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Tales and Novels — Volume 03

by Maria Edgeworth · English · Gutenberg #9455 · 1,022,985 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales and Novels — Volume 03

Author: Maria Edgeworth


        
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9455]
                Most recently updated: December 20, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES AND NOVELS — VOLUME 03 ***




Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sheila Vogtmann, David Widger and PG
Distributed Proofreaders








TALES AND NOVELS,


VOLUME III (of X)


BELINDA.

By Maria Edgeworth.


IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.


1857.



CONTENTS.

I. Characters

II. Masks

III. Lady Delacour’s History

IV. The same continued

V. Birthday Dresses

VI. Ways and Means

VII. The Serpentine River

VIII. A Family Party

IX. Advice

X. The Mysterious Boudoir

XI. Difficulties

XII. The Macaw

XIII. Sortes Virgilianae

XIV. The Exhibition

XV. Jealousy

XVI. Domestic Happiness

XVII. Rights of Woman

XVIII. A Declaration

XIX. A Wedding

XX. Reconciliation

XXI. Helena

XXII. A Spectre

XXIII. The Chaplain

XXIV. Peu à peu

XXV. Love me, love my dog

XXVI. Virginia

XXVII. A Discovery

XXVIII. E O

XXIX. A Jew

XXX. News

XXXI. The Dènouement




BELINDA




CHAPTER I.

CHARACTERS.


Mrs. Stanhope, a well-bred woman, accomplished in that branch of
knowledge which is called the art of rising in the world, had, with but
a small fortune, contrived to live in the highest company. She prided
herself upon having established half a dozen nieces most happily, that
is to say, upon having married them to men of fortunes far superior to
their own. One niece still remained unmarried--Belinda Portman, of whom
she was determined to get rid with all convenient expedition. Belinda
was handsome, graceful, sprightly, and highly accomplished; her aunt had
endeavoured to teach her that a young lady’s chief business is to please
in society, that all her charms and accomplishments should be invariably
subservient to one grand object--the establishing herself in the world:

    “For this, hands, lips, and eyes were put to school,
    And each instructed feature had its rule.”

Mrs. Stanhope did not find Belinda such a docile pupil as her other
nieces, for she had been educated chiefly in the country; she had early
been inspired with a taste for domestic pleasures; she was fond of
reading, and disposed to conduct herself with prudence and integrity.
Her character, however, was yet to be developed by circumstances.

Mrs. Stanhope lived at Bath, where she had opportunities of showing
her niece off, as she thought, to advantage; but as her health began
to decline, she could not go out with her as much as she wished. After
manoeuvring with more than her usual art, she succeeded in fastening
Belinda upon the fashionable Lady Delacour for the season. Her ladyship
was so much pleased by Miss Portman’s accomplishments and vivacity, as
to invite her to spend the winter with her in London. Soon after her
arrival in town, Belinda received the following letter from her aunt
Stanhope.

“Crescent, Bath.

“After searching every place I could think of, Anne found your bracelet
in your dressing-table, amongst a heap of odd things, which you
left behind you to be thrown away: I have sent it to you by a young
gentleman, who came to Bath (unluckily) the very day you left me--Mr.
Clarence Hervey--an acquaintance, and great admirer of my Lady Delacour.
He is really an uncommonly pleasant young man, is highly connected,
and has a fine independent fortune. Besides, he is a man of wit and
gallantry, quite a connoisseur in female grace and beauty--just the
man to bring a new face into fashion: so, my dear Belinda, I make it a
point--look well when he is introduced to you, and remember, what I have
so often told you, that nobody _can_ look well without taking some pains
to please.

“I see--or at least when I went out more than my health will at present
permit--I used to see multitudes of silly girls, seemingly all cut out
upon the same pattern, who frequented public places day after day,
and year after year, without any idea farther than that of diverting
themselves, or of obtaining transient admiration. How I have pitied and
despised the giddy creatures, whilst I have observed them playing off
their unmeaning airs, vying with one another in the most _obvious_,
and consequently the most ridiculous manner, so as to expose themselves
before the very men they would attract: chattering, tittering, and
flirting; full of the present moment, never reflecting upon the future;
quite satisfied if they got a partner at a ball, without ever thinking
of a partner for life! I have often asked myself, what is to become
of such girls when they grow old or ugly, or when the public eye grows
tired of them? If they have large fortunes, it is all very well; they
can afford to divert themselves for a season or two, without doubt; they
are sure to be sought after and followed, not by mere danglers, but by
men of suitable views and pretensions: but nothing to my mind can be
more miserable than the situation of a poor girl, who, after spending
not only the interest, but the solid capital of her small fortune in
dress, and frivolous extravagance, fails in her matrimonial expectations
(as many do merely from not beginning to speculate in time). She finds
herself at five or six-and-thirty a burden to her friends, destitute
of the means of rendering herself independent (for the girls I speak
of never think of _learning_ to play cards), _de trop_ in society,
yet obliged to hang upon all her acquaintance, who wish her in heaven,
because she is unqualified to make the _expected_ return for civilities,
having no home, I mean no establishment, no house, &c. fit for the
reception of company of a certain rank.--My dearest Belinda, may this
never be your case!--You have every possible advantage, my love: no
pains have been spared in your education, and (which is the essential
point) I have taken care that this should be known--so that you have
_the name_ of being perfectly accomplished. You will also have the name
of being very fashionable, if you go much into public, as doubtless you
will with Lady Delacour.--Your own good sense must make you aware, my
dear, that from her ladyship’s situation and knowledge of the world,
it will always be proper, upon all subjects of conversation, for her to
lead and you to follow: it would be very unfit for a young girl like
you to suffer yourself to stand in competition with Lady Delacour, whose
high pretensions to wit and beauty are _indisputable_. I need say
no more to you upon this subject, my dear. Even with your limited
experience, you must have observed how foolish young people offend
those who are the most necessary to their interests, by an imprudent
indulgence of their vanity.

“Lady Delacour has an incomparable taste in dress: consult her, my dear,
and do not, by an ill-judged economy, counteract my views--apropos, I
have no objection to your being presented at court. You will, of
course, have credit with all her ladyship’s tradespeople, if you manage
properly. To know how and when to lay out money is highly commendable,
for in some situations, people judge of what one can afford by what one
actually spends.--I know of no law which compels a young lady to tell
what her age or her fortune may be. You have no occasion for caution yet
on one of these points.

“I have covered my old carpet with a handsome green baize, and every
stranger who comes to see me, I observe, takes it for granted that I
have a rich carpet under it. Say every thing that is proper, in your
best manner, for me to Lady Delacour.

“Adieu, my dear Belinda,

“Yours, very sincerely,

“SELINA STANHOPE.”



It is sometimes fortunate, that the means which are taken to produce
certain effects upon the mind have a tendency directly opposite to
what is expected. Mrs. Stanhope’s perpetual anxiety about her niece’s
appearance, manners, and establishment, had completely worn out
Belinda’s patience; she had become more insensible to the praises of her
personal charms and accomplishments than young women of her age usually
are, because she had been so much flattered and _shown off_, as it is
called, by her match-making aunt.--Yet Belinda was fond of amusement,
and had imbibed some of Mrs. Stanhope’s prejudices in favour of rank
and fashion. Her taste for literature declined in proportion to her
intercourse with the fashionable world, as she did not in this society
perceive the least use in the knowledge that she had acquired. Her mind
had never been roused to much reflection; she had in general acted
but as a puppet in the hands of others. To her aunt Stanhope she had
hitherto paid unlimited, habitual, blind obedience; but she was more
undesigning, and more free from affectation and coquetry, than could
have been expected, after the course of documenting which she had gone
through. She was charmed with the idea of a visit to Lady Delacour,
whom she thought the most agreeable--no, that is too feeble an
expression--the most fascinating person she had ever beheld. Such was
the light in which her ladyship appeared, not only to Belinda, but to
all the world--that is to say, all the world of fashion, and she knew of
no other.--The newspapers were full of Lady Delacour’s parties, and Lady
Delacour’s dresses, and Lady Delacour’s _bon mots_: every thing that her
ladyship said was repeated as witty; every thing that her ladyship wore
was imitated as fashionable. Female wit sometimes depends on the
beauty of its possessor for its reputation; and the reign of beauty
is proverbially short, and fashion often capriciously deserts her
favourites, even before nature withers their charms. Lady Delacour
seemed to be a fortunate exception to these general rules: long after
she had lost the bloom of youth, she continued to be admired as a
fashionable _bel esprit_; and long after she had ceased to be a novelty
in society, her company was courted by all the gay, the witty, and the
gallant. To be seen in public with Lady Delacour, to be a visitor at her
house, were privileges of which numbers were vehemently ambitious; and
Belinda Portman was congratulated and envied by all her acquaintance,
for being admitted as an inmate. How could she avoid thinking herself
singularly fortunate?

A short time after her arrival at Lady Delacour’s, Belinda began to
see through the thin veil with which politeness covers domestic
misery.--Abroad, and at home, Lady Delacour was two different persons.
Abroad she appeared all life, spirit, and good humour--at home,
listless, fretful, and melancholy; she seemed like a spoiled actress off
the stage, over-stimulated by applause, and exhausted by the exertions
of supporting a fictitious character.--When her house was filled with
well-dressed crowds, when it blazed with lights, and resounded with
music and dancing, Lady Delacour, in the character of Mistress of the
Revels, shone the soul and spirit of pleasure and frolic: but the
moment the company retired, when the music ceased, and the lights were
extinguishing, the spell was dissolved.

She would sometimes walk up and down the empty magnificent saloon,
absorbed in thoughts seemingly of the most painful nature.

For some days after Belinda’s arrival in town she heard nothing of Lord
Delacour; his lady never mentioned his name, except once accidentally,
as she was showing Miss Portman the house, she said, “Don’t open that
door--those are only Lord Delacour’s apartments.”--The first time
Belinda ever saw his lordship, he was dead drunk in the arms of two
footmen, who were carrying him up stairs to his bedchamber: his lady,
who was just returned from Ranelagh, passed by him on the landing-place
with a look of sovereign contempt.

“What is the matter?--Who is this?” said Belinda.

“Only the body of my Lord Delacour,” said her ladyship: “his bearers
have brought it up the wrong staircase. Take it down again, my good
friends: let his lordship go his _own way_. Don’t look so shocked and
amazed, Belinda--don’t look so _new_, child: this funeral of my lord’s
intellects is to me a nightly, or,” added her ladyship, looking at
her watch and yawning, “I believe I should say a _daily_ ceremony--six
o’clock, I protest!”

The next morning, as her ladyship and Miss Portman were sitting at the
breakfast-table, after a very late breakfast, Lord Delacour entered the
room.

“Lord Delacour, sober, my dear,”--said her ladyship to Miss Portman, by
way of introducing him. Prejudiced by her ladyship, Belinda was inclined
to think that Lord Delacour sober would not be more agreeable or more
rational than Lord Delacour drunk. “How old do you take my lord to
be?” whispered her ladyship, as she saw Belinda’s eye fixed upon the
trembling hand which carried his teacup to his lips: “I’ll lay you a
wager,” continued she aloud--“I’ll lay your birth-night dress, gold
fringe, and laurel wreaths into the bargain, that you don’t guess
right.”

“I hope you don’t think of going to this birth-night, lady Delacour?”
 said his lordship.

“I’ll give you six guesses, and I’ll bet you don’t come within sixteen
years,” pursued her ladyship, still looking at Belinda.

“You cannot have the new carriage you have bespoken,” said his lordship.
“Will you do me the honour to attend to me, Lady Delacour?”

“Then you won’t venture to guess, Belinda,” said her ladyship (without
honouring her lord with the smallest portion of her attention)--“Well,
I believe you are right--for certainly you would guess him to be
six-and-sixty, instead of six-and-thirty; but then he can drink more
than any two-legged animal in his majesty’s dominions, and you know that
is an advantage which is well worth twenty or thirty years of a man’s
life--especially to persons who have no other chance of distinguishing
themselves.”

“If some people had distinguished themselves a little less in the
world,” retorted his lordship, “it would have been as well!”

“As well!--how flat!”

“Flatly then I have to inform you, Lady Delacour, that I will neither
be contradicted nor laughed at--you understand me,--it would be as well,
flat or not flat, my Lady Delacour, if your ladyship would attend more
to your own conduct, and less to others!”

“To _that_ of others--his lordship means, if he means any thing.
Apropos, Belinda, did not you tell me Clarence Hervey is coming to
town?--You have never seen him.--Well, I’ll describe him to you by
negatives. He is _not_ a man who ever says any thing flat--he is _not_
a man who must be wound up with half a dozen bottles of champaign before
he can _go_--he is _not_ a man who, when he does go, goes wrong, and
won’t be set right--he is _not_ a man, whose whole consequence, if he
were married, would depend on his wife--he is _not_ a man, who, if he
were married, would be so desperately afraid of being governed by his
wife, that he would turn gambler, jockey, or sot, merely to show that he
could govern himself.”

“Go on, Lady Delacour,” said his lordship, who had been in vain
attempting to balance a spoon on the edge of his teacup during the whole
of this speech, which was delivered with the most animated desire to
provoke--“Go on, Lady Delacour--all I desire is, that you should go on;
Clarence Hervey will be much obliged to you, and I am sure so shall I.
Go on, my Lady Delacour--go on, and you’ll oblige me.”

“I never will oblige you, my lord, that you may depend upon,” cried her
ladyship, with a look of indignant contempt.

His lordship whistled, rang for his horses, and looked at his nails with
a smile. Belinda, shocked and in a great confusion, rose to leave the
room, dreading the gross continuance of this matrimonial dialogue.

“Mr. Hervey, my lady,” said a footman, opening the door; and he was
scarcely announced, when her ladyship went forward to receive him with
an air of easy familiarity.--“Where have you buried yourself, Hervey,
this age past?” cried she, shaking hands with him: “there’s absolutely
no living in this most stupid of all worlds without you.--Mr.
Hervey--Miss Portman--but don’t look as if you were half asleep,
man--What are you dreaming of, Clarence? Why looks your grace so heavily
to-day?”

“Oh! I have passed a miserable night,” replied Clarence, throwing
himself into an actor’s attitude, and speaking in a fine tone of stage
declamation.

    “What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me,”

said her ladyship in a similar tone.--Clarence went on--

    “O Lord, methought what pain it was to dance!
    What dreadful noise of fiddles in my ears!
    What sights of ugly _belles_ within my eyes!
    ----Then came wandering by,
    A shadow like a devil, with red hair,
    ‘Dizen’d with flowers; and she bawl’d out aloud,
    Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence!”

