NEWS.
“Do not expect that I should pretend to be sorry for Mr. Vincent,” said
Lady Delacour. “Let him be as generous and as penitent as he pleases,
I am heartily glad that he is on his way to Germany. I dare say he will
find in the upper or _lower_ circles of the empire some heroine in
the Kotzebue taste, who will alternately make him miserable till he
is happy, and happy till he is miserable. He is one of those men who
require great emotions: fine lovers these make for stage effect--but the
worst husbands in the world!
“I hope, Belinda, you give me credit, for having judged better of Mr.
Vincent than Lady Anne Percival did?”
“For having judged worse of him, you mean? Lady Anne always judges _as
well_ as possible of every body.”
“I will allow you to play upon words in a friend’s defence, but do not
be alarmed for the reputation of Lady Anne’s judgment. If it will be
any satisfaction to you, I can with thorough sincerity assure you that
I never liked her so well in my life as since I have detected her in
a mistake. It saves her, in my imagination, from the odium of being a
perfect character.”
“And there was something so handsome in her manner of writing to me,
when she found out her error,” said Belinda.
“Very true, and my friend Mr. Percival behaved handsomely. Where
friendships clash, it is not every man who has clearness of head
sufficient to know his duty to his neighbour. Mr. Percival said no
more than just the thing he ought, for his ward. You have reason to be
obliged to him: and as we are returning thanks to all persons concerned
in our deliverance from this imminent danger, Juba, the dog, and Juba,
the black, and Solomon, the Jew, ought to come in for their share; for
without that wrestling match of theirs, the truth might never have been
dragged to light, and Mr. Vincent would have been in due course of
time your lord and master. But the danger is over; you need not look
so terrified: do not be like the man who dropped down dead with terror,
when he was shown by daylight the broken bridge which he had galloped
over in the dark.”
Lady Delacour was in such high spirits that, without regard to
connexion, she ran on from one subject to another.
“You have proved to me, my dear,” said she, “that you are not a girl to
marry, because the day was fixed, or because _things had gone so far_.
I give you infinite credit for your _civil courage_, as Dr. X---- calls
it: military courage, as he said to me yesterday--military courage, that
seeks the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth, may be had
for sixpence a day. But civil courage, such as enabled the Princess
Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, to go straight up the hill to her
object, though the magical multitude of advising and abusive voices
continually called to her to turn back, is one of the rarest qualities
in man or woman, and not to be had for love, money, or admiration.”
“You place admiration not only above money, but above love, in your
climax, I perceive,” said Belinda, smiling.
“I will give you leave to be as philosophically sarcastic as you please,
my dear, if you will only smile, and if you will not look as pale as
Seneca’s Paulina, whose story we heard--from whom?”
“From Mr. Hervey, I believe.”
“His name was ready upon your lips; I hope he was not far from your
thoughts?”
“No one could be farther from my thoughts,” said Belinda.
“Well, very likely--I believe it, because you say it; and because it is
impossible.”
“Rally me as much as you please, my dear Lady Delacour, I assure you
that I speak the simple truth.”
“I cannot suspect you of affectation, my dear. Therefore honestly tell
me, if Clarence Hervey were at your feet this instant, would you spurn
him from you?”
“Spurn him! no--I would neither spurn him, nor _motion him from me_; but
without using any of the terms in the heroine’s dictionary----”
“You would refuse him?” interrupted Lady Delacour, with a look of
indignation--“you would refuse him?”
“I did not say so, I _believe_.”
“You would accept him?”
“I did not say so, _I am sure_.”
“Oh, you would tell him that you were not _accustomed_ to him?”
“Not exactly in those words, perhaps.”
“Well, we shall not quarrel about words,” said Lady Delacour; “I only
beg you to remember your own principles; and if ever you are put to
the trial, be consistent. The first thing in a philosopher is to be
consistent.”
“Fortunately, for the credit of my philosophy, there is no immediate
danger of its being put to the test.”
“Unfortunately, you surely mean; unless you are afraid that it might not
stand the test. But I was going, when I spoke of consistency, to remind
you that all your own and Mr. Percival’s arguments about _first loves_
may now, with equal propriety, be turned against you.”
“How _against_ me?”
“They are evidently as applicable to second as to first loves, I think.”
