Miss Portman. From thence she went on to the African
slave trade, by way of contrast, and she finished precisely where she
intended, and where Mr. Vincent could have wished, by praising a poem
called ‘The dying Negro,’ which he had the preceding evening brought to
read to Belinda. This praise was peculiarly agreeable, because he was
not perfectly sure of his own critical judgment, and his knowledge
of English literature was not as extensive as Clarence Hervey’s; a
circumstance which Lady Delacour had discovered one morning, when they
went to see Pope’s famous villa at Twickenham. Flattered by her present
confirmation of his taste, Mr. Vincent readily complied with a request
to read the poem to Belinda. They were all deeply engaged by the
charms of poetry, when they were suddenly interrupted by the entrance
of--Clarence Hervey!
The book dropped from Vincent’s hand the instant that he heard his name.
Lady Delacour’s eyes sparkled with joy. Belinda’s colour rose, but her
countenance maintained an expression of calm dignity. Mr. Hervey, upon
his first entrance, appeared prepared to support an air of philosophic
composure, which forsook him before he had walked across the room. He
seemed overpowered by the kindness with which Lady Delacour received
his congratulations on her recovery--struck by the reserve of Belinda’s
manner--but not surprised, or displeased, at the sight of Mr. Vincent.
On the contrary, he desired immediately to be introduced to him, with
the air of a man resolute to cultivate his friendship. Provoked
and perplexed, Lady Delacour, in a tone of mingled reproach and
astonishment, exclaimed, “Though you have not done me the honour, Mr.
Hervey, to take any other notice of my last letter, I am to understand,
I presume, by the manner in which you desire me to introduce you to our
friend Mr. Vincent, that it has been received.”
“Received! Good Heavens! have not you had my answer?” cried Clarence
Hervey, with a voice and look of extreme surprise and emotion: “Has not
your ladyship received a packet?”
“I have had no packet--I have had no letter. Mr. Vincent, do me the
favour to ring the bell,” cried Lady Delacour, eagerly: “I’ll know, this
instant, what’s become of it.”
“Your ladyship must have thought me--,” and, as he spoke, his eye
involuntarily glanced towards Belinda.
“No matter what I thought you,” cried Lady Delacour, who forgave him
every thing for this single glance; “if I did you a little injustice,
Clarence, when I was angry, you must forgive me; for, I assure you, I do
you a great deal of justice at other times.”
“Did any letter, any packet, come here for me? Inquire, inquire,” said
she, impatiently, to the servant who came in. No letter or packet was
to be heard of. It had been directed, Mr. Hervey now remembered, to her
ladyship’s house in town. She gave orders to have it immediately sent
for; but scarcely had she given them, when, turning to Mr. Hervey, she
laughed and said, “A very foolish compliment to you and your letter,
for you certainly can speak as well as you can write; nay, better, I
think--though you don’t write ill, neither--but you can tell me, in two
words, what in writing would take half a volume. Leave this gentleman
and lady to ‘the dying Negro,’ and let me hear your two words in Lord
Delacour’s dressing-room, if you please,” said she, opening the door of
an adjoining apartment. “Lord Delacour will not be jealous if he find
you tête-à-tête with me, I promise you. But you shall not be compelled.
You look--”
“I look,” said Mr. Hervey, affecting to laugh, “as if I felt the
impossibility of putting half a volume into two words. It is a long
story, and--”
“And I must wait for the packet, whether I will or no--well, be it so,”
said Lady Delacour. Struck with the extreme perturbation into which
he was thrown, she pressed him with no farther raillery, but instantly
attempted to change the conversation to general subjects.
Again she had recourse to ‘the dying Negro.’ Mr. Vincent, to whom she
now addressed herself, said, “For my part, I neither have, nor pretend
to have, much critical taste; but I admire in this poem the manly,
energetic spirit of virtue which it breathes.” From the poem, an easy
transition was made to the author; and Clarence Hervey, exerting himself
to join in the conversation, observed, “that this writer (Mr. Day) was
an instance that genuine eloquence must spring from the heart. Cicero
was certainly right,” continued he, addressing himself to Mr. Vincent,
“in his definition of a great orator, to make it one of the first
requisites, that he should be a good man.”