“O, Mrs. Luttridge to the life!” cried Lady Delacour: “I know where you
have been now, and I pity you--but sit down,” said she, making room for
him between Belinda and herself upon the sofa, “sit down here, and tell
me what could take you to that odious Mrs. Luttridge’s.”

Mr. Hervey threw himself on the sofa; Lord Delacour whistled as before,
and left the room without uttering a syllable.

“But my dream has made me forget myself strangely,” said Mr. Hervey,
turning to Belinda, and producing her bracelet: “Mrs. Stanhope promised
me that if I delivered it safely, I should be rewarded with the honour
of putting it on the owner’s fair arm.” A conversation now took place on
the nature of ladies’ promises--on fashionable bracelets--on the size
of the arm of the Venus de Medici--on Lady Delacour’s and Miss
Portman’s--on the thick legs of ancient statues--and on the various
defects and absurdities of Mrs. Luttridge and her wig. On all these
topics Mr. Hervey displayed much wit, gallantry, and satire, with so
happy an effect, that Belinda, when he took leave, was precisely of her
aunt’s opinion, that he was a most uncommonly pleasant young man.

Clarence Hervey might have been more than a pleasant young man, if he
had not been smitten with the desire of being thought superior in every
thing, and of being the most admired person in all companies. He had
been early flattered with the idea that he was a man of genius; and
he imagined that, as such, he was entitled to be imprudent, wild, and
eccentric. He affected singularity, in order to establish his claims
to genius. He had considerable literary talents, by which he was
distinguished at Oxford; but he was so dreadfully afraid of passing
for a pedant, that when he came into the company of the idle and the
ignorant, he pretended to disdain every species of knowledge. His
chameleon character seemed to vary in different lights, and according to
the different situations in which he happened to be placed. He could
be all things to all men--and to all women. He was supposed to be a
favourite with the fair sex; and of all his various excellencies and
defects, there was none on which he valued himself so much as on his
gallantry. He was not profligate; he had a strong sense of honour,
and quick feelings of humanity; but he was so easily led, or rather so
easily excited by his companions, and his companions were now of such
a sort, that it was probable he would soon become vicious. As to his
connexion with Lady Delacour, he would have started with horror at the
idea of disturbing the peace of a family; but in her family, he said,
there was no peace to disturb; he was vain of having it seen by the
world that he was distinguished by a lady of her wit and fashion, and
he did not think it incumbent on him to be more scrupulous or more
attentive to appearances than her ladyship. By Lord Delacour’s jealousy
he was sometimes provoked, sometimes amused, and sometimes flattered.
He was constantly of all her ladyship’s parties in public and private;
consequently he saw Belinda almost every day, and every day he saw her
with increasing admiration of her beauty, and with increasing dread of
being taken in to marry a niece of “the _catch-match-maker_,” the name
by which Mrs. Stanhope was known amongst the men of his acquaintance.
Young ladies who have the misfortune to be _conducted_ by these artful
dames, are always supposed to be partners in all the speculations,
though their names may not appear in the firm. If he had not been
prejudiced by the character of her aunt, Mr. Hervey would have thought
Belinda an undesigning, unaffected girl; but now he suspected her of
artifice in every word, look, and motion; and even when he felt himself
most charmed by her powers of pleasing, he was most inclined to despise
her, for what he thought such premature proficiency in scientific
coquetry. He had not sufficient resolution to keep beyond the sphere
of her attraction; but, frequently, when he found himself within it, he
cursed his folly, and drew back with sudden terror. His manner towards
her was so variable and inconsistent, that she knew not how to interpret
its language. Sometimes she fancied, that with all the eloquence of eyes
he said, “_I adore you_, Belinda;” at other times she imagined that
his guarded silence meant to warn her that he was so entangled by Lady
Delacour, that he could not extricate himself from her snares. Whenever
this last idea struck her, it excited, in the most edifying manner, her
indignation against coquetry in general, and against her ladyship’s
in particular: she became wonderfully clear-sighted to all the
improprieties of her ladyship’s conduct. Belinda’s newly acquired moral
sense was so much shocked, that she actually wrote a full statement of
her observations and her scruples to her aunt Stanhope; concluding by
a request, that she might not remain under the protection of a lady, of
whose character she could not approve, and whose intimacy might perhaps
be injurious to her reputation, if not to her principles.

Mrs. Stanhope answered Belinda’s letter in a very guarded style; she
rebuked her niece severely for her imprudence in mentioning _names_ in
such a manner, in a letter sent by the common post; assured her that her
reputation was in no danger; that she hoped no niece of hers would set
up for a prude--a character more suspected by men of the world than
even that of a coquette; that the person alluded to was a perfectly fit
chaperon for any young lady to appear with in public, as long as she
was visited by the first people in town; that as to any thing in the
_private_ conduct of that person, and as to any _private brouillieries_
between her and her lord, Belinda should observe on these dangerous
topics a profound silence, both in her letters and her conversation;
that as long as the lady continued under the protection of her husband,
the world might whisper, but would not speak out; that as to Belinda’s
own principles, she would be utterly inexcusable if, after the education
she had received, they could be hurt by any bad examples; that she could
not be too cautious in her management of a man of ----‘s character;
that she could have no _serious_ cause for jealousy in the quarter she
apprehended, as marriage there could not be the object; and there was
such a difference of age, that no permanent influence could probably be
obtained by the lady; that the most certain method for Miss Portman to
expose herself to the ridicule of one of the parties, and to the total
neglect of the other, would be to betray anxiety or jealousy; that, in
short, if she were fool enough to lose her own heart, there would be
little chance of her being wise enough to win that of------, who was
evidently a man of gallantry rather than of sentiment, and who was known
to play his cards well, and to have good luck whenever _hearts_ were
trumps.

Belinda’s fears of Lady Delacour, as a dangerous rival, were much
quieted by the artful insinuations of Mrs. Stanhope, with respect to her
age, &c.; and in proportion as her fears subsided, she blamed herself
for having written too harshly of her ladyship’s conduct. The idea that
whilst she appeared as Lady Delacour’s friend she ought not to propagate
any stories to her disadvantage, operated powerfully upon Belinda’s
mind, and she reproached herself for having told even her aunt what she
had seen in private. She thought that she had been guilty of treachery,
and she wrote again immediately to Mrs. Stanhope, to conjure her to burn
her last letter; to forget, if possible, its contents; and to believe
that not a syllable of a similar nature should ever more be heard from
her: she was just concluding with the words--“I hope my dear aunt will
consider all this as an error of my judgment, and not of my heart,”
 when Lady Delacour burst into the room, exclaiming, in a tone of gaiety,
“Tragedy or comedy, Belinda? The masquerade dresses are come. But how’s
this?” added she, looking full in Belinda’s face--“tears in the eyes!
blushes in the cheeks! tremors in the joints! and letters shuffling
away! But, you novice of novices, how awkwardly shuffled!--A niece of
Mrs. Stanhope’s, and so unpractised a shuffler!--And is it credible she
should tremble in this ridiculous way about a love-letter or two?”

“No love-letters, indeed, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, holding the
paper fast, as her ladyship, half in play, half in earnest, attempted to
snatch it from her.

“No love-letters! then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all
that’s good, or by all that’s bad--I see the name of Delacour!”--and
her ladyship absolutely seized the letters by force, in spite of all
Belinda’s struggles and entreaties.

“I beg, I request, I conjure you not to read it!” cried Miss Portman,
clasping her hands. “Read mine, read mine, if you _must_, but don’t read
my aunt Stanhope’s--Oh! I beg, I entreat, I conjure you!” and she threw
herself upon her knees.

“You beg! you entreat! you conjure! Why, this is like the Duchess de
Brinvilliers, who wrote on her paper of poisons, ‘Whoever finds this, I
entreat, I conjure them, in the name of more saints than I can remember,
not to open the paper any farther.’--What a simpleton, to know so little
of the nature of curiosity!”

As she spoke, Lady Delacour opened Mrs. Stanhope’s letter, read it from
beginning to end, folded it up coolly when she had finished it, and
simply said, “The _person alluded to_ is almost as bad as her name at
full length: does Mrs. Stanhope think no one can make out an inuendo
in a libel, or fill up a blank, but an attorney-general?” pointing to a
blank in Mrs. Stanhope’s letter, left for the name of Clarence Hervey.

Belinda was in too much confusion either to speak or think.

“You were right to swear they were not love-letters,” pursued her
ladyship, laying down the papers. “I protest I snatched them by way of
frolic--I beg pardon. All I can do now is not to read the rest.”

“Nay--I beg--I wish--I insist upon your reading mine,” said Belinda.

When Lady Delacour had read it, her countenance suddenly changed--“Worth
a hundred of your aunt’s, I declare,” said she, patting Belinda’s cheek.
“What a treasure to meet with any thing like a _new_ heart!--all hearts,
now-a-days, are second-hand, at best.”

Lady Delacour spoke with a tone of feeling which Belinda had never heard
from her before, and which at this moment touched her so much, that she
took her ladyship’s hand and kissed it.




CHAPTER II.

MASKS


“Where were we when all this began?” cried Lady Delacour, forcing
herself to resume an air of gaiety--“O, masquerade was the order of the
day---tragedy or comedy? which suits your genius best, my dear?”

“Whichever suits your ladyship’s taste least.”

“Why, my woman, Marriott, says I ought to be tragedy; and, upon the
notion that people always succeed best when they take characters
diametrically opposite to their own--Clarence Hervey’s
principle--perhaps you don’t think that he has any principles; but there
you are wrong; I do assure you, he has sound principles--of taste.”

“Of that,” said Belinda, with a constrained smile, “he gives the most
convincing proof, by his admiring your ladyship so much.”

“And by his admiring Miss Portman so much more. But whilst we are making
speeches to one another, poor Marriott is standing in distress, like
Garrick, between tragedy and comedy.”

Lady Delacour opened her dressing-room door, and pointed to her as she
stood with the dress of the comic muse on one arm, and the tragic muse
on the other.

“I am afraid I have not spirits enough to undertake the comic muse,”
 said Miss Portman.

Marriott, who was a personage of prodigious consequence, and the judge
in the last resort at her mistress’s toilette, looked extremely out of
humour at having been kept waiting so long; and yet more so at the idea
that her appellant jurisdiction could be disputed.

“Your ladyship’s taller than Miss Portman by half ahead,” said Marriott,
“and to be sure will best become tragedy with this long train; besides,
I had settled all the rest of your ladyship’s dress. Tragedy, they
say, is always tall; and, no offence, your ladyship’s taller than Miss
Portman by half a head.”

“For head read inch,” said Lady Delacour, “if you please.”

“When things are settled, one can’t bear to have them unsettled--but
your ladyship must have your own way, to be sure--I’ll say no more,”
 cried she, throwing down the dresses.

“Stay, Marriott,” said Lady Delacour, and she placed herself between the
angry waiting-maid and the door.

“Why will you, who are the best creature in the world, put yourself into
these _furies_ about nothing? Have patience with us, and you shall be
satisfied.”

“That’s another affair,” said Marriott.

“Miss Portman,” continued her ladyship, “don’t talk of not having
spirits, you that are all life!--What say you, Belinda?--O yes, you must
be the comic muse; and I, it seems, must be tragedy, because Marriott
has a passion for seeing me ‘come sweeping by.’ And because Marriott
must have her own way in every thing--she rules me with a rod of iron,
my dear, so tragedy I needs must be.--_Marriott knows her power_.”

There was an air of extreme vexation in Lady Delacour’s countenance as
she pronounced these last words, in which evidently more was meant
than met the ear. Upon many occasions Miss Portman had observed, that
Marriott exercised despotic authority over her mistress; and she had
seen, with surprise, that a lady, who would not yield an iota of power
to her husband, submitted herself to every caprice of the most insolent
of waiting-women. For some time, Belinda imagined that this submission
was merely an air, as she had seen some other fine ladies proud of
appearing to be governed by a favourite maid; but she was soon convinced
that Marriott was no favourite with Lady Delacour; that her ladyship’s
was not _proud humility_, but fear. It seemed certain that a woman,
extravagantly fond of her own _will_, would never have given it up
without some very substantial reason. It seemed as if Marriott was in
possession of some secret, which should for ever remain unknown. This
idea had occurred to Miss Portman more than once, but never so forcibly
as upon the present occasion. There had always been some mystery about
her ladyship’s toilette: at certain hours doors were bolted, and it was
impossible for any body but Marriott to obtain admission. Miss Portman
at first imagined that Lady Delacour dreaded the discovery of her
cosmetic secrets, but her ladyship’s rouge was so glaring, and her pearl
powder was so obvious, that Belinda was convinced there must be some
other cause for this toilette secrecy. There was a little cabinet beyond
her bedchamber, which Lady Delacour called her boudoir, to which there
was an entrance by a back staircase; but no one ever entered there but
Marriott. One night, Lady Delacour, after dancing with great spirit at
a ball, at her own house, fainted suddenly: Miss Portman attended her
to her bedchamber, but Marriott begged that her lady might be left alone
with _her_, and she would by no means suffer Belinda to follow her into
the boudoir. All these things Belinda recollected in the space of a few
seconds, as she stood contemplating Marriott and the dresses. The hurry
of getting ready for the masquerade, however, dispelled these thoughts,
and by the time she was dressed, the idea of what Clarence Hervey would
think of her appearance was uppermost in her mind. She was anxious to
know whether he would discover her in the character of the comic muse.
Lady Delacour was discontented with her tragic attire, and she grew
still more out of humour with herself, when she saw Belinda.

“I protest Marriott has made a perfect fright of me,” said her ladyship,
as she got into her carriage, “and I’m positive my dress would become
you a million of times better than your own.”

Miss Portman regretted that it was too late to change.

“Not at all too late, my dear,” said Lady Delacour; “never too late for
women to change their minds, their dress, or their lovers. Seriously,
you know, we are to call at my friend Lady Singleton’s--she sees masks
to-night: I’m quite intimate there; I’ll make her let me step up to her
own room, where no soul can interrupt us, and there we can change our
dresses, and Marriott will know nothing of the matter. Marriott’s a
faithful creature, and very fond of me; fond of power too--but who is
not?--we must all have our faults: one would not quarrel with such a
good creature as Marriott for a trifle.” Then suddenly changing her
tone, she said, “Not a human being will find us out at the masquerade;
for no one but Mrs. Freke knows that we are the two muses. Clarence
Hervey swears he should know me in any disguise--but I defy him--I shall
take special delight in puzzling him. Harriot Freke has told him, in
confidence, that I’m to be the widow Brady, in man’s clothes: now that’s
to be Harriot’s own character; so Hervey will make fine confusion.”