“Perhaps they are,” said Belinda; “but I really and truly am not
inclined to think of love at present; particularly as there is no
necessity that I should.”
Belinda took up a book, and Lady Delacour for one half hour abstained
from any farther raillery. But longer than half an hour she could not be
silent on the subject uppermost in her thoughts.
“If Clarence Hervey,” cried she, “were not the most honourable of
blockheads, he might be the most happy of men. This Virginia!--oh, how I
hate her!--I am sure poor Clarence cannot love her.”
“Because you hate her--or because you hate her without having ever seen
her?” said Belinda.
“Oh, I know what she must be,” replied Lady Delacour: “a soft, sighing,
dying damsel, who puts bullfinches into her bosom. Smile, smile, my
dear; you cannot help it; in spite of all your generosity, I know you
must think as I do, and wish as I do, that she were at the bottom of the
Black Sea this instant.”
Lady Delacour stood for some minutes musing, and then exclaimed, “I will
move heaven and earth to break off this absurd match.”
“Good Heavens! my dear Lady Delacour, what do you mean?”
“Mean! my dear--I mean what I say, which very few people do: no wonder I
should surprise you.”
“I conjure you,” cried Belinda, “if you have the least regard for my
honour and happiness--”
“I have not the least, but the greatest; and depend upon it, my dear, I
will do nothing that shall injure that _dignity of mind and delicacy of
character_, which I admire and love, as much as Clarence Hervey did, and
does. Trust to me: not Lady Anne Percival herself can be more delicate
in her notions of propriety than I am for my friends, and, since
my reformation, I hope I may add, for myself. Fear nothing.” As she
finished these words, she rang for her carriage. “I don’t ask you to go
out with me, my dear Belinda; I give you leave to sit in this armchair
till I come back again, with your feet upon the fender, a book in
your hand, and this little table beside you, like Lady S.’s picture of
Comfort.”
Lady Delacour spent the rest of the morning abroad; and when she
returned home, she gave no account of what she had been doing, or of
what or whom she had seen. This was so unusual, that Belinda could not
avoid taking notice of it. Notwithstanding her ladyship’s eulogium upon
her own delicate sense of propriety, Miss Portman could not confide,
with perfect resignation, in her prudence.
“Your ladyship reproached me once,” said she, in a playful tone, “for
my provoking want of curiosity: you have completely cured me of this
defect, for never was woman more curious than I am, at this instant, to
know the secret scheme that you have in agitation.”
“Have patience a little longer, and the mystery will be unravelled. In
the mean time, trust that every thing I do is for the best. However, as
you have behaved pretty well, I will give you one leading hint, when you
have explained to me what you meant by saying that your heart is not at
present inclined to love. Pray, have you quarrelled with love for ever?”
“No; but I can exist without it.”
“Have you a heart?”
“I hope so.”
“And it can exist without love? I now understand what was once said to
me by a foolish lordling:--’ Of what use is the sun to the dial?’” [10]
Company came in, and relieved Belinda from any further raillery. Lady
Boucher and Mrs. Margaret Delacour were, amongst a large party, to dine
at Lady Delacour’s. At dinner, the dowager seized the first auspicious
moment of silence to announce a piece of intelligence, which she
flattered herself would fix the eyes of all the world upon her.
“So Mr. Clarence Hervey is married at last!”
“Married!” cried Lady Delacour: she had sufficient presence of mind
not to look directly at Belinda; but she fixed the dowager’s eyes, by
repeating, “Married! Are you sure of it?”
“Positive--positive! He was privately married yesterday at his aunt,
Lady Almeria’s apartments, at Windsor, to Miss Hartley. I told you it
was to be, and now it is over; and a very extraordinary match Mr. Hervey
has made of it, after all. Think of his going at last, and marrying a
girl who has been his mistress for years! Nobody will visit her, to be
sure. Lady Almeria is excessively distressed; she did all she could to
prevail on her brother, the bishop, to marry his nephew, but he very
properly refused, giving it as a reason, that the girl’s character was
too well known.”
“I thought the bishop was at Spa,” interposed a gentleman, whilst the
dowager drew breath.