Mr. Vincent coldly replied, “This definition would exclude too many men
of superior talents, to be easily admitted.”
“Perhaps the appearance of virtue,” said Belinda, “might, on many
occasions, succeed as well as the reality.”
“Yes, if the man be as good an actor as Mr. Hervey,” said, Lady
Delacour, “and if he suit ‘the action to the word’--‘the word to the
action.’”
Belinda never raised her eyes whilst her ladyship uttered these words;
Mr. Vincent was, or seemed to be, so deeply engaged in looking for
something in the book, which he held in his hand, that he could take no
farther part in the conversation; and a dead silence ensued.
Lady Delacour, who was naturally impatient in the extreme, especially
in the vindication of her friends, could not bear to see, as she did by
Belinda’s countenance, that she had not forgotten Marriott’s story of
Virginia St. Pierre; and though her ladyship was convinced that the
_packet_ would clear up all mysteries, yet she could not endure that
even in the interim ‘poor Clarence’ should he unjustly suspected; nor
could she refrain from trying an expedient, which just occurred to her,
to satisfy herself and every body present. She was the first to break
silence.
“To do ye justice, my friends, you are all good company this morning.
Mr. Vincent is excusable, because he is in love; and Belinda is
excusable, because--because--Mr. Hervey, pray help me to an excuse for
Miss Portman’s stupidity, for I am dreadfully afraid of blundering out
the truth. But why do I ask _you_ to help me? In your present condition,
you seem totally unable to help yourself.--Not a word!--Run over the
common-places of conversation--weather--fashion--scandal--dress--deaths--
marriages.--Will none of these do? Suppose, then, you were to entertain
me with other people’s thoughts, since you have none of your own
unpacked--Forfeit to arbitrary power,” continued her ladyship, playfully
seizing Mr. Vincent’s book. “I have always observed that none submit
with so good a grace to arbitrary power from our sex as your true men of
spirit, who would shed the last drop of their blood to resist it from
one of their own. Inconsistent creatures, the best of you! So read this
charming little poem to us, Mr. Hervey, will you?”
He was going to begin immediately, but Lady Delacour put her hand upon
the book, and stopped him.
“Stay; though I am tyrannical, I will not be treacherous. I warn you,
then, that I have imposed upon you a difficult, a dangerous task. If you
have any ‘sins unwhipt of justice,’ there are lines which I defy you to
read without faltering--listen to the preface.”
Her ladyship began as follows:
“Mr. Day, indeed, retained during all the period of his life, as
might be expected from his character, a strong detestation of female
seduction----Happening to see some verses, written by a young lady, on
a recent event of this nature, which was succeeded by a fatal
catastrophe--the unhappy young woman, who had been a victim to the
perfidy of a lover, overpowered by her sensibility of shame, having died
of a broken heart--he expresses his sympathy with the fair poetess in
the following manner.”
Lady Delacour paused, and fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey. He, with
all the appearance of conscious innocence, received the book, without
hesitation, from her hands, and read aloud the lines, to which she
pointed.
“Swear by the dread avengers of the tomb,
By all thy hopes, by death’s tremendous gloom,
That ne’er by thee deceived, the tender maid
Shall mourn her easy confidence betray’d,
Nor weep in secret the triumphant art,
With bitter anguish rankling in her heart;
So may each blessing, which impartial fate
Throws on the good, but snatches from the great,
Adorn thy favour’d course with rays divine,
And Heaven’s best gift, a virtuous love, be thine!”
Mr. Hervey read these lines with so much unaffected, unembarrassed
energy, that Lady Delacour could not help casting a triumphant look at
Belinda, which said or seemed to say--you see I was right in my opinion
of Clarence!
Had Mr. Vincent been left to his own observations, he would have seen
the simple truth; but he was alarmed and deceived by Lady Delacour’s
imprudent expressions of joy, and by the significant looks that she
gave her friend Miss Portman, which seemed to be _looks of mutual
intelligence_. He scarcely dared to turn his eyes toward his mistress,
or upon him whom he thought his rival: but he kept them anxiously fixed
upon her ladyship, in whose face, as in a glass, he seemed to study
every thing that was passing.