As soon as they got to Lady Singleton’s, Lady Delacour and Miss Portman
immediately went up stairs to exchange dresses. Poor Belinda, now that
she felt herself in spirits to undertake the comic muse, was rather
vexed to be obliged to give up her becoming character; but there was no
resisting the polite energy of Lady Delacour’s vanity. Her ladyship ran
as quick as lightning into a closet within the dressing-room, saying
to Lady Singleton’s woman, who attempted to follow with--“Can I do any
thing for your ladyship?”--“No, no, no--nothing, nothing--thank ye,
thank ye,--I want no assistance--I never let any body do any thing for
me but Marriott;” and she bolted herself in the closet. In a few minutes
she half opened the door, threw out her tragic robes, and cried, “Here,
Miss Portman, give me yours--quick--and let’s see whether comedy or
tragedy will be ready first.”

“Lord bless and forgive me,” said Lady Singleton’s woman, when
Lady Delacour at last threw open the door, when she was completely
dressed--“but if your la’ship has not been dressing all this time in
that den, without any thing in the shape of a looking-glass, and not to
let me help! I that should have been so proud.”

Lady Delacour put half a guinea into the waiting-maid’s hand, laughed
affectedly at her own _whimsicalities_, and declared that she could
always dress herself better without a glass than with one. All this went
off admirably well with every body but Miss Portman; she could not help
thinking it extraordinary that a person who was obviously fond of being
waited upon would never suffer any person to assist her at her toilet
except Marriott, a woman of whom she was evidently afraid. Lady
Delacour’s quick eye saw curiosity painted in Belinda’s countenance, and
for a moment she was embarrassed; but she soon recovered herself, and
endeavoured to turn the course of Miss Portman’s thoughts by whispering
to her some nonsense about Clarence Hervey--a cabalistical name, which
she knew had the power, when pronounced in a certain tone, of throwing
Belinda into confusion.

The first person they saw, when they went into the drawing-room at Lady
Singleton’s, was this very Clarence Hervey, who was not in a masquerade
dress. He had laid a wager with one of his acquaintance, that he
could perform the part of the serpent, such as he is seen in Fuseli’s
well-known picture. For this purpose he had exerted much ingenuity
in the invention and execution of a length of coiled skin, which he
manoeuvred with great dexterity, by means of internal wires; his grand
difficulty had been to manufacture the rays that were to come from his
eyes. He had contrived a set of phosphoric rays, which he was certain
would charm all the fair daughters of Eve. He forgot, it seems, that
phosphorus could not well be seen by candlelight. When he was just
equipped as a serpent, his rays set fire to part of his _envelope_, and
it was with the greatest difficulty that he was extricated. He escaped
unhurt, but his serpent’s skin was utterly consumed; nothing remained
but the melancholy spectacle of its skeleton. He was obliged to give up
the hopes of shining at the masquerade, but he resolved to be at Lady
Singleton’s that he might meet Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. The
moment that the tragic and comic muse appeared, he invoked them with
much humour and mock pathos, declaring that he knew not which of them
could best sing his adventure. After a recital of his misfortune had
entertained the company, and after the muses had performed their parts
to the satisfaction of the audience and their own, the conversation
ceased to be supported in masquerade character; muses and harlequins,
gipsies and Cleopatras, began to talk of their private affairs, and of
the news and the scandal of the day.

A group of gentlemen, amongst whom was Clarence Hervey, gathered round
the tragic muse; as Mr. Hervey had hinted that he knew she was a
person of distinction, though he would not tell her name. After he had
exercised his wit for some time, without obtaining from the tragic muse
one single syllable, he whispered, “Lady Delacour, why this unnatural
reserve? Do you imagine that, through this tragical disguise, I have not
found you out?”

The tragic muse, apparently absorbed in meditation, vouchsafed no reply.

“The devil a word can you get for your pains, Hervey,” said a gentleman
of his acquaintance, who joined the party at this instant. “Why didn’t
you stick to t’other muse, who, to do her justice, is as arrant a flirt
as your heart could wish for?”

“There’s danger in flirting,” said Clarence, “with an arrant flirt of
Mrs. Stanhope’s training. There’s a kind of electricity about that girl.
I have a sort of cobweb feeling, an imaginary net coming all over me.”

“Fore-warned is fore-armed,” replied his companion: “a man must be a
novice indeed that could be taken in at this time of day by a niece of
Mrs. Stanhope’s.”

“That Mrs. Stanhope must be a good clever dame, faith,” said a third
gentleman: “there’s no less than six of her nieces whom she has got
off within these four winters--not one of ‘em now that has not made a
catch-match.--There’s the eldest of the set, Mrs. Tollemache, what had
she, in the devil’s name, to set up with in the world but a pair of good
eyes?--her aunt, to be sure, taught her the use of them early enough:
they might have rolled to all eternity before they would have rolled me
out of my senses; but you see they did Tollemache’s business. However,
they are going to part now, I hear: Tollemache was tired of her before
the honey-moon was over, as I foretold. Then there’s the musical girl.
Joddrell, who has no more ear than a post, went and married her, because
he had a mind to set up for a connoisseur in music; and Mrs. Stanhope
flattered him that he was one.”

The gentlemen joined in the general laugh: the tragic muse sighed.

“Even were she at the School for Scandal, the tragic muse dare not
laugh, except behind her mask,” said Clarence Hervey.

“Far be it from her to laugh at those follies which she must for ever
deplore!” said Belinda, in a feigned voice.--“What miseries spring from
these ill-suited marriages! The victims are sacrificed before they have
sense enough to avoid their fate.”

Clarence Hervey imagined that this speech alluded to Lady Delacour’s own
marriage.

“Damn me if I know any woman, young or old, that would _avoid_ being
married, if she could, though,” cried Sir Philip Baddely, a gentleman
who always supplied “each vacuity of sense” with an oath: “but,
Rochfort, didn’t Valleton marry one of these nieces?”

“Yes: she was a mighty fine dancer, and had good legs enough: Mrs.
Stanhope got poor Valleton to fight a duel about her place in a country
dance, and then he was so pleased with himself for his prowess, that he
married the girl.”

Belinda made an effort to change her seat, but she was encompassed so
that she could not retreat.

“As to Jenny Mason, the fifth of the _nieces_,” continued the witty
gentleman, “she was as brown as mahogany, and had neither eyes, nose,
mouth, nor legs: what Mrs. Stanhope could do with her I often wondered;
but she took courage, _rouged_ her up, set her a going as a _dasher_,
and she dashed herself into Tom Levit’s curricle, and Tom couldn’t get
her out again till she was the honourable Mrs. Levit: she then took the
reins into her own hands, and I hear she’s driving him and herself _the
road to ruin_ as fast as they can gallop. As for this Belinda Portman,
‘twas a good hit to send her to Lady Delacour’s; but, I take it she
hangs upon hand; for last winter, when I was at Bath, she was hawked
about every where, and the aunt was puffing her with might and main. You
heard of nothing, wherever you went, but of Belinda Portman, and Belinda
Portman’s accomplishments: Belinda Portman, and her accomplishments,
I’ll swear, were as well advertised as Packwood’s razor strops.”

“Mrs. Stanhope overdid the business, I think,” resumed the gentleman who
began the conversation: “girls brought to the hammer this way don’t go
off well. It’s true, Christie himself is no match for dame Stanhope.
Many of my acquaintance were tempted to go and look at the premises, but
not one, you may be sure, had a thought of becoming a tenant for life.”

“That’s an honour reserved for you, Clarence Hervey,” said another,
tapping him upon the shoulder.--“Give ye joy, Hervey; give ye joy!”

“Me!” said Clarence, starting.

“I’ll be hanged if he didn’t change colour,” said his facetious
companion; and all the young men again joined in a laugh.

“Laugh on, my merry men all!” cried Clarence; “but the devil’s in it if
I don’t know my own mind better than any of you. You don’t imagine I
go to Lady Delacour’s to look for a _wife?_--Belinda Portman’s a good
pretty girl, but what then? Do you think I’m an idiot?--do you think I
could be taken in by one of the Stanhope school? Do you think I don’t
see as plainly as any of you that Belinda Portman’s a composition of art
and affectation?”

“Hush--not so loud, Clarence; here she comes,” said his companion. “The
comic muse, is not she--?”

Lady Delacour, at this moment, came lightly tripping towards them,
and addressing herself, in the character of the comic muse, to Hervey,
exclaimed,

“Hervey! _my_ Hervey! most favoured of my votaries, why do you forsake
me?

    ‘Why mourns my friend, why weeps his downcast eye?
     That eye where mirth and fancy used to shine.’

Though you have lost your serpent’s form, yet you may please any of the
fair daughters of Eve in your own.”

Mr. Hervey bowed; all the gentlemen who stood near him smiled; the
tragic muse gave an involuntary sigh.

“Could I borrow a sigh, or a tear, from my tragic sister,” pursued Lady
Delacour, “however unbecoming to my character, I would, if only sighs or
tears can win the heart of Clarence Hervey:--let me practise”--and her
ladyship practised sighing with much comic effect.

    “Persuasive words and more persuasive sighs,”

said Clarence Hervey.

“A good bold Stanhope cast of the net, faith,” whispered one of his
companions. “Melpomene, hast thou forgot thyself to marble?” pursued
Lady Delacour. “I am not very well,” whispered Miss Portman to her
ladyship: “could we get away?”

“Get away from Clarence Hervey, do you mean?” replied her ladyship, in
a whisper: “‘tis not easy, but we’ll try what can be done, if it is
necessary.”

Belinda had no power to reply to this raillery; indeed, she scarcely
heard the words that were said to her; but she put her arm within Lady
Delacour’s, who, to her great relief, had the good nature to leave the
room with her immediately. Her ladyship, though she would sacrifice the
feelings of others, without compunction, to her vanity, whenever
the power of her wit was disputed, yet towards those by whom it was
acknowledged she showed some mercy.

“What is the matter with the child?” said she, as she went down the
staircase.

“Nothing, if I could have air,” said Belinda. There was a crowd of
servants in the hall.

“Why does Lady Delacour avoid me so pertinaciously? What crime have I
committed, that I was not favoured with one word?” said Clarence Hervey,
who had followed them down stairs, and overtook them in the hall.

“Do see if you can find any of my people,” cried Lady Delacour.

“Lady Delacour, the comic muse!” exclaimed Mr. Hervey. “I thought--”

“No matter what you thought,” interrupted her ladyship. “Let my
carriage draw up, for here’s a young friend of yours trembling so about
_nothing_, that I am half afraid she will faint; and you know it would
not be so pleasant to faint here amongst footmen. Stay! this room is
empty. O, I did not mean to tell _you_ to stay,” said she to Hervey, who
involuntarily followed her in the utmost consternation.

“I’m perfectly well, now--perfectly well,” said Belinda.

“Perfectly a simpleton, I think,” said Lady Delacour. “Nay, my dear, you
must be ruled; your mask must come off: didn’t you tell me you wanted
air?--What now! This is not the first time Clarence Hervey has ever
seen your face without a mask, is it? It’s the first time indeed he, or
anybody else, ever saw it of such a colour, I believe.”

When Lady Delacour pulled off Belinda’s mask, her face was, during the
first instant, pale; the next moment, crimsoned over with a burning
blush.

“What is the matter with ye both? How he stands!” said Lady Delacour,
turning to Mr. Hervey. “Did you never see a woman blush before?--or did
you never say or do any thing to make a woman blush before? Will you
give Miss Portman a glass of water?--there’s some behind you on that
sideboard, man!--but he has neither eyes, ears, nor understanding.--Do
go about your business,” said her ladyship, pushing him towards the
door--“Do go about your business, for I haven’t common patience with
you: on my conscience I believe the man’s in love--and not with me!
That’s sal-volatile for you, child, I perceive,” continued she to
Belinda. “O, you can walk now--but remember you are on slippery ground:
remember Clarence Hervey is not a marrying man, and you are not a
married woman.”

“It is perfectly indifferent to me, madam,” Belinda said, with a voice
and look of proud indignation.

“Lady Delacour, your carriage has drawn up,” said Clarence Hervey,
returning to the door, but without entering.

“Then put this ‘perfectly well’ and ‘perfectly indifferent’ lady into
it,” said Lady Delacour.

He obeyed without uttering a syllable.

“Dumb! absolutely dumb! I protest,” said her ladyship, as he handed her
in afterwards. “Why, Clarence, the casting of your serpent’s skin seems
to have quite changed your nature--nothing but the simplicity of the
dove left; and I expect to hear, you cooing presently--don’t you, Miss
Portman?” She ordered the coachman to drive to the Pantheon.

“To the Pantheon! I was in hopes your ladyship would have the goodness
to set me down at home; for indeed I shall be a burden to you and
everybody else at the masquerade.”

“If you have made any appointment for the rest of the evening in
Berkley-square, I’ll set you down, certainly, if you insist upon it, my
dear--for punctuality is a virtue; but prudence is a virtue too, in a
young lady; who, as your aunt Stanhope would say, has to _establish_
herself in the world. Why these tears, Belinda?--or are they tears? for
by the light of the lamps I can scarcely tell; though I’ll swear I saw
the handkerchief at the eyes. What is the meaning of all this? You’d
best trust me--for I know as much of men and manners as your aunt
Stanhope at least; and in one word, you have nothing to fear from me,
and every thing to hope from yourself, if you will only dry up your
tears, _keep on your mask_, and take my advice; you’ll find it as good
as your aunt Stanhope’s.”

“My aunt Stanhope’s! O,” cried Belinda, “never, never more will I take
such advice; never more will I expose myself to be insulted as a female
adventurer.--Little did I know in what a light I appeared; little did
I know what _gentlemen_ thought of my aunt Stanhope, of my cousins, of
myself!”

“_Gentlemen_! I presume Clarence Hervey stands at this instant, in your
imagination, as the representative of all the gentlemen in England; and
he, instead of Anacharsis Cloots, is now, to be sure, l’orateur du genre
humain. Pray let me have a specimen of the eloquence, which, to judge by
its effects, must be powerful indeed.”