“O dear, no, sir; you have been misinformed,” resumed she. “The bishop
has been returned from Spa this great while, and he has refused to see
his nephew, to my certain knowledge. After all, I cannot but pity poor
Clarence for being driven into this match. Mr. Hartley has a prodigious
fine fortune, to be sure, and he hurried things forward at an amazing
rate, to patch up his daughter’s reputation. He said, as I am credibly
informed, yesterday morning, that if Clarence did not marry the girl
before night, he would carry her and her fortune off the next day to the
West Indies. Now the fortune was certainly an object.”
“My dear Lady Boucher,” interrupted Lord Delacour, “you must be
misinformed in that particular: fortune is no object to Clarence
Hervey; he is too generous a fellow to marry for fortune. What do you
think--what do you say, Lady Delacour?”
“I say, and think, and feel, as you do, my lord,” said Lady Delacour.
“You say, and think, and feel the same as my lord.--Very extraordinary
indeed!” said the dowager. “Then if it were not for the sake of the
fortune, pray why did Mr. Hervey marry at all? Can any body guess?”
“I should guess because he was in love,” said Lord Delacour “for I
remember that was the reason I married myself.”
“My dear good lord--but when I tell you the girl had been his mistress,
till he was tired of her--”
“My Lady Boucher,” said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who had hitherto
listened in silence, “my Lady Boucher, you have been misinformed; Miss
Hartley never was Clarence Hervey’s mistress.”
“I’m mighty glad you think so, Mrs. Delacour; but I assure you nobody
else is so _charitable_. Those who live in the world hear a great deal
more than those who live out of the world. I can promise you, nobody
will visit the bride, and that is the thing by which we are to judge.”
Then the dowager and the rest of the company continued to descant upon
the folly of the match. Those who wished to pay their court to Lady
Delacour were the loudest in their astonishment at his throwing himself
away in this manner. Her ladyship smiled, and kept them in play by her
address, on purpose to withdraw all eyes from Miss Portman, whilst,
from time to time, she stole a glance at Belinda, to observe how she was
affected by what passed: she was provoked by Belinda’s self-possession.
At last, when it had been settled that all the Herveys were _odd_, but
that this match of Clarence’s was the _oddest_ of all the odd things
that any of the family had done for many generations, Mrs. Delacour
calmly said, “Are you sure, Lady Boucher, that Mr. Hervey is married?”
“Positive! as I said before, positive! Madam, my woman had it from Lady
Newland’s Swiss, who had it from Lady Singleton’s Frenchwoman, who had
it from Longueville, the hairdresser, who had it from Lady Almeria’s own
woman, who was present at the ceremony, and must know if any body does.”
“The report has come to us zigzag as quick as lightning, yet it does not
flash conviction upon me,” said Lady Delacour.
“Nor upon me,” said Mrs. Delacour, “for this simple reason. I have seen
Miss Hartley within these two hours, and I had it from herself that she
is not married.”
“Not married!” cried the dowager with terror.
“I rather think not; she is now with her father, at my house at dinner,
I believe, and Clarence Hervey is at Lady Almeria’s, at Windsor: her
ladyship is confined by a fit of the gout, and sent for her nephew
yesterday. If people who live out of the world hear less, they sometimes
hear more correctly than those who live in it.”
“Pray when does Mr. Hervey return from Windsor?” said the incorrigible
dowager.
“To-morrow, madam,” said Mrs. Delacour. “As your ladyship is going to
several parties this evening, I think it but _charitable_ to set you
right in these particulars, and I hope you will be so _charitable_ as
to contradict the report of Miss Hartley’s having been Clarence’s
mistress.”
“Why, as to that, if the young lady is not married, we must presume
there are good reasons for it,” said the dowager. “Pray, on which side
was the match broken off?”
“On neither side,” answered Mrs. Delacour.
“The thing goes on then; and what day is the marriage to take place?”
said Lady Boucher.
“On Monday--or Tuesday--or Wednesday--or Thursday--or Friday--or
Saturday---or Sunday, I believe,” replied Mrs. Delacour, who had the
prudent art of giving answers effectually baffling to the curiosity of
gossips.