“Pray, have you ever played at chess, since we saw you last?” said
Lady Delacour to Clarence. “I hope you do not forget that you are _my
knight_. I do not forget it, I assure you--I own you as my knight to all
the world, in public and private--do not I, Belinda?”
A dark cloud overspread Mr. Vincent’s brow--he listened not to Belinda’s
answer. Seized with a transport of jealousy, he darted at Mr. Hervey a
glance of mingled scorn and rage; and, after saying a few unintelligible
words to Miss Portman and Lady Delacour, he left the room.
Clarence Hervey, who seemed afraid to trust himself longer with Belinda,
withdrew a few minutes afterward.
“My dear Belinda,” exclaimed Lady Delacour, the moment that he was out
of the room, “how glad I am he is gone, that I may say all the good I
think of him! In the first place, Clarence Hervey loves you. Never was I
so fully convinced of it as this day. Why had we not that letter of his
sooner? that will explain all to us: but I ask for no explanation, I
ask for no letter, to confirm my opinion, my conviction--that he _loves_
you: on this point I _cannot_ be mistaken--he fondly loves you.”
“He fondly loves her!--Yes, to be sure, I could have told you that news
long ago,” cried the dowager Lady Boucher, who was in the room before
they were aware of her entrance; they had both been so eager, the one
listening, and the other speaking.
“Fondly loves her!” repeated the dowager: “yes; and no secret, I
promise you, Lady Delacour:” and then, turning to Belinda, she began a
congratulatory speech, upon the report of her approaching marriage with
Mr. Vincent. Belinda absolutely denied the truth of this report: but the
dowager continued, “I distress you, I see, and it’s quite out of rule,
I am sensible, to speak in this sort of way, Miss Portman; but as I’m an
old acquaintance, and an old friend, and an old woman, you’ll excuse me.
I can’t help saying, I feel quite rejoiced at your meeting with such a
match.” Belinda again attempted to declare that she was not going to be
married; but the invincible dowager went on: “Every way eligible, and
every way agreeable. A charming young man, I hear, Lady Delacour: I
see I must only speak to you, or I shall make Miss Portman sink to the
centre of the earth, which I would not wish to do, especially at such a
critical moment as this. A charming young man, I hear, with a noble West
Indian fortune, and a noble spirit, and well connected, and passionately
in love--no wonder. But I have done now, I promise you; I’ll ask no
questions: so don’t run away, Miss Portman; I’ll ask no questions, I
promise you.”
To ensure the performance of the promise, Lady Delacour asked what news
there was in the world? This question, she knew, would keep the dowager
in delightful employment. “I live quite out of the world here; but since
Lady Boucher has the charity to come to see me, we shall hear all the
‘secrets worth knowing,’ from the best authority.”
“Then, the first piece of news I have for you is, that my Lord and my
Lady Delacour are absolutely reconciled; and that they are the happiest
couple that ever lived.”
“All very true,” replied Lady Delacour.
“True!” repeated Lady Boucher: “why, my dear Lady Delacour, you amaze
me!--Are you in earnest?--Was there ever any thing so provoking?--There
have I been contradicting the report, wherever I went; for I was
convinced that the whole story was a mistake, and a fabrication.”
“The history of the reformation might not be exact, but the reformation
itself your ladyship may depend upon, since you hear it from my own
lips.”
“Well, how amazing! how incredible!--Lord bless me! But your ladyship
certainly is not in earnest? for you look just the same, and speak just
in the same sort of way: I see no alteration, I confess.”
“And what alteration, my good Lady Boucher, did you expect to see? Did
you think that, by way of being exemplarily virtuous, I should, like
Lady Q----, let my sentences come out of my mouth only at the rate of a
word a minute?
‘Like--minute--drops--from--off--the--eaves.’
Or did you expect that, in hopes of being a pattern for the rising
generation, I should hold my features in penance, immoveably, thus--like
some of the poor ladies of Antigua, who, after they have blistered their
faces all over, to get a fine complexion, are forced, whilst the new
skin is coming, to sit without speaking, smiling, or moving muscle or
feature, lest an indelible wrinkle should be the consequence?”