Miss Portman, not without some reluctance, repeated the conversation
which she had heard.--“And is this all?” cried Lady Delacour. “Lord,
my dear, you must either give up living in the world, or expect to
hear yourself, and your aunts, and your cousins, and your friends, from
generation to generation, abused every hour in the day by their friends
and your friends; ‘tis the common course of things. Now you know what a
multitude of obedient humble servants, dear creatures, and very sincere
and most affectionate friends, I have in my writing-desk, and on my
mantel-piece, not to mention the cards which crowd the common rack from
intimate acquaintance, who cannot live without the honour, or favour,
or pleasure of seeing Lady Delacour twice a week;--do you think I’m fool
enough to imagine that they would care the hundredth part of a straw if
I were this minute thrown into the Red or the Black Sea?--No, I have not
one _real_ friend in the world except Harriot Freke; yet, you see I
am the comic muse, and mean to keep it up--keep it up to the last--on
purpose to provoke those who would give their eyes to be able to pity
me;--I humbly thank them, no pity for Lady Delacour. Follow my example,
Belinda; elbow your way through the crowd: if you stop to be civil and
beg pardon, and ‘_hope I didn’t hurt ye_,’ you will be trod under foot.
Now you’ll meet those young men continually who took the liberty of
laughing at your aunt, and your cousins, and yourself; they are men of
fashion. Show them you’ve no feeling, and they’ll acknowledge you for
a woman of fashion. You’ll marry better than any of your
cousins,--Clarence Hervey if you can; and then it will be your turn to
laugh about nets and cages. As to love and all that--”

The carriage stopped at the Pantheon just as her ladyship came to the
words “love and all that.” Her thoughts took a different turn, and
during the remainder of the night she exhibited, in such a manner as to
attract universal admiration, all the ease, and grace, and gaiety, of
Euphrosyne.

To Belinda the night appeared long and dull: the commonplace wit of
chimney-sweepers and gipsies, the antics of harlequins, the graces
of flower-girls and Cleopatras, had not power to amuse her; for her
thoughts still recurred to that conversation which had given her so much
pain--a pain which Lady Delacour’s raillery had failed to obliterate.

“How happy you are, Lady Delacour,” said she, when they got into the
carriage to go home; “how happy you are to have such an amazing flow of
spirits!”

“Amazing you might well say, if you knew all,” said Lady Delacour; and
she heaved a deep sigh, threw herself back in the carriage, let fall her
mask, and was silent. It was broad daylight, and Belinda had a full view
of her countenance, which was the picture of despair. She uttered not
one syllable more, nor had Miss Portman the courage to interrupt her
meditations till they came within sight, of Lady Singleton’s, when
Belinda ventured to remind her that she had resolved to stop there and
change dresses before Marriott saw them.

“No, it’s no matter,” said Lady Delacour; “Marriott will leave me at the
last, like all the rest--‘tis no matter.” Her ladyship sunk back into
her former attitude; but after she had remained silent for some minutes,
she started up and exclaimed--

“If I had served myself with half the zeal that I have served the
world, I should not now be thus forsaken! I have sacrificed reputation,
happiness, every thing to the love of frolic:--all frolic will soon be
at an end with me--I am dying--and I shall die unlamented by any human
being. If I were to live my life over again, what a different life it
should be!--What a different person _I would be!_[1]--But it is all over
now--I am dying.”

Belinda’s astonishment at these words, and at the solemn manner in which
they were pronounced, was inexpressible; she gazed at Lady Delacour, and
then repeated the word,--‘dying!’--“Yes, dying!” said Lady Delacour.

“But you seem to me, and to all the world, in perfect health; and but
half an hour ago in perfect spirits,” said Belinda.

“I seem to you and to all the world, what I am not--I tell you I am
dying,” said her ladyship in an emphatic tone.

Not a word more passed till they got home. Lady Delacour hurried up
stairs, bidding Belinda follow her to her dressing-room. Marriott was
lighting the six wax candles on the dressing-table.--“As I live, they
have changed dresses after all,” said Marriott to herself, as she fixed
her eyes upon Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. “I’ll be burnt, if I don’t
make my lady remember this.”

“Marriott, you need not wait; I’ll ring when I want you,” said Lady
Delacour; and taking one of the candles from the table, she passed
on hastily with Miss Portman through her dressing-room, through her
bedchamber, and to the door of the mysterious cabinet.

“Marriott, the key of this door,” cried she impatiently, after she had
in vain attempted to open it.

“Heavenly graciousness!” cried Marriott; “is my lady out of her senses?”

“The key--the key--quick, the key,” repeated Lady Delacour, in a
peremptory tone. She seized it as soon as Marriott drew it from her
pocket, and unlocked the door.

“Had not I best put _the things_ to rights, my lady?” said Marriott,
catching fast hold of the opening door.

“I’ll ring when you are wanted, Marriott,” said Lady Delacour; and
pushing open the door with violence she rushed forward to the middle of
the room, and turning back, she beckoned to Belinda to follow her--“Come
in; what is it you are afraid of?” said she. Belinda went on, and the
moment she was in the room, Lady Delacour shut and locked the door. The
room was rather dark, as there was no light in it except what came from
the candle which Lady Delacour held in her hand, and which burned but
dimly. Belinda, as she looked round, saw nothing but a confusion of
linen rags; vials, some empty, some full, and she perceived that there
was a strong smell of medicines.

Lady Delacour, whose motions were all precipitate, like those of a
person whose mind is in great agitation, looked from side to side of the
room, without seeming to know what she was in search of. She then,
with a species of fury, wiped the paint from her face, and returning to
Belinda, held the candle so as to throw the light full upon her livid
features. Her eyes were sunk, her cheeks hollow; no trace of youth or
beauty remained on her death-like countenance, which formed a horrid
contrast with her gay fantastic dress.

“You are shocked, Belinda,” said she; “but as yet you have seen
nothing--look here,”--and baring one half of her bosom, she revealed a
hideous spectacle.

Belinda sunk back into a chair; Lady Delacour flung herself on her knees
before her.

“Am I humbled, am I wretched enough?” cried she, her voice trembling
with agony. “Yes, pity me for what you have seen, and a thousand times
more for that which you cannot see:--my mind is eaten away like my
body by incurable disease--inveterate remorse--remorse for a life of
folly--of folly which has brought on me all the punishments of guilt.”

“My husband,” continued she, and her voice suddenly altered from the
tone of grief to that of anger--“my husband hates me--no matter--I
despise him. His relations hate me--no matter--I despise them. My own
relations hate me--no matter, I never wish to see them more--never shall
they see my sorrow--never shall they hear a complaint, a sigh from me.
There is no torture which I could not more easily endure than their
insulting pity. I will die, as I have lived, the envy and admiration
of the world. When I am gone, let them find out their mistake; and
moralize, if they will, over my grave.” She paused. Belinda had no power
to speak.

“Promise, swear to me,” resumed Lady Delacour vehemently, seizing
Belinda’s hand, “that you will never reveal to any mortal what you
have seen and heard this night. No living creature suspects that Lady
Delacour is dying by inches, except Marriott and that woman whom but a
few hours ago I thought my _real friend_, to whom I trusted every secret
of my life, every thought of my heart. Fool! idiot! dupe that I was to
trust to the friendship of a woman whom I knew to be without principle:
but I thought she had honour; I thought she could never betray _me_,--O
Harriot! Harriot! you to desert me!--Any thing else I could have
borne--but you, who I thought would have supported me in the tortures of
mind and body which I am to go through--you that I thought would receive
my last breath--you to desert me!--Now I am alone in the world--left to
the mercy of an insolent waiting-woman.”

Lady Delacour hid her face in Belinda’s lap, and almost stifled by the
violence of contending emotions, she at last gave vent to them, and
sobbed aloud.

“Trust to one,” said Belinda, pressing her hand, with all the tenderness
which humanity could dictate, “who will never leave you at the mercy of
an insolent waiting-woman--trust to me.”

“Trust to you!” said Lady Delacour, looking up eagerly in Belinda’s
face; “yes--I think--I may trust to you; for though a niece of Mrs.
Stanhope’s, I have seen this day, and have seen with surprise, symptoms
of artless feeling about you. This was what tempted me to open my mind
to you when I found that I had lost the only friend--but I will think
no more of that--if you have a heart, you must feel for me.--Leave
me now--tomorrow you shall hear my whole history--now I am quite
exhausted--ring for Marriott.” Marriott appeared with a face of
constrained civility and latent rage. “Put me to bed, Marriott,” said
Lady Delacour, with a subdued voice; “but first light Miss Portman to
her room--she need not--yet--see the horrid business of my toilette.”

Belinda, when she was left alone, immediately opened her shutters, and
threw up the sash, to refresh herself with the morning air. She felt
excessively fatigued, and in the hurry of her mind she could not think
of any thing distinctly. She took off her masquerade dress, and went
to bed in hopes of forgetting, for a few hours, what she felt indelibly
impressed upon her imagination. But it was in vain that she endeavoured
to compose herself to sleep; her ideas were in too great and painful
confusion. For some time, whenever she closed her eyes, the face and
form of Lady Delacour, such as she had just beheld them, seemed to
haunt her; afterwards, the idea of Clarence Hervey, and the painful
recollection of the conversation she had overheard, recurred to her: the
words, “Do you think I don’t know that Belinda Portman is a composition
of art and affectation?” fixed in her memory. She recollected with the
utmost minuteness every look of contempt which she had seen in the faces
of the young men whilst they spoke of Mrs. Stanhope, the match-maker.
Belinda’s mind, however, was not yet sufficiently calm to reflect; she
seemed only to live over again the preceding night. At last, the strange
motley figures which she had seen at the masquerade flitted before her
eyes, and she sunk into an uneasy slumber.




CHAPTER III.

LADY DELACOUR’S HISTORY.


Miss Portman was awakened by the ringing of Lady Delacour’s bedchamber
bell. She opened her eyes with the confused idea that something
disagreeable had happened; and before she had distinctly recollected
herself, Marriott came to her bedside, with a note from Lady Delacour:
it was written with a pencil.

“DELACOUR--_my_ lord!!!! is to have to-day what Garrick used to call
a _gander feast_--will you dine with me tête-à-tête, and I’ll write
an _excuse_, alias a lie, to Lady Singleton, in the form of a charming
note--I pique myself _sur l’éloquence du billet_--then we shall have the
evening to ourselves. I have much to say, as people usually have when
they begin to talk of themselves.

“I have taken a double dose of opium, and am not so horribly out of
spirits as I was last night; so you need not be afraid of another
_scene_.

“Let me see you in my dressing-room, dear Belinda, as soon as you have
adored

    ‘With head uncover’d the cosmetic powers.’

“But you don’t paint--no matter--you will--you must--every body must,
sooner or later. In the mean time, whenever you want to send a note that
shall not be opened by _the bearer_, put your trust neither in wafer
nor wax, but twist it as I twist mine. You see I wish to put you in
possession of some valuable secrets before I leave this world--this,
by-the-bye, I don’t, upon second thoughts, which are always best, mean
to do yet. There certainly were such people as Amazons--I hope you
admire them--for who could live without the admiration of Belinda
Portman?--not Clarence Hervey assuredly--nor yet

“T. C. H. DELACOUR.”

Belinda obeyed the summons to her ladyship’s dressing-room: she found
Lady Delacour with her face completely repaired with paint, and her
spirits with opium. She was in high consultation with Marriott and Mrs.
Franks, the milliner, about the crape petticoat of her birthnight
dress, which was extended over a large hoop in full state. Mrs. Franks
descanted long and learnedly upon festoons and loops, knots and fringes,
submitting all the time every thing to her ladyship’s better judgment.

Marriott was sulky and silent. She opened her lips but once upon the
question of laburnum or no laburnum flowers.

Against them she quoted the memoirs and authority of the celebrated Mrs.
Bellamy, who has a case in point to prove that “straw colour must ever
look like dirty white by candlelight.” Mrs. Franks, to compromise the
matter, proposed gold laburnums, “because nothing can look better by
candlelight, or any light, than gold;” and Lady Delacour, who was afraid
that the milliner’s imagination, now that it had once touched upon gold,
might be led to the vulgar idea of _ready money_, suddenly broke up the
conference, by exclaiming,

“We shall be late at Phillips’s exhibition of French china. Mrs. Franks
must let us see her again to-morrow, to take into consideration
your court dress, my dear Belinda--‘Miss Portman presented by Lady
Delacour’--Mrs. Franks, let her dress, for heaven’s sake, be something
that will make a fine paragraph:--I give you four-and-twenty hours to
think of it. I have done a horrid act this day,” continued she, after
Mrs. Franks had left the room--“absolutely written a _twisted_ note to
Clarence Hervey, my dear--but why did I tell you that? Now your head
will run upon the twisted note all day, instead of upon ‘The Life and
Opinions of a Lady of Quality, related by herself.’”