The dowager consoled herself in her utmost need with a full plate of
brandy peaches, and spoke not a word more during the second course. When
the ladies retired after the dessert, she again commenced hostilities:
she dared not come to open war with Mrs. Delacour; but in a bye-battle,
in a corner, she carried every thing before her; and she triumphantly
whispered, “We shall see, ma’am, that it will turn out, as I told you,
that Miss Rachel, or Virginia, or whatever he pleases to call her, has
been what I said; and, as I said, nobody will visit her, not a soul:
fifty people I can count who have declared to me they’ve made up their
minds; and my own’s made up, I candidly confess; and Lady Delacour, I
am sure by her silence and looks, is of my way of thinking, and has no
opinion of the young lady: as to Miss Portman, she is, poor thing, of
course, so wrapped up in her own affairs, no wonder she says nothing.
That was a sad business of Mr. Vincent’s! I am surprised to see her look
even so well as she does after it. Mr. Percival, I am told,” said the
well-informed dowager, lowering her voice so much that the lovers of
scandal were obliged to close their heads round her--“Mr. Percival, I am
informed, refused his consent to his ward (who is not of age) on account
of an anonymous letter, and it is supposed Mr. Vincent desired it for
an excuse to get off handsomely. Fighting that duel about her with Sir
Philip Baddely settled his love--so he is gone to Germany, and she
is left to wear the willow, which, you see, becomes her as well as
everything else. Did she eat any dinner, ma’am? you sat next her.”
“Yes; more than I did, I am sure.”
“Very extraordinary! Then perhaps Sir Philip Baddely’s _on_ again--Lord
bless me, what a match would that be for her! Why, Mrs. Stanhope might
then, indeed, deserve to be called the match-maker general. The seventh
of her nieces this. But look, there’s Mrs. Delacour leading Miss Portman
off into the trictrac cabinet, with a face full of business--her hand
in hers--Lord, I did not know they were on that footing! I wonder
what’s going forward. Suppose old Hartley was to propose for Miss
Portman--there would be a dénouement! and cut his daughter off with a
shilling! Nothing’s impossible, you know. Did he ever see Miss Portman?
I must go and find out, positively.”
In the mean time, Mrs. Delacour, unconscious of the curiosity she had
excited, was speaking to Belinda in the trictrac cabinet.
“My dear Miss Portman,” said she, “you have a great deal of good-nature,
else I should not venture to apply to you on the present occasion. Will
you oblige me, and serve a friend of mine--a gentleman who, as I once
imagined, was an admirer of yours?”
“I will do any thing in my power to oblige any friend of yours, madam,”
said Belinda; “but of whom are you speaking?”
“Of Mr. Hervey, my dear young lady.”
“Tell me how I can serve him as a friend,” said Belinda, colouring
deeply.
“That you shall know immediately,” said Mrs. Delacour, rummaging and
rustling for a considerable time amongst a heap of letters, which she
had pulled out of the largest pockets that ever woman wore, even in the
last century.
“Oh, here it is,” continued she, opening and looking into them. “May I
trouble you just to look over this letter? It is from poor Mr. Hartley;
he is, as you will see, excessively fond of his daughter, whom he has so
fortunately discovered after his long search: he is dreadfully nervous,
and has been terribly annoyed by these idle gossiping stories. You find,
by what Lady Boucher said at dinner, that they have settled it amongst
them that Virginia is not a fit person to be visited; that she has been
Clarence’s mistress instead of his pupil. Mr. Hartley, you see by this
letter, is almost out of his senses with the apprehension that his
daughter’s reputation is ruined. I sent my carriage to Twickenham, the
moment I received this letter, for the poor girl and her gouvernante.
They came to me this morning; but what can I do? I am only one old woman
against a confederacy of veteran gossips; but if I could gain you and
Lady Delacour for my allies, I should fear no adversaries. Virginia is
to stay with me for some days; and Lady Delacour, I see, has a great
mind to come to see her; but she does not like to come without you, and
she says that she does not like to ask you to accompany her. I don’t
understand her delicacy about the matter--I have none; believing, as I
do, that there is no foundation whatever for these malicious reports,
which, _entre nous_, originated, I fancy, with Mrs. Marriott. Now,
will you oblige me? If you and Lady Delacour will come and see Virginia
to-morrow, all the world would follow your example the next day. It’s
often cowardice that makes people ill-natured: have you the courage,
my good Miss Portman, to be the first to do a benevolent action? I
do assure you,” continued Mrs. Delacour with great earnestness, “I do
assure you I would as soon put my hand into that fire, this moment,
as ask you to do any thing that I thought improper. But forgive me for
pressing this point; I am anxious to have your suffrage in her favour:
Miss Belinda Portman’s character for prudence and propriety stands so
high, and is fixed so firmly, that she may venture to let us cling to
it; and I am as well convinced of the poor girl’s innocence as I am of
yours; and when you see her, you will be of my opinion.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Delacour,” said Belinda, “that you have wasted a
great deal of eloquence upon this occasion, for--”
“I am sorry for it,” interrupted Mrs. Delacour, rising from her seat,
with a look of some displeasure. “I meant not to distress or offend you,
Miss Portman, by _my eloquence_: I am only concerned that I should have
so far mistaken your character as to expose myself to this refusal.”