Lady Boucher was impatient to have this speech finished, for she had a
piece of news to tell. “Well!” cried she, “there’s no knowing what to
believe or disbelieve, one hears so many strange reports; but I have a
piece of news for you, that you may all depend upon. I have one secret
worth knowing, I can tell your ladyship--and one, your ladyship and
Miss Portman, I’m sure, will be rejoiced to hear. Your friend, Clarence
Hervey, is going to be married.”
“Married! married!” cried Lady Delacour.
“Ay, ay, your ladyship may look as much astonished as you please, you
cannot be more so than I was when I heard it. Clarence Hervey, Miss
Portman, that was looked upon so completely, you know, as not a marrying
man; and now the last man upon earth that your ladyship would suspect of
marrying in this sort of way!”
“In what sort of way?--My dear Belinda, how can you stand this fire?”
said Lady Delacour, placing a skreen, dexterously, to hide her face from
the dowager’s observation.
“Now only guess whom he is going to marry,” continued Lady Boucher:
“whom do _you_ guess, Miss Portman?”
“An amiable woman, I should guess, from Mr. Hervey’s general character,”
cried Lady Delacour.
“Oh, an amiable woman, I take for granted; every woman is amiable of
course, as the newspapers tell us, when she is going to be married,”
said the dowager: “an amiable woman, to be sure; but that means nothing.
I have not had a guess from Miss Portman.”
“From general character,” Belinda began, in a constrained voice.
“Do not guess from general character, my dear Belinda,” interrupted
Lady Delacour; “for there is no judging, in these cases, from general
character, of what people will like or dislike.”
“Then I will leave it to your ladyship to guess this time, if you
please,” said Belinda.
“You will neither of you guess till doomsday!” cried the dowager; “I
must tell you. Mr. Hervey’s going to marry--in the strangest sort of
way!--a girl that nobody knows--a daughter of a Mr. Hartley. The
father can give her a good fortune, it is true; but one should not have
supposed that fortune was an object with Mr. Hervey, who has such a
noble one of his own. It’s really difficult to believe it.”
“So difficult, that I find it quite impossible,” said Lady Delacour,
with an incredulous smile.
“Depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour,” said the dowager, laying the
convincing weight of her arm upon her ladyship’s, “depend upon it, my
dear Lady Delacour, that my information is correct. Guess whom I had it
from.”
“Willingly. But first let me tell you, that I have seen Mr. Hervey
within this half hour, and I never saw a man look less like a
bridegroom.”
“Indeed! well, I’ve heard, too, that he didn’t like the match: but what
a pity, when you saw him yourself this morning, that you didn’t get all
the particulars out of him. But let him look like what he will, you’ll
find that my information is perfectly correct. Guess whom I had it
from--from Mrs. Margaret Delacour: it was at her house that Clarence
Hervey first met Mr. Hartley, who, as I mentioned, is the father of the
young lady. There was a charming scene, and some romantic story, about
his finding the girl in a cottage, and calling her Virginia something or
other, but I didn’t clearly understand about that. However, this much is
certain, that the girl, as her father told Mrs. Delacour, is desperately
in love with Mr. Hervey, and they are to be married immediately. Depend
upon it, you’ll find my information correct. Good morning to you. Lord
bless me! now I recollect, I once heard that Mr. Hervey was a great
admirer of Miss Portman,” said the dowager.
The inquisitive dowager, whose curiosity was put upon a new scent,
immediately fastened her eyes upon Belinda’s face; but from that she
could make out nothing. Was it because she had not the best eyes, or
because there was nothing to be seen? To determine this question, she
looked through her glass, to take a clearer view; but Lady Delacour drew
off her attention, by suddenly exclaiming--“My dear Lady Boucher,
when you go back to town, do send me a bottle of concentrated anima of
quassia.”
“Ah! ah! have I made a convert of you at last?” said the dowager; and,
satisfied with the glory of this conversion, she departed.
“Admire my knowledge of human nature, my dear Belinda,” said Lady
Delacour. “Now she will talk, at the next place she goes to, of nothing
but of my faith in anima of quassia; and she will forget to make a
gossiping story out of that most imprudent hint I gave her, about
Clarence Hervey’s having been an admirer of yours.”