After dinner Lady Delacour having made Belinda protest and blush, and
blush and protest, that her head was not running upon the twisted note,
began the history of her life and opinions in the following manner:--

“I do nothing by halves, my dear. I shall not tell you my adventures as
Gil Blas told his to the Count d’Olivarez--skipping over the _useful_
passages. I am no hypocrite, and have nothing worse than folly to
conceal: that’s bad enough--for a woman who is known to play the fool
is always suspected of playing the devil. But I begin where I ought
to end--with my moral, which I dare say you are not impatient to
anticipate. I never read or listened to a moral at the end of a story in
my life:--manners for me, and morals for those that like them. My dear,
you will be woefully disappointed if in my story you expect any thing
like a novel. I once heard a general say, that nothing was less like a
review than a battle; and I can tell you that nothing is more unlike a
novel than real life. Of all lives, mine has been the least romantic.
No love in it, but a great deal of hate. I was a rich heiress--I had, I
believe, a hundred thousand pounds, or more, and twice as many caprices:
I was handsome and witty--or, to speak with that kind of circumlocution
which is called humility, the world, the partial world, thought me a
beauty and a bel-esprit. Having told you my fortune, need I add, that I,
or it, had lovers in abundance--of all sorts and degrees--not to reckon
those, it may be presumed, who died of concealed passions for me? I had
sixteen declarations and proposals in form; then what in the name
of wonder, or of common sense--which by-the-bye is the greatest of
wonders--what, in the name of common sense, made me marry Lord Delacour?
Why, my dear, you--no, not _you_, but any girl who is not used to have
a parcel of admirers, would think it the easiest thing in the world to
make her choice; but let her judge by what she feels when a dexterous
mercer or linen-draper produces pretty thing after pretty thing--and
this is so becoming, and this will wear for ever, as he swears; but then
that’s so fashionable;--the novice stands in a charming perplexity, and
after examining, and doubting, and tossing over half the goods in the
shop, it’s ten to one, when it begins to get late, the young lady, in a
hurry, pitches upon the very ugliest and worst thing that she has seen.
Just so it was with me and my lovers, and just so--

   ‘Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,’

I pitched upon Viscount Delacour for my lord and judge. He had just at
that time lost at Newmarket more than he was worth in every sense of the
word; and my fortune was the most convenient thing in the world to a man
in his condition. Lozenges are of sovereign use in some complaints. The
heiress lozenge is a specific in some consumptions. You are surprised
that I can laugh and jest about such a melancholy thing as my marriage
with Lord Delacour; and so am I, especially when I recollect all
the circumstances; for though I bragged of there being no love in
my history, there was when I was a goose or a gosling of about
eighteen--just your age, Belinda, I think--something very like love
playing about my heart, or my head. There was a certain Henry Percival,
a Clarence Hervey of a man--no, he had ten times the sense, begging your
pardon, of Clarence Hervey--his misfortune, or mine, was, that he had
too much sense--he was in love with me, but not with my faults; now I,
wisely considering that my faults were the greatest part of me, insisted
upon his being in love with my faults. He wouldn’t, or couldn’t--I said
wouldn’t, he said couldn’t. I had been used to see the men about me lick
the dust at my feet, for it was gold dust. Percival made wry faces--Lord
Delacour made none. I pointed him out to Percival as an example--it was
an example he would not follow. I was provoked, and I married in hopes
of provoking the man I loved. The worst of it was, I did not provoke
him as much as I expected. Six months afterwards I heard of his marriage
with a very amiable woman. I hate those _very amiable women_. Poor
Percival! I should have been a very happy woman, I fancy, if I had
married you--for I believe you were the only man who ever really loved
me; but all that is over now!--Where were we? O, I married my Lord
Delacour, knowing him to be a fool, and believing that, for this reason,
I should find no trouble in governing him. But what a fatal mistake!-a
fool, of all animals in the creation, is the most difficult to govern.
We set out in the fashionable world with a mutual desire to be as
extravagant as possible. Strange, that with this similarity of taste we
could never agree!--strange, that this similarity of taste was the cause
of our perpetual quarrels! During the first year of our marriage, I had
always the upper hand in these disputes, and the last word; and I was
content. Stubborn as the brute was, I thought I should in time break him
in. From the specimens you have seen, you may guess that I was even then
a tolerable proficient in the dear art of _tormenting_. I had almost
gained my point, just broken my lord’s heart, when one fair morning I
unluckily told his man Champfort that he knew no more how to cut hair
than a sheep-shearer. Champfort, who is conceit personified, took mortal
offence at this; and the devil, who is always at hand to turn anger into
malice, put it into Champfort’s head to put it into my lord’s head, that
the world thought--‘_My lady governed him_.’ My lord took fire. They
say the torpedo, the coldest of cold creatures, sometimes gives out
a spark--I suppose when electrified with anger. The next time that
innocent I insisted upon my Lord Delacour’s doing or not doing--I forget
which--the most reasonable thing in the world, my lord turns short
round, and answers--‘My Lady Delacour, I am not a man to be governed by
a wife.’--And from that time to this the words, ‘I am not a man to be
governed by a wife,’ have been written in his obstinate face, as all the
world who can read the human countenance may see. My dear, I laugh; but
even in the midst of laughter there is sadness. But you don’t know
what it is--I hope you never may--to have an obstinate fool for a bosom
friend.

“I at first flattered myself that my lord’s was not an inveterate,
incurable malady: but from his obvious weakness, I might have seen
that there was no hope; for cases of obstinacy are always dangerous in
proportion to the weakness of the patient. My lord’s case was desperate.
Kill or cure was my humane or prudent maxim. I determined to try the
poison of jealousy, by way of an alterative. I had long kept it in petto
as my ultimate remedy. I fixed upon a proper subject--a man with whom
I thought that I could coquette to all eternity, without any danger to
myself--a certain Colonel Lawless, as empty a coxcomb as you would
wish to see. The world, said I to myself, can never be so absurd as to
suspect Lady Delacour with such a man as this, though her lord may,
and will; for nothing is too absurd for him to believe. Half my theory
proved just; that is saying a great deal for any theory. My lord
swallowed the remedy that I had prepared for him with an avidity and a
bonhommie which it did me good to behold; my remedy operated beyond my
most sanguine expectations. The poor man was cured of his obstinacy, and
became stark mad with jealousy. Then indeed I had some hopes of him;
for a madman can be managed, a fool cannot. In a month’s time I made him
quite docile. With a face longer than the weeping philosopher’s, he came
to me one morning, and assured me, ‘he would do every thing I pleased,
provided I would consult my own honour and his, and give up Colonel
Lawless.’

“‘Give up!’--I could hardly forbear laughing at the expression. I
replied, ‘that as long as my lord treated me with becoming respect, I
had never in thought or deed given him just cause of complaint; but that
I was not a woman to be insulted, or to be kept, as I had hitherto
been, in leading-strings by a husband.’ My lord, flattered as I meant he
should be with the idea that it was possible he should be suspected of
keeping a wife in leading-strings, fell to making protestations--‘He
hoped his future conduct would prove,’ &c. Upon this hint, I gave the
reins to my imagination, and full drive I went into a fresh career
of extravagance: if I were checked, it was _an insult_, and I began
directly to talk of _leading-strings_. This ridiculous game I played
successfully enough for some time, till at length, though naturally
rather slow at calculation, he actually discovered, that if we lived at
the rate of twenty thousand a-year, and had only ten thousand a-year to
spend, we should in due time have nothing left. This notable discovery
he communicated to me one morning, after a long preamble. When he had
finished prosing, I agreed that it was demonstrably just that he should
retrench _his_ expenses; but that it was equally unjust and impossible
that I could make any reformation in _my_ civil list: that economy was a
word which I had never heard of in my life till I married his lordship;
that, upon second recollection, it was true I had heard of such a thing
as national economy, and that it would be a very pretty, though rather
hackneyed topic of declamation for a maiden speech in the House of
Lords. I therefore advised him to reserve all he had to say upon the
subject for the noble lord upon the woolsack; nay, I very graciously
added, that upon this condition I would go to the house myself to give
his arguments and eloquence a fair hearing, and that I would do my best
to keep myself awake. This was all mighty playful and witty; but it
happened that my Lord Delacour, who never had any great taste for wit,
could not this unlucky morning at all relish it. Of course I grew
angry, and reminded him, with an indelicacy which his want of generosity
justified, that an heiress, who had brought a hundred thousand pounds
into his family, had some right to amuse herself, and that it was not my
fault if elegant amusements were more expensive than others.

“Then came a long criminating and recriminating chapter. It was,
‘My lord, your Newmarket blunders’--‘My lady, your cursed
_theatricals_’--‘My lord, I have surely a right’--and, ‘My lady, I have
surely as good a right.’

“But, my dear Belinda, however we might pay one another, we could not
pay all the world with words. In short, after running through thousands
and tens of thousands, we were actually in distress for money. Then
came selling of lands, and I don’t know what devices for raising
money, according to the modes of lawyers and attorneys. It was quite
indifferent to me how they got money, provided they did get it. By what
art these gentlemen raised money, I never troubled myself to inquire; it
might have been the black art, for any thing I know to the contrary. I
know nothing of business. So I signed all the papers they brought to me;
and I was mighty well pleased to find, that by so easy an expedient as
writing ‘T. C. H. Delacour,’ I could command money at will. I signed,
and signed, till at last I was with all due civility informed that my
signature was no longer worth a farthing; and when I came to inquire
into the cause of this phenomenon, I could nowise understand what my
Lord Delacour’s lawyer said to me: he was a prig, and I had not patience
either to listen to him or to look at him. I sent for an old uncle of
mine, who used to manage all my money matters before I was married:
I put the uncle and the lawyer into a room, together with their
parchments, to fight the matter out, or to come to a right understanding
if they could. The last, it seems, was quite impossible. In the course
of half an hour, out comes my uncle in such a rage! I never shall forget
his face--all the bile in his body had gotten into it; he had literally
no whites to his eyes. ‘My dear uncle,’ said I, ‘what is the matter?
Why, you are absolutely gold stick in waiting.’

“‘No matter what I am, child,’ said the uncle; ‘I’ll tell you what you
are, with all your wit--a dupe: ‘tis a shame for a woman of your sense
to be such a fool, and to know nothing of business; and if you knew
nothing yourself, could not you send for me?’

“‘I was too ignorant to know that I know nothing,’ said I. But I will
not trouble you with all the said I’s and said he’s. I was made to
understand, that if Lord Delacour were to die the next day, I should
live a beggar. Upon this I grew serious, as you may imagine. My uncle
assured me that I had been grossly imposed upon by my lord and his
lawyer; and that I had been swindled out of my senses, and out of my
dower. I repeated all that my uncle said, very faithfully, to Lord
Delacour; and all that either he or his lawyer could furnish out by
way of answer was, that ‘Necessity had no law.’ Necessity, it must be
allowed, though it might be the mother of law, was never with my lord
the mother of invention. Having now found out that I had a good right to
complain, I indulged myself in it most gloriously; in short, my dear, we
had a comfortable family quarrel. Love quarrels are easily made up, but
of money quarrels there is no end. From the moment these money quarrels
commenced, I began to hate Lord Delacour; before, I had only despised
him. You can have no notion to what meanness extravagance reduces men.
I have known Lord Delacour shirk, and look so shabby, and tell so many
lies to people about a hundred guineas--a hundred guineas!--what do I
say?--about twenty, ten, five! O, my dear, I cannot bear the thoughts of
it!

“But I was going on to tell you, that my good uncle and all my relations
quarrelled with me for having ruined myself, as they said; but I said
they quarrelled with me for fear I should ask them for some of their
‘_vile trash_.’ Accordingly, I abused and ridiculed them, one and all;
and for my pains, all my acquaintance said, that ‘Lady Delacour was a
woman of a vast deal of spirit.’

“We were relieved from our money embarrassments by the timely death of a
rich nobleman, to whose large estate my Lord Delacour was heir-at-law. I
was intoxicated with the idle compliments of all my acquaintance, and
I endeavoured to console myself for misery at home by gaiety abroad.
Ambitious of pleasing universally, I became the worst of slaves---a
slave to the world. Not a moment of my time was at my own disposal--not
one of my actions; I may say, not one of my thoughts was my own; I was
obliged to find things ‘charming’ every hour, which tired me to death;
and every day it was the same dull round of hypocrisy and dissipation.
You wonder to hear me speak in this manner, Belinda--but one must speak
the truth sometimes; and this is what I have been saying to Harriot
Freke continually, for these ten years past. Then why persist in the
same kind of life? you say. Why, my dear, because I could not stop: I
was fit for this kind of life and for no other: I could not be happy at
_home_; for what sort of a companion could I have made of Lord Delacour?
By this time he was tired of his horse Potatoe, and his horse Highflyer,
and his horse Eclipse, and Goliah, and Jenny Grey, &c.; and he had taken
to hard drinking, which soon turned him, as you see, quite into a beast.

“I forgot to tell you that I had three children during the first five
years of my marriage. The first was a boy: he was born dead; and my
lord, and all his odious relations, laid the blame upon me, because I
would not be kept prisoner half a year by an old mother of his, a vile
Cassandra, who was always prophesying that my child would not be born
alive. My second child was a girl; but a poor diminutive, sickly thing.
It was the fashion at this time for fine mothers to suckle their own
children: so much the worse for the poor brats. Fine nurses never made
fine children. There was a prodigious rout made about the matter; a vast
deal of sentiment and sympathy, and compliments and inquiries; but after
the novelty was over, I became heartily sick of the business; and at the
end of about three months my poor child was sick too--I don’t much like
to think of it--it died. If I had put it out to nurse, I should have
been thought by my friends an unnatural mother; but I should have saved
its life. I should have bewailed the loss of the infant more, if Lord
Delacour’s relations and my own had not made such lamentations upon the
occasion that I was stunned. I couldn’t or wouldn’t shed a tear; and I
left it to the old dowager to perform in public, as she wished, the part
of chief mourner, and to comfort herself in private by lifting up her
hands and eyes, and railing at me as the most insensible of mothers. All
this time I suffered more than she did; but that is what she shall
never have the satisfaction of knowing. I determined, that if ever I
had another child, I would not have the barbarity to nurse it myself.
Accordingly when my third child, a girl, was born, I sent it off
immediately to the country, to a stout, healthy, broad-faced nurse,
under whose care it grew and flourished; so that at three years old,
when it was brought back to me, I could scarcely believe the chubby
little thing was my own child. The same reasons which convinced me I
ought not to nurse my own child, determined me, _à plus forte raison_,
not to undertake its education. Lord Delacour could not bear the
child, because it was not a boy. The girl was put under the care of a
governess, who plagued my heart out with her airs and tracasseries for
three or four years; at the end of which time, as she turned out to be
Lord Delacour’s mistress in form, I was obliged--in form--to beg she
would leave my house: and I put her pupil into better hands, I hope, at
a celebrated academy for young ladies. There she will, at any rate, be
better instructed than she could be at home. I beg your pardon, my
dear, for this digression on nursing and schooling; but I wanted only
to explain to you why it was that, when I was weary of the business, I
still went on in a course of dissipation. You see I had nothing at home,
either in the shape of husband or children, to engage my affections.
I believe it was this ‘aching void’ in my heart which made me, after
looking abroad some time for a bosom friend, take such a prodigious
fancy to Mrs. Freke. She was just then coming into fashion; she struck
me, the first time I met her, as being downright ugly; but there was a
wild oddity in her countenance which made one stare at her, and she
was delighted to be stared at, especially by me; so we were mutually
agreeable to each other--I as starer, and she as staree. Harriot Freke
had, without comparison, more assurance than any man or woman I ever
saw; she was downright brass, but of the finest kind--Corinthian brass.
She was one of the first who brought what I call _harum scarum_ manners
into fashion. I told you that she had assurance--_impudence_ I should
have called it, for no other word is strong enough. Such things as
I have heard Harriot Freke say!---You will not believe it--but her
conversation at first absolutely made me, like an old-fashioned fool,
wish I had a fan to play with. But, to my astonishment, all this _took_
surprisingly with a set of fashionable young men. I found it necessary
to _reform_ my manners. If I had not taken heart of grace, and
publicly abjured the heresies of _false delicacy_, I should have been
excommunicated. Lady Delacour’s sprightly elegance--allow me to speak
of myself in the style in which the newspaper writers talk of me--Lady
Delacour’s sprightly elegance was but pale, not to say _faded_ pink,
compared with the scarlet of Mrs. Freke’s dashing audacity. As my rival,
she would on certain ground have beat me hollow; it was therefore good
policy to make her my friend: we joined forces, and nothing could stand
against us. But I have no right to give myself credit for good policy in
forming this intimacy; I really followed the dictates of my heart or my
imagination. There was a frankness in Harriot’s manner which I mistook
for artlessness of character: she spoke with such unbounded freedom on
certain subjects, that I gave her credit for unbounded sincerity on all
subjects: she had the talent of making the world believe _that_ virtue
to be invulnerable by nature which disdained the common outworks of art
for its defence. I, amongst others, took it for granted, that the woman
who could make it her sport to ‘touch the brink of all we hate,’ must
have a stronger head than other people. I have since been convinced,
however, of my mistake. I am persuaded that few can touch the brink
without tumbling headlong down the precipice. Don’t apply this, my
dear, _literally_, to the person of whom we were speaking; I am not base
enough to betray her secrets, however I may have been provoked by her
treachery. Of her character and history you shall hear nothing but what
is necessary for my own justification. The league of amity between
us was scarcely ratified before my Lord Delacour came, with his wise
remonstrating face, to beg me ‘to consider what was due to my own honour
and his.’ Like the cosmogony-man in the Vicar of Wakefield, he came out
over and over with this cant phrase, which had once stood him in stead.
‘Do you think, my lord,’ said I, ‘that because I gave up poor Lawless
to oblige you, I shall give up all common sense to suit myself to your
taste? Harriot Freke is visited by every body but old dowagers and old
maids: I am neither an old dowager nor an old maid--the consequence is
obvious, my lord.’ Pertness in dialogue, my dear, often succeeds better
with my lord than wit: I therefore saved the sterling gold, and bestowed
upon him nothing but counters. I tell you this to save the credit of my
taste and judgment.