“I have given no refusal,” said Belinda, mildly: “you did not let me
finish my sentence.”
“I beg pardon; that is a foolish old trick of mine.”
“Mrs. Delacour, I was going to say, has wasted a great deal of
eloquence: for I am entirely of her opinion, and I shall, with the
greatest readiness, comply with her request.”
“You are a charming, generous girl, and I am a passionate old
fool--thank you a thousand times.”
“You are not at all obliged to me,” said Belinda. “When I first heard
this story, I believed it, as Lady Boucher now does--but I have had
reason to alter my opinion, and perhaps the same means of information
would have changed hers; once convinced, it is impossible to relapse
into suspicion.”
“Impossible to _you_: the most truly virtuous women are always the least
suspicious and uncharitable in their opinion of their own sex. Lady Anne
Percival inspired me with this belief, and Miss Portman confirms it.
I admire your courage in daring to come forward in the defence of
innocence. I am very rude, alas! for praising you so much.”
“I have not a right to your admiration,” said Belinda; “for I must
honestly confess to you that I should not have this courage if there
were any danger in the case. I do not think that in doubtful cases it is
the business of a young woman to hazard her own reputation by an
attempt to preserve another’s: I do not imagine, at least, that I am of
sufficient consequence in the world for this purpose; therefore I should
never attempt it. It is the duty of such women as Mrs. Delacour, whose
reputation is beyond the power of scandal, to come forward in the
defence of injured innocence; but this would not be courage in Belinda
Portman, it would be presumption and temerity.”
“Well, if you will not let me admire your courage, or your generosity,
or your prudence,” said Mrs. Delacour laughing, “you must positively
let me admire _you_ altogether, and love you too, for I cannot help it.
Farewell.”
After the company was gone, Lady Delacour was much surprised by the
earnestness with which Belinda pressed the request that they might the
next morning pay a visit to Virginia.
“My dear,” said Lady Delacour, “to tell you the truth, I am full of
curiosity, and excessively anxious to go. I hesitated merely on your
account: I fancied that you would not like the visit, and that if I went
without you, it might be taken notice of; but I am delighted to find
that you will come with me: I can only say that you have more generosity
than I should have in the same situation.”
The next morning they went together to Mrs. Delacour’s. In their way
thither, Belinda, to divert her own thoughts, and to rouse Lady Delacour
from the profound and unnatural silence into which she had fallen,
petitioned her to finish the history of Sir Philip Baddely, the dog,
Miss Annabella Luttridge, and her billet-doux.
“For some of my high crimes and misdemeanours, you vowed that you would
not tell me the remainder of the story till the whole week had elapsed;
now will you satisfy my curiosity? You recollect that you left off just
where you said that you were come to the best part of the story.”
“Was I? did I?--Very true, we shall have time enough to finish it
by-and-by, my dear,” said Lady Delacour; “at present my poor head is
running upon something else, and I have left off being an accomplished
actress, or I could talk of one subject and think of another as well
as the best of you.--Stop the carriage, my dear; I am afraid they have
forgot my orders.”
“Did you carry what I desired this morning to Mrs. Delacour?” said her
ladyship to one of the footmen.
“I did, my lady.”
“And did you say from me, that it was not to be opened till I came?’
“Yes, my lady.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“In Mrs. Delacour’s dressing-room, my lady:--she desired me to take it
up there, and she locked the door, and said no one should go in till you
came.”
“Very well--go on. Belinda, my dear, I hope that I have worked up your
curiosity to the highest pitch.”