“Do not leave the room, Belinda; I have a thousand things to say to you,
my dear.”
“Excuse me, at present, my dear Lady Delacour; I am impatient to write a
few lines to Mr. Vincent. He went away--”
“In a fit of jealousy, and I am glad of it.”
“And I am sorry for it,” said Belinda; “sorry that he should have so
little confidence in me as to feel jealousy without cause--without
sufficient cause, I should say; for certainly your ladyship gave pain,
by the manner in which you received Mr. Hervey.”
“Lord, my dear, you would spoil any man upon earth. You could not act
more foolishly if the man were your husband. Are you privately married
to him?--If you be not--for my sake--for your own--for Mr. Vincent’s--do
not write till we see the contents of Clarence Hervey’s packet.”
“It _can_ make no alteration in what I write,” said Belinda.
“Well, my dear, write what you please; but I only hope you will not send
your letter till the packet arrives.”
“Pardon me, I shall send it as soon as I possibly can: the ‘dear delight
of giving pain’ does not suit my taste.”
Lady Delacour, as soon as she was left alone, began to reconsider the
dowager’s story; notwithstanding her unbelieving smile, it alarmed her,
for she could not refuse to give it some degree of credit, when she
learnt that Mrs. Margaret Delacour was the authority from whom it came.
Mrs. Delacour was a woman of scrupulous veracity, and rigid in her
dislike to gossiping; so that it was scarcely probable a report
originating with her, however it might be altered by the way, should
prove to be totally void of foundation. The name of Virginia coincided
with Sir Philip Baddely’s hints, and with Marriott’s discoveries: these
circumstances considered, Lady Delacour knew not what opinion to form;
and her eagerness to receive Mr. Hervey’s packet every moment increased.
She walked up and down the room--looked at her watch--fancied that it
had stopped--held it to her ear--ran the bell every quarter of an hour,
to inquire whether the messenger was not _yet_ come back. At last,
the long-expected packet arrived. She seized it, and hurried with it
immediately to Belinda’s room.
“Clarence Hervey’s packet, my love!--Now, woe be to the person who
interrupts us!” She bolted the door as she spoke--. rolled an arm-chair
to the fire--“Now for it!” said she, seating herself. “The devil upon
two sticks, if he were looking down upon me from the house-top, or
Champfort, who is the worse devil of the two, would, if he were peeping
through the keyhole, swear I was going to open a love-letter--and so I
hope I am. Now for it!” cried she, breaking the seal.
“My dear friend,” said Belinda, laying her hand upon Lady Delacour’s,
“before we open this packet, let me speak to you, whilst our minds are
calm.”
“Calm! It is the strangest time for your mind to be calm. But I must not
affront you by my incredulity. Speak, then, but be quick, for I do not
pretend to be calm; it not being, thank my stars, _‘mon métier d’être
philosophe.’_ Crack goes the last seal--speak now, or for ever after
hold your tongue, my _calm philosopher _of Oakly-park: but do you wish
me to attend to what you are going to say?”
“Yes,” replied Belinda, smiling; “that is the usual wish of those who
speak.”
“Very true: and I can listen tolerably well, when I don’t know what
people are going to say; but when I know it all beforehand, I have an
unfortunate habit of not being able to attend to one word. Now, my dear,
let me anticipate your speech, and if my anticipation be wrong, then you
shall rise to explain; and I will,” said she, (putting her finger on her
lips,) “listen to you, like Harpocrates, without moving an eyelash.”
Belinda, as the most certain way of being heard, consented to hear
before she spoke.
“I will tell you,” pursued Lady Delacour, “if not what you are going to
say to me, at least what you say to yourself, which is fully as much to
the purpose. You say to yourself, ‘Let this packet of Clarence Hervey
contain what it may, it comes too late. Let him say, or let him do, ‘tis
all the same to me--because--(now for the reasoning)--because things
have gone so far with Mr. Vincent, that Lady Anne Percival and all the
world (at Oakly-park) will blame me, if I retract. In short, _things
have gone so far_ that I cannot recede; because--_things have gone so
far_.’ This is the rondeau of your argument. Nay, hear me out, then you
shall have your turn, my dear, for an hour, if you please. Let things
have gone ever so far, they can stop, and turn about again, cannot they?