“But to return to my friendship for Harriot Freke. I, of course,
repeated to her every word which had passed between my husband and me.
She out-heroded Herod upon the occasion; and laughed so much at what she
called my folly in _pleading guilty_ in the Lawless cause, that I
was downright ashamed of myself, and, purely to prove my innocence, I
determined, upon the first convenient opportunity, to renew my intimacy
with the colonel. The opportunity which I so ardently desired of
redeeming my independence was not long wanting. Lawless, as my stars
(which you know are always more in fault than ourselves) would have it,
returned just at this time from the continent, where he had been with
his regiment; he returned with a wound across his forehead and a black
fillet, which made him look something more like a hero, and ten times
more like a coxcomb, than ever. He was in fashion, at all events; and
amongst other ladies, Mrs. Luttridge, odious Mrs. Luttridge! smiled
upon him. The colonel, however, had taste enough to know the difference
between smile and smile: he laid himself and his laurels at my feet, and
I carried him and them about in triumph. Wherever I went, especially
to Mrs. Luttridge’s, envy and scandal joined hands to attack me, and I
heard wondering and whispering wherever I went. I had no object in view
but to provoke my husband; therefore, conscious of the purity of my
intentions, it was my delight to brave the opinion of the wondering
world. I gave myself no concern about the effect my coquetry might have
upon the object of this flirtation. Poor Lawless! Heart, I took it for
granted, he had none; how should a coxcomb come by a heart? Vanity I
knew he had in abundance, but this gave me no alarm, as I thought that
if it should ever make him forget him self, I mean forget what was due
to me, I could, by one flash of my wit, strike him to the earth,
or blast him for ever. One night we had been together at Mrs.
Luttridge’s;--she, amongst other good things, kept a faro bank, and, I
am convinced, cheated. Be that as it may, I lost an immensity of money,
and it was my pride to lose with as much gaiety as any body else could
win; so I was, or appeared to be, in uncommonly high spirits, and
Lawless had his share of my good humour. We left Mrs. Luttridge’s
together early, about half-past one. As the colonel was going to hand me
to my carriage, a smart-looking young man, as I thought, came up close
to the coach door, and stared me full in the face: I was not a woman to
be disconcerted at such a thing as this, but I really was startled when
the young fellow jumped into the carriage after me: I thought he was
mad: I had only courage enough to scream. Lawless seized hold of the
intruder to drag him out, and out he dragged the youth, exclaiming, in a
high tone, ‘What is the meaning of all this, sir? Who the devil are
you? My name’s Lawless: who the devil are you?’ The answer to this was a
convulsion of laughter. By the laugh I knew it to be Harriot Freke. ‘Who
am I? only a Freke!’ cried she: ‘shake hands.’ I gave her my hand, into
the carriage she sprang, and desired the colonel to follow her: Lawless
laughed, we all laughed, and drove away. ‘Where do you think I’ve been?’
said Harriot; ‘in the gallery of the House of Commons; almost squeezed
to death these four hours; but I swore I’d hear Sheridan’s speech
to-night, and I did; betted fifty guineas I would with Mrs. Luttridge,
and have won. Fun and Freke for ever, huzza!’ Harriot was mad with
spirits, and so noisy and unmanageable, that, as I told her, I was sure
she was drunk. Lawless, in his silly way, laughed incessantly, and I was
so taken up with her oddities, that, for some time, I did not perceive
we were going the Lord knows where; till, at last, when the ‘larum of
Harriot’s voice ceased for an instant, I was struck with the strange
sound of the carriage. ‘Where are we? not upon the stones, I’m sure,’
said I; and putting my head out of the window, I saw we were beyond the
turnpike. ‘The coachman’s drunk as well as you, Harriot,’ said I; and
I was going to pull the string to stop him, but Harriot had hold of it.
‘The man is going very right,’ said she; ‘I’ve told him where to go. Now
don’t fancy that Lawless and I are going to run away with you. All this
is unnecessary now-a-days, thank God!’ To this I agreed, and laughed for
fear of being ridiculous. ‘Guess where you are going,’ said Harriot, I
guessed and guessed, but could not guess right; and my merry companions
were infinitely diverted with my perplexity and impatience, more
especially as, I believe, in spite of all my efforts, I grew rather
graver than usual. We went on to the end of Sloane-street, and quite
out of town; at last we stopped. It was dark; the footman’s flambeau was
out; I could only just see by the lamps that we were at the door of
a lone, odd-looking house. The house door opened, and an old woman
appeared with a lantern in her hand.

“‘Where is this farce, or freak, or whatever you call it, to end?’ said
I, as Harriot pulled me into the dark passage along with her.

“Alas! my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, pausing, “I little foresaw
where or how it was to end. But I am not come yet to the tragical part
of my story, and as long as I can laugh I will. As the old woman and her
miserable light went on before us, I could almost have thought of Sir
Bertrand, or of some German _horrifications_; but I heard Lawless, who
never could help laughing at the wrong time, bursting behind me, with a
sense of his own superiority.

“‘Now you will learn your destiny, Lady Delacour!’ said Harriot, in a
solemn tone.

“‘Yes! from the celebrated Mrs. W----, the modern dealer in art magic,’
said I, laughing, ‘for, now I guess whereabouts I am. Colonel Lawless’s
laugh broke the spell. Harriot Freke, never whilst you live expect to
succeed in _the sublime_.’ Harriot swore at the colonel for the veriest
_spoil-sport_ she had ever seen, and she whispered to me--‘The reason he
laughs is because he is afraid of our suspecting the truth of him, that
he believes _tout de bon_ in conjuration, and the devil, and all that.’
The old woman, whose cue I found was to be dumb, opened a door at the
top of a narrow staircase, and pointing to a tall figure, completely
enveloped in fur, left us to our fate. I will not trouble you with
a pompous description of all the mummery of the scene, my dear, as I
despair of being able to frighten you out of your wits. I should have
been downright angry with Harriot Freke for bringing me to such a place,
but that I knew women of the first fashion had been with Mrs. W----
before us--some in sober sadness, some by way of frolic. So as there
was no fear of being ridiculous, there was no shame, you know, and my
conscience was quite at ease. Harriot had no conscience, so she was
always at ease; and never more so than in male attire, which she had
been told became her particularly. She supported the character of
a young rake with such spirit and _truth_, that I am sure no common
conjuror could have discovered any thing feminine about her. She rattled
on with a set of nonsensical questions; and among other things she
asked, ‘How soon will Lady Delacour marry again after her lord’s death?’

“‘She will never marry after her lord’s death,’ answered the oracle.
‘Then she will marry during his lifetime,’ said Harriot. ‘True,’
answered the oracle. Colonel Lawless laughed; I was angry; and the
colonel would have been quiet, for he was a gentleman, but there was no
such thing as managing Mrs. Freke, who, though she had laid aside the
modesty of her own sex, had not acquired the decency of the other. ‘Who
is to be Lady Delacour’s second husband?’ cried she; ‘you’ll not offend
any of the present company by naming the man.’ ‘Her second husband
I cannot name,’ replied the oracle, ‘but let her beware of a Lawless
lover.’ Mrs. Freke and Colonel Lawless, encouraged by her, triumphed
over me without mercy--I may say, without shame! Well, my dear, I am in
a hurry to have done with all this: though I ‘_doted upon folly_,’ yet I
was terrified at the thoughts of any thing worse. The idea of a divorce,
the public brand of a shameful life, shocked me in spite of all my real
and all my assumed levity. O that I had, at this instant, dared to
_be myself_! But my fear of ridicule was greater than my fear of vice.
‘Bless me, my dear Lady Delacour,’ whispered Harriot, as we left this
house, ‘what can make you in such a desperate hurry to get home? You
gape and fidget: one would think you had never sat up a night before in
your life. I verily believe you are afraid to trust yourself with us.
Which of us are you afraid of, Lawless, or me, or _yourself_?’ There was
a tone of contempt in the last words which piqued me to the quick; and
however strange it may seem, I was now anxious only to convince Harriot
that I was not afraid of myself. False shame made me act as if I had no
shame. You would not suspect me of knowing any thing of false shame, but
depend upon it, my dear, many, who appear to have as much assurance as
I have, are secretly its slaves. I moralize, because I am come to a part
of my story which I should almost be glad to omit; but I promised you
that there should be no sins of omission. It was light, but not broad
daylight, when we got to Knightsbridge. Lawless, encouraged (for I
cannot deny it) by the levity of my manner, as well as of Harriot’s,
was in higher and more familiar spirits than I ever saw him. Mrs.
Freke desired me to set her down at her sister’s, who lived in
Grosvenor-place: I did so, and I beg you to believe that I was in an
agony, to get rid of my colonel at the same time; but you know I could
not, before Harriot Freke, absolutely say to him, ‘Get out!’ Indeed, to
tell things as they were, it was scarcely possible to guess by my manner
that I was under any anxiety, I acted my part so well, or so ill. As
Harriot Freke jumped out of the coach, a cock crowed in the area of her
sister’s house: ‘There!’ cried Harriot, ‘do you hear the cock crow,
Lady Delacour? Now it’s to be hoped your fear of goblins is over, else
I would not be so cruel as to leave the pretty dear all alone.’ ‘All
alone!’ answered I: ‘your friend the colonel is much obliged to you
for making nobody of him.’ ‘My friend the colonel,’ whispered Harriot,
leaning with her bold masculine arms on the coach door--‘my friend
the colonel is much obliged to me, I’m sure, for remembering what the
cunning or the knowing woman told us just now: so when I said I left
you alone, I was not guilty of a bull, was I?’ I had the grace to be
heartily ashamed of this speech, and called out, in utter confusion, ‘To
Berkley-square. But where shall I set you down, colonel? Harriot, good
morning: don’t forget you are in man’s clothes.’ I did not dare to
repeat the question of ‘where shall I set you down, colonel?’ at this
instant, because Harriot gave me such an arch, sneering look, as much as
to say, ‘Still afraid of yourself!’ We drove on: I’m persuaded that the
confusion which, in spite of all my efforts, broke through my affected
levity, encouraged Lawless, who was naturally a coxcomb and a fool,
to believe that I was actually his, else he never could have been so
insolent. In short, my dear, before we had got through the turnpike
gate, I was downright obliged to say to him, ‘Get out!’ which I did with
a degree of indignation that quite astonished him. He muttered something
about ladies knowing their minds; and I own, though I went off with
flying colours, I secretly blamed myself as much as I did him, and I
blamed Harriot more than I did either. I sent for her the next day, as
soon as I could, to consult her. She expressed such astonishment, and
so much concern at this catastrophe of our night’s frolic, and blamed
herself with so many oaths, and execrated Lawless for a coxcomb, so much
to the ease and satisfaction of my conscience, that I was confirmed
in my good opinion of her, and indeed felt for her the most lively
affection and esteem; for observe, with me esteem ever followed
affection, instead of affection following esteem. Woe be to all who in
morals preposterously put the cart before the horse! But to proceed
with my history: all fashionable historians stop to make reflections,
supposing that no one else can have the sense to make any. My _esteemed_
friend agreed with me that it would be best for all parties concerned
to hush up this business; that as Lawless was going out of town in a few
days, to be elected for a borough, we should get rid of him in the
best way possible, without ‘more last words;’ that he had been punished
sufficiently on the spot, and that to punish twice for the same offence,
once in private and once in public, would be contrary to the laws of
Englishmen and Englishwomen, and in my case would be contrary to the
evident dictates of prudence, because I could not complain without
calling upon Lord Delacour to call Lawless out; this I could not do
without acknowledging that his lordship had been in the right, in
warning me about his _honour and my own_, which old phrase I dreaded to
hear for the ninety-ninth time: besides, Lord Delacour was the last man
in the world I should have chosen for my knight, though unluckily he was
my lord; besides, all things considered, I thought the whole story might
not tell so well in the world for me, tell it which way I would: we
therefore agreed that it would be most expedient to hold our tongues. We
took it for granted that Lawless would hold his, and as for my people,
they knew nothing, I thought, or if they did, I was sure of them. How
the thing got abroad I could not at the time conceive, though now I am
well acquainted with the baseness and treachery of the woman I called my
friend. The affair was known and talked of every where the next day,
and the story was told especially at odious Mrs. Luttridge’s, with
such exaggerations as drove me almost mad. I was enraged, inconceivably
enraged with Lawless, from whom I imagined the reports originated.

“I was venting my indignation against him in a room full of company,
where I had just made my story good, when a gentleman, to whom I was
a stranger, came in breathless, with the news that Colonel Lawless was
killed in a duel by Lord Delacour; that they were carrying him home to
his mother’s, and that the body was just going by the door. The company
all crowded to the windows immediately, and I was left standing alone
till I could stand no longer. What was said or done after this I do
not remember; I only know that when I came to myself, the most dreadful
sensation I ever experienced was the certainty that I had the blood of a
fellow-creature to answer for.--I wonder,” said Lady Delacour, breaking
off at this part of her history, and rising suddenly, “I wonder what
is become of Marriott!--surely it is time for me to have my drops.
Miss Portman, have the goodness to ring, for I _must_ have something
immediately.” Belinda was terrified at the wildness of her manner. Lady
Delacour became more composed, or put more constraint upon herself, at
the sight of Marriott. Marriott brought from the closet in her lady’s
room the drops, which Lady Delacour swallowed with precipitation. Then
she ordered coffee, and afterward chasse-café, and at last, turning to
Belinda, with a forced smile, she said--

“Now shall the Princess Scheherazade go on with her story?”




CHAPTER IV.

LADY DELACOUR’S HISTORY CONTINUED.


“I left off with the true skill of a good story-teller, at the most
interesting part--a duel; and yet duels are so common now that they are
really vulgar incidents.

“But we think that a duel concerning ourselves must be more
extraordinary than any other. We hear of men being shot in duels about
nothing every day, so it is really a weakness in me to think so much
about poor Lawless’s death, as Harriot Freke said to me at the time. She
expected to see me show sorrow in _public_; but very fortunately for
me, she roused my pride, which was always stronger than my reason; and I
behaved myself upon the occasion as became a fine lady. There were some
things, however, I could hardly stand. You must know that Lawless, fool
and coxcomb as he was, had some magnanimity, and showed it--as some
people do from whom it is least expected--on his death-bed. The last
words he said were, ‘Lady Delacour is innocent--I charge you, don’t
prosecute Lord Delacour.’ This he said to his mother, who, to complete
my misery, is one of the most respectable women in England, and was
most desperately fond of Lawless, who was an only son. She never has
recovered his loss. Do you remember asking me who a tall elderly lady in
mourning was, that you saw getting into her carriage one day, at South
Audley-street chapel, as we passed by in our way to the park? That was
Lady Lawless: I believe I didn’t answer you at the time. I meet her
every now and then--to me a spectre of dismay. But, as Harriot Freke
said, certainly such a man as poor Lawless was a useless being in
society, however he may be regretted by a doting mother. We should see
things in a philosophical light, if we can. I should not have suffered
half as much as I did if he had been a man of a stronger understanding;
but he was a poor, vain, weak creature, that I actually drew on and
duped with my own coquetry, whilst all the time I was endeavouring only
to plague Lord Delacour. I was punished enough by the airs his
lordship doubly gave himself, upon the strength of his valour and his
judgment--they roused me completely; and I blamed him with all my might,
and got an enormous party of my friends, I mean my acquaintance, to
run him down full cry, for having fought for me. It was absurd--it was
rash--it was want of proper confidence in his wife; _thus we_ said. Lord
Delacour had his partisans, it is true; amongst whom the loudest was
odious Mrs. Luttridge. I embraced the first opportunity I met with of
retaliation. You must know that Mrs. Luttridge, besides being a great
faro-player, was a great dabbler in politics; for she was almost as fond
of power as of money: she talked loud and fluently, and had, somehow or
other, partly by intriguing, partly by relationship, connected herself
with some of the leading men in parliament. There was to be a contested
election in our country: Mr. Luttridge had a good estate there next
to Lord Delacour’s, and being of an ancient family, and keeping a good
table, the Luttridges were popular enough. At the first news of an
election, out comes a flaming advertisement from Mr. Luttridge; away
posted Mrs. Luttridge to begin her canvass, and away posted Lady
Delacour after her, to canvass for a cousin of Harriot Freke. This was a
new scene for me; but I piqued myself on the versatility of my talents,
and I laid myself out in please all the squires, and, what was more
difficult, all the squires’ ladies, in ----shire. I was ambitious to
have it said of me, ‘that I was the finest figure that ever appeared
upon a canvass.’ O, ye ----shireians, how hard did I work to obtain your
praise! All that the combined force of vanity and hatred could inspire
I performed, and with success. You have but little curiosity, I presume,
to know how many hogsheads of port went down the throat of John Bull, or
how many hecatombs were offered up to the genius of English liberty. My
hatred to Mrs. Luttridge was, of course, called love of my country. Lady
Delacour was deified by all _true_ patriots; and, luckily, a handsome
legacy left me for my spirit, by an uncle who died six weeks before the
election, enabled us to sustain the expense of my apotheosis. The day of
election came; Harriot Freke and I made our appearance on the hustings,
dressed in splendid party uniforms; and before us our knights and
squires held two enormous panniers full of ribands and cockades, which
we distributed with a grace that won all hearts, if not all votes. Mrs.
Luttridge thought the panniers would carry the election; and forthwith
she sent off an express for a pair of panniers twice as large as ours. I
took out my pencil, and drew a caricature of _the ass and her panniers_;
wrote an epigram at the bottom of it; and the epigram and the caricature
were soon in the hands of half ----shire. The verses were as bad as
impromptus usually are, and the drawing was not much better than
the writing; but the _good-will_ of the critics supplied all my
deficiencies; and never was more praise bestowed upon the pen of Burke,
or the pencil of Reynolds, than was lavished upon me by my honest
friends. My dear Belinda, if you will not quarrel with the quality, you
may have what quantity of praise you please. Mrs. Luttridge, as I hoped
and expected, was beyond measure enraged at the sight of the caricature
and epigram. She was, besides being a gamester and a politician--what do
you think?--an excellent shot! She wished, she said, to be a man, that
she might be qualified to take proper notice of my conduct. The same
kind friends who showed her my epigram repeated to me her observation
upon it. Harriot Freke was at my elbow, and offered to take any
_message_ I might think proper to Mrs. Luttridge. I scarcely thought her
in earnest till she added, that the only way left now-a-days for a woman
to distinguish herself was by spirit; as every thing else was grown
‘cheap and vulgar in the eyes of men;’ that she knew one of the
cleverest young men in England, and a man of fashion into the bargain,
who was just going to publish a treatise ‘upon the Propriety and
Necessity of Female Duelling;’ and that he had demonstrated, beyond
a possibility of doubt, that civilized society could not exist half
a century longer without this necessary improvement. I had prodigious
deference for the masculine superiority, as I thought it, of Harriot’s
understanding. She was a philosopher, and a fine lady--I was only a fine
lady; I had never fired a pistol in my life, and I was a little inclined
to cowardice; but Harriot offered to bet any wager upon the steadiness
of my hand, and assured me that I should charm all beholders in male
attire. In short, as my second, if I would furnish her with proper
credentials, she swore she would undertake to furnish me with clothes,
and pistols, and courage, and every thing I wanted. I sat down to pen
my challenge. When I was writing it, my hand did not tremble _much_--not
more than my Lord Delacour’s always does. The challenge was very
prettily worded: I believe I can repeat it.

“‘Lady Delacour presents her compliments to Mrs. Luttridge--she is
informed that Mrs. L---- wishes she were a man, that she might be
qualified to take _proper_ notice of Lady D----‘s conduct. Lady Delacour
begs leave to assure Mrs. Luttridge, that though she has the misfortune
to be a woman, she is willing to account for her conduct in any manner
Mrs. L---- may think proper, and at any hour and place she may appoint.
Lady D---- leaves the choice of the weapons to Mrs. L----. Mrs. H.
Freke, who has the honour of presenting this note, is Lady Delacour’s
_friend_ upon this occasion.’

“I cannot repeat Mrs. Luttridge’s answer; all I know is, it was not half
as neatly worded as my note; but the essential part of it was, that she
accepted my challenge _with pleasure_, and should do herself the honour
of meeting me at six o’clock the next morning; that Miss Honour O’Grady
would be her _friend_ upon the occasion; and that pistols were the
weapons she preferred. The place of appointment was behind an old barn,
about two miles from the town of ----. The hour was fixed to be early in
the morning, to prevent all probability of interruption. In the evening,
Harriot and I rode to the ground. There were several bullets sticking in
the posts of the barn: this was the place where Mrs. Luttridge had been
accustomed to exercise herself in firing at a mark. I own my courage
‘oozed out’ a little at this sight. The Duke de la Rochefoucault, I
believe, said truly, that ‘many would be cowards if they dared.’ There
seemed to me to be no physical and less moral necessity for my fighting
this duel; but I did not venture to reason on a point of honour with
my spirited second. I bravadoed to Harriot most magnanimously; but at
night, when Marriott was undressing me, I could not forbear giving her
a hint, which I thought might tend to preserve the king’s peace, and
the peace of the county. I went to the ground in the morning in good
spirits, and with a safe conscience. Harriot was in admiration of my
‘lion-port;’ and, to do her justice, she conducted herself with great
coolness upon the occasion; but then it may be observed, that it was I
who was to stand fire, and not she. I thought of poor Lawless a billion
of times, at least, as we were going to the ground; and I had my
presentiments, and my confused notions of poetic justice: but poetic
justice, and all other sorts of justice, went clear out of my head, when
I saw my antagonist and her friend, actually pistol in hand, waiting for
us; they were both in men’s clothes. I secretly called upon the name of
Marriott with fervency, and I looked round with more anxiety than ever
Bluebeard’s wife, or ‘Anne, sister Anne!’ looked to see if any body
was coming: nothing was to be seen but the grass blown by the wind--no
Marriott to throw herself _toute éplorée_ between the combatants--no
peace-officers to bind us over to our good behaviour--no deliverance at
hand; and Mrs. Luttridge, by all the laws of honour, as challenged, was
to have the first shot. Oh, those laws of honour! I was upon the point
of making an apology, in spite of them all, when, to my inexpressible
joy, I was relieved from the dreadful alternative of being shot through
the head, or of becoming a laughing-stock for life, by an incident, less
heroic, I’ll grant you, than opportune. But you shall have the whole
scene, as well as I can recollect it; _as well_--for those who for the
first time go into a field of battle do not, as I am credibly informed
and internally persuaded, always find the clearness of their memories
improved by the novelty of their situation. Mrs. Luttridge, when we came
up, was leaning, with a truly martial negligence, against the wall of
the barn, with her pistol, as I told you, in her hand. She spoke not
a word; but her second, Miss Honour O’Grady, advanced towards us
immediately, and, taking off her hat very manfully, addressed herself
to my second--‘Mistress Harriot Freke, I presume, if I mistake not.’
Harriot bowed slightly, and answered, ‘Miss Honour O’Grady, I presume,
if I mistake not.’ ‘The same, at your service,’ replied Miss Honour.
‘I have a few words to suggest that may save a great deal of noise, and
bloodshed, and ill-will.’ ‘As to noise,’ said Harriot, ‘it is a thing in
which I delight, therefore I beg that mayn’t be spared on my account; as
to bloodshed, I beg that may not be spared on Lady Delacour’s account,
for her honour, I am sure, is dearer to her than her blood; and, as to
ill-will, I should be concerned to have that saved on Mrs. Luttridge’s
account, as we all know it is a thing in which she delights, even more
than I do in noise, or Lady Delacour in blood: but pray proceed,
Miss Honour O’Grady; you have a few words to suggest.’ ‘Yes, I would
willingly observe, as it is my duty to my _principal_,’ said Honour,
‘that one who is compelled to fire her pistol with her left hand, though
ever so good a shot _naturally_, is by no means on a footing with one
who has the advantage of her right hand.’ Harriot rubbed my pistol with
the sleeve of her coat, and I, recovering my wit with my hopes of being
witty with impunity, answered, ‘Unquestionably, left-handed wisdom and
left-handed courage are neither of them the very best of their kinds;
but we must content ourselves with them _if_ we can have no other.’
‘That _if_,’ cried Honour O’Grady, ‘is not, like most of the family of
the _ifs_, a peace-maker. My Lady Delacour, I was going to observe that
my principal has met with an unfortunate accident, in the shape of a
whitlow on the fore-finger of her right hand, which incapacitates her
from drawing a trigger; but I am at your service, ladies, either of
you, that can’t put up with a disappointment with good humour.’ I never,
during the whole course of my existence, was more disposed to bear
a disappointment with good humour, to prove that I was incapable of
bearing malice; and to oblige the seconds, for form’s sake, I agreed
that we should take our ground, and fire our pistols into the air. Mrs.
Luttridge, with her left-handed wisdom, fired first; and I, with great
magnanimity, followed her example. I must do my adversary’s second, Miss
Honour O’Grady, the justice to observe, that in this whole affair she
conducted herself not only with the spirit, but with the good-nature
and generosity characteristic of her nation. We met enemies, and parted
friends.

“Life is a tragicomedy! Though the critics will allow of no such thing
in their books, it is a true representation of what passes in the
world; and of all lives mine has been the most grotesque mixture, or
alternation, I should say, of tragedy and comedy. All this is apropos to
something I have not told you yet. This comic duel ended tragically
for me. ‘How?’ you say. Why, ‘tis clear that I was not shot through the
head; but it would have been better, a hundred times better for me, if
I had; I should have been spared, in this life at least, the torments
of the damned. I was not used to priming and loading: my pistol was
overcharged: when I fired, it recoiled, and I received a blow on my
breast, the consequences of which you have seen.

“The pain was nothing at the moment compared with what I have since
experienced: but I will not complain till I cannot avoid it. I had not,
at the time I received the blow, much leisure for lamentation; for I had
scarcely discharged my pistol when we heard a loud shout on the other
side of the barn, and a crowd of town’s people, country people, and
haymakers, came pouring down the lane towards us, with rakes and
pitchforks in their hands. An English mob is really a formidable thing.
Marriott had mismanaged her business most strangely: she had, indeed,
spread a report of a duel--a female duel; but the untutored sense of
propriety amongst these rustics was so shocked at the idea of a duel
fought by women in _men’s clothes_, that I verily believe they would
have thrown us into the river with all their hearts. Stupid blockheads!
I am convinced that they would not have been half so much scandalized
if we had boxed in petticoats. The want of these petticoats had nearly
proved our destruction, or at least our disgrace: a peeress after being
ducked, could never have held her head above water again with any grace.
The mob had just closed round us, crying, ‘Shame! shame! shame!--duck
‘em--duck ‘em--gentle or simple--duck ‘em--duck ‘em’--when their
attention was suddenly turned towards a person who was driving up the
lane a large herd of squeaking, grunting pigs. The person was clad in
splendid regimentals, and he was armed with a long pole, to the end
of which hung a bladder, and his pigs were frightened, and they ran
squeaking from one side of the road to the other; and the pig-driver
in regimentals, in the midst of the noise, could not without difficulty
make his voice heard; but at last he was understood to say, that a bet
of a hundred guineas depended upon his being able to keep these pigs
ahead of a flock of turkeys that were following them; and he begged the
mob to give him and his pigs fair play. At the news of this wager,
and at the sight of the gentleman turned pig-driver, the mob were in
raptures; and at the sound of his voice, Harriot Freke immediately
exclaimed, ‘Clarence Hervey! by all that’s lucky!’”