Lady Anne Percival is your friend, of course can wish only for
your happiness. You think she is ‘the thing that’s most uncommon, a
reasonable woman:’ then she cannot be angry with you for being happy
your own way. So I need not, as the orators say, _labour this point any
more_. Now, as to your aunt. The fear of displeasing Mrs. Stanhope a
little more or less is not to be put in competition with the hope of
your happiness for life, especially as you have contrived to exist some
months in a state of utter excommunication from her favour. After all,
you know she will not grieve for any thing but the loss of Mr. Vincent’s
fortune; and Mr. Hervey’s fortune might do as well, or almost as
well: at least, she may compound with her pride for the difference, by
considering that an English member of parliament is, in the eyes of the
world (the only eyes with which she sees), a better connexion than the
son of a West India planter, even though he may be a protégé of Lady
Anne Percival.
“Spare me your indignation, my dear!--What a look was there!--Reasoning
for Mrs. Stanhope, must not I reason as Mrs. Stanhope does?--Now I will
put this stronger still. Suppose that you had actually acknowledged that
Mr. Vincent had got beyond esteem with you; suppose that you had in
due form consented to marry him; suppose that preparations were at this
moment making for the wedding; even in that desperate case I should say
to you, you are not a girl to marry because your wedding-gown is made
up. Some few guineas are thrown away, perhaps; do not throw away your
whole happiness after them--that would be sorry economy. Trust me, my
dear, I should say, as I have to you, in time of need. Or, if you fear
to be obliged to one who never was afraid of being obliged to you, ten
to one the preparations for _a_ wedding, though not _the_ wedding, may
be necessary immediately. No matter to Mrs. Franks who the bridegroom
may be; so that her bill be paid, she would not care the turning of a
feather whether it be paid by Mrs. Vincent or Mrs. Hervey. I hope I have
convinced, I am sure I have made you blush, my dear, and that is some
satisfaction. A blush at this moment is an earnest of victory. Lo,
triumphe! Now I will open my packet; my hand shall not be held an
instant longer.”
“I absolve you from the penance of hearing me for an hour, but I claim
your promise to attend to me for a few minutes, my dear friend,” said
Belinda: “I thank you most sincerely for your kindness; and let me
assure you that I should not hesitate to accept from you any species of
obligation.”
“Thanks! thanks!--there’s a dear good girl!--my own Belinda!”
“But indeed you totally misunderstand me; your reasoning--”
“Show me the fault of it: I challenge all the logic of all the
Percivals.”
“Your reasoning is excellent, if your facts were not taken for granted.
You have taken it for granted, that Mr. Hervey is in love with me.”
“No,” said Lady Delacour; “I take nothing for granted, as you will find
when I open this packet.”
“You have taken it for granted,” continued Belinda, “that I am still
secretly attached to him; and you take it for granted that I am
restrained only by fear of Lady Anne Percival, my aunt, and the world,
from breaking off with Mr. Vincent: if you will read the letter, which
I was writing to him when you came into the room, perhaps you will be
convinced of your mistake.”
“Read a letter to Mr. Vincent at such a time as this! then I will go
and read my packet in my own room,” cried Lady Delacour, rising hastily,
with evident displeasure.
“Not even your displeasure, my dear friend,” said Belinda, “can alter
my determination to behave with consistency and openness towards Mr.
Vincent; and I can bear your anger, for I know it arises from your
regard for me.”
“I never loved you so little as at this instant, Belinda.”
“You will do me justice when you are cool.”
“Cool!” repeated Lady Delacour, as she was about to leave the room, “I
never wish to be as cool as you are, Belinda! So, after all, you love
Mr. Vincent--you’ll marry Mr. Vincent!”
“I never said so,” replied Belinda: “you have not read my letter. Oh,
Lady Delacour, at this instant--you should not reproach me.”
“I did you injustice,” cried Lady Delacour, as she now looked at
Belinda’s letter. “Send it--send it--you have said the very thing you
ought; and now sit down with me to this packet of Clarence Hervey’s--be
just to him, as you are to Mr. Vincent, that’s all I ask--give him a
fair hearing:--now for it.”