“Clarence Hervey!” interrupted Belinda. “Clarence Hervey, my dear,”
 said Lady Delacour, coolly: “he can do every thing, you know, even drive
pigs, better than any body else!--but let me go on.

“Harriot Freke shouted in a stentorian voice, which actually made your
pig-driver start: she explained to him in French our distress, and the
cause of it, Clarence was, as I suppose you have discovered long ago,
‘that cleverest young man in England who had written on the propriety
and necessity of female duelling.’ He answered Harriot in French--‘To
attempt your rescue by force would be vain; but I will do better, I
will make a diversion in your favour.’ Immediately our hero, addressing
himself to the sturdy fellow who held me in custody, exclaimed, ‘Huzza,
my boys! Old England for ever! Yonder comes a Frenchman with a flock of
turkeys. My pigs will beat them, for a hundred guineas. Old England for
ever, huzza!’

“As he spoke, the French officer, with whom Clarence Hervey had laid the
wager, appeared at the turn of the lane--his turkeys half flying--half
hobbling up the road before him. The Frenchman waved a red streamer over
the heads of his flock--Clarence shook a pole, from the top of which
hung a bladder full of beans. The pigs grunted, the turkeys gobbled,
and the mob shouted: eager for the fame of Old England, the crowd
followed Clarence with loud acclamations. The French officer was
followed with groans and hisses. So great was the confusion, and so
great the zeal of the patriots, that even the pleasure of ducking the
female duellists was forgotten in the general enthusiasm. All eyes and
all hearts were intent upon the race; and now the turkeys got foremost,
and now the pigs. But when we came within sight of the horsepond, I
heard one man cry, ‘Don’t forget the ducking.’ How I trembled! but our
knight shouted to his followers--‘For the love of Old England, my brave
boys, keep between my pigs and the pond:--if our pigs see the water,
they’ll run to it, and England’s undone.’

“The whole fury of the mob was by this speech conducted away from us.
‘On, on, my boys, into town, to the market-place: whoever gains the
market-place first wins the day.’ Our general shook the rattling bladder
in triumph over the heads of ‘the swinish multitude,’ and we followed in
perfect security in his train into the town.

“Men, women, and children, crowded to the windows and doors. ‘Retreat
into the first place you can,’ whispered Clarence to us: we were close
to him. Harriot Freke pushed her way into a milliner’s shop: I could not
get in after her, for a frightened pig turned back suddenly, and almost
threw me down. Clarence Hervey caught me, and favoured my retreat into
the shop. But poor Clarence lost his bet by his gallantry. Whilst he
was manoeuvring in my favour, the turkeys got several yards ahead of the
pigs, and reaching the market-place first, won the race.

“The French officer found great difficulty in getting safe out of the
town; but Clarence represented to the mob that he was a prisoner on his
parole, and that it would be unlike Englishmen to insult a prisoner. So
he got off without being pelted, and they both returned in safety to
the house of General Y----, where they were to dine, and where
they entertained a large party of officers with the account of this
adventure.

“Mrs. Freke and I rejoiced in our escape, and we thought that the whole
business was now over; but in this we were mistaken. The news of our
duel, which had spread in the town, raised such an uproar as had never
been heard, even at the noisiest election. Would you believe it?--The
fate of the election turned upon this duel. The common people, one and
all, declared that they would not vote either for Mr. Luttridge or Mr.
Freke, because _as how_--but I need not repeat all the _platitudes_
that they said. In short, neither ribands nor brandy could bring them
to reason. With true English pig-headedness, they went every man of them
and polled for an independent candidate of their own choosing, whose
wife, forsooth, was a proper behaved woman.

“The only thing I had to console me for all this was Clarence Hervey’s
opinion that I looked better in man’s clothes than my friend Harriot
Freke. Clarence was charmed with my spirit and grace; but he had not
leisure at that time to attach himself seriously to me, or to any thing.
He was then about nineteen or twenty: he was all vivacity, presumption,
and paradox; he was enthusiastic in support of his opinions; but he was
at the same time the most candid man in the world, for there was no set
of tenets which could be called exclusively his: he adopted in liberal
rotation every possible absurdity; and, to do him justice, defended each
in its turn with the most ingenious arguments that could be devised, and
with a flow of words which charmed the ear, if not the sense. His essay
on female duelling was a most extraordinary performance; it was handed
about in manuscript till it was worn out; he talked of publishing it,
and dedicating it to me. However, this scheme, amongst a million of
others, he _talked of_, but never put into execution. Luckily for him,
many of his follies evaporated in words. I saw but little either of him
or his follies at this time. All I know about him is, that after he
had lost his bet of a hundred guineas, as a pig-driver, by his
knight-errantry in rescuing the female duellists from a mob, he wrote a
very charming copy of verses upon the occasion; and that he was so much
provoked by the stupidity of some of his brother officers who could not
understand the verses, that he took a disgust to the army, and sold his
commission. He set out upon a tour to the continent, and I returned with
Harriot Freke to London, and forgot the existence of such a person as
Clarence Hervey for three or four years. Unless people can be of some
use, or unless they are actually present, let them be ever so agreeable
or meritorious, we are very apt to forget them. One grows strangely
selfish by living in the world: ‘tis a perfect cure for romantic notions
of gratitude, and love, and so forth. If I had lived in the country
in an old manor-house, Clarence Hervey would have doubtless reigned
paramount in my imagination as the deliverer of my life, &c. But in
London one has no time for thinking of deliverers. And yet what I did
with my time I cannot tell you: ‘tis gone, and no trace left. One day
after another went I know not how. Had I wept for every day I lost, I’m
sure I should have cried my eyes out before this time. If I had enjoyed
any amusement in the midst of this dissipation, it would all have been
very well; but I declare to you in confidence I have been tired to
death. Nothing can be more monotonous than the life of a hackneyed fine
lady;--I question whether a dray-horse, or--a horse in a mill, would
willingly exchange places with one, if they could know as much of the
matter as I do. You are surprised at hearing all this from me. My dear
Belinda, how I envy you! You are not yet tired of every thing. _The
world_ has still the gloss of novelty for you; but don’t expect that can
last above a season. My first winter was certainly entertaining enough.
One begins with being charmed with the bustle and glare, and what the
French call _spectacle_; this is over, I think, in six months. I can but
just recollect having been amused at the Theatres, and the Opera, and
the Pantheon, and Ranelagh, and all those places, for their own sakes.
Soon, very soon, we go out to see people, not things: then we grow tired
of seeing people; then we grow tired of being seen by people; and then
we go out merely because we can’t stay at home. A dismal story, and
a true one. Excuse me for showing you the simple truth; well-dressed
falsehood is a personage much more _presentable_. I am now come to an
epoch in my history in which there is a dearth of extraordinary events.
What shall I do? Shall I invent? I would if I could; but I cannot. Then
I must confess to you that during these last four years I should
have died of ennui if I had not been kept alive by my hatred of Mrs.
Luttridge and of my husband. I don’t know which I hate most--O, yes,
I do--I certainly hate Mrs. Luttridge the most; for a woman can always
hate a woman more than she can hate a man, unless she has been in love
with him, which I never was with poor Lord Delacour. Yes! I certainly
hate Mrs. Luttridge the most; I cannot count the number of extravagant
things I have done on purpose to eclipse her. We have had rival routs,
rival concerts, rival galas, rival theatres: she has cost me more than
_she’s_ worth; but then I certainly have mortified her once a month at
least. My hatred to Mrs. Luttridge, my dear, is the remote cause of
my love for you; for it was the cause of my intimacy with your aunt
Stanhope.--Mrs. Stanhope is really a clever woman--she knows how to turn
the hatred of all her friends and acquaintance to her own advantage.--To
serve lovers is a thankless office compared with that of serving
_haters_--polite haters I mean. It may be dangerous, for aught I know,
to interpose in the quarrels of those who hate their neighbours, not
only with all their souls, but with all their strength--the barbarians
fight it out, kiss, and are friends. The quarrels which never come to
blows are safer for a go-between; but even these are not to be compared
to such as never come to words: your true silent hatred is that which
lasts for ever. The moment it was known that Mrs. Luttridge and I had
come to the resolution never to speak to one another, your aunt
Stanhope began to minister to my hatred so, that she made herself quite
agreeable. She one winter gave me notice that my adversary had set her
heart upon having a magnificent entertainment on a particular day. On
that day I determined, of course, to have a rival gala. Mrs. Stanhope’s
maid had a lover, a gardener, who lived at Chelsea; and the gardener
had an aloe, which was expected soon to blow. Now a plant that blows but
once in a hundred years is worth having. The gardener intended to make
a public exhibition of it, by which he expected to gain about a hundred
guineas. Your aunt Stanhope’s maid got it from him for me for fifty; and
I had it whispered about that an aloe in full blow would stand in the
middle of one of Lady Delacour’s supper tables. The difficulty was to
make Mrs. Luttridge fix upon the very day we wanted; for you know we
could not possibly put off the blowing of our aloe. Your aunt Stanhope
managed the thing admirably by means of a _common friend_, who was not
a suspected person with the Luttridges; in short, my dear, I gained my
point--every body came from Mrs. Luttridge’s to me, or to my aloe. She
had a prodigiously fine supper, but scarcely a soul stayed with her;
they all came to see what could be seen but once in a hundred years. Now
the aloe, you know, is of a cumbersome height for a supper ornament. My
saloon luckily has a dome, and under the dome we placed it. Round the
huge china vase in which it was planted we placed the most beautiful, or
rather the most expensive hothouse plants we could procure. After all,
the aloe was an ugly thing; but it answered my purpose--it made Mrs.
Luttridge, as I am credibly informed, absolutely weep with vexation. I
was excessively obliged to your aunt Stanhope; and I assured her that if
ever it were in my power, she might depend upon my gratitude. Pray, when
you write, repeat the same thing to her, and tell her that since she has
introduced Belinda Portman to me, I am a hundred times more obliged to
her than ever I was before.

“But to proceed with my important history.--I will not tire you with
fighting over again all my battles in my seven years’ war with Mrs.
Luttridge. I believe love is more to your taste than hatred; therefore
I will go on as fast as possible to Clarence Hervey’s return from his
travels. He was much improved by them, or at least I thought so; for he
was heard to declare, that after all he had seen in France and Italy,
Lady Delacour appeared to him the most charming woman, _of her age_,
in Europe. The words, _of her age_, piqued me; and I spared no pains to
make him forget them. A stupid man cannot readily be persuaded out of
his senses--what he sees he sees, and neither more nor less; but ‘tis
the easiest thing in the world to catch hold of a man of genius: you
have nothing to do but to appeal from his senses to his imagination, and
then he sees with the eyes of his imagination, and hears with the ears
of his imagination; and then no matter what the age, beauty, or wit of
the charmer may be--no matter whether it be Lady Delacour or Belinda
Portman. I think I know Clarence Hervey’s character _au fin fond_, and I
could lead him where I pleased: but don’t be alarmed, my dear; you know
I can’t lead him into matrimony. You look at me, and from me, and you
don’t well know which way to look. You are surprised, perhaps, after
all that passed, all that I felt, and all that I still feel about poor
Lawless, I should not be cured of coquetry. So am I surprised; but
habit, fashion, the devil, I believe, lead us on: and then, Lord
Delacour is so obstinate and jealous--you can’t have forgotten the
_polite conversation_ that passed one morning at breakfast between his
lordship and me about Clarence Hervey; but neither does his lordship
know, nor does Clarence Hervey suspect, that my object with him is to
conceal from the world what I cannot conceal from myself--that I am a
dying woman. I am, and I see you think me, a strange, weak, inconsistent
creature. I was intended for something better, but now it is too late;
a coquette I have lived, and a coquette I shall die: I speak frankly to
you. Let me have the glory of leading Clarence Hervey about with me in
public for a few months longer, then I must quit the stage. As to love,
you know with me that is out of the question; all I ask or wish for is
admiration.”

Lady Delacour paused, and leaned back on the sofa; she appeared in great
pain.

“Oh!--I am sometimes,” resumed she, “as you see, in terrible pain. For
two years after I gave myself that blow with the pistol, I neglected the
warning twinges that I felt from time to time; at last I was terrified.
Marriott was the only person to whom I mentioned my fears, and she was
profoundly ignorant: she flattered me with false hopes, till, alas! it
was in vain to doubt of the nature of my complaint: then she urged me
to consult a physician; that I would not do--I could not--I never will
consult a physician,--I would not for the universe have my situation
known. You stare--you cannot enter into my feelings. Why, my dear, if
I lose admiration, what have I left? Would you have me live upon pity?
Consider what a dreadful thing it must be to me, who have no friends, no
family, to be confined to a sick room--a sick bed; ‘tis what I must come
to at last, but not yet--not yet. I have fortitude; I should despise
myself if I had no species of merit: besides, it is still some
occupation to me to act my part in public; and bustle, noise, nonsense,
if they do not amuse or interest me, yet they stifle reflection. May
you never know what it is to feel remorse! The idea of that poor wretch,
Lawless, whom I actually murdered as much as if I had shot him, haunts
me whenever I am alone. It is now between eight and nine years since he
died, and I have lived ever since in a constant course of dissipation;
but it won’t do--conscience, conscience will be heard! Since my health
has been weakened, I believe I have acquired more conscience. I really
think that my stupid lord, who has neither ideas nor sensations, except
when he is intoxicated, is a hundred times happier than I am. But I will
spare you, Belinda; I promised that you should not have a _scene_, and I
will keep my word. It is, however, a great relief to open my mind to one
who has some feeling: Harriot Freke has none; I am convinced that she
has no more feeling than this table. I have not yet told you how she has
used me. You know that it was she who led or rather dragged me into that
scrape with Lawless; for that I never reproached her. You know it was
she who frightened me into fighting that duel with Mrs. Luttridge;
for this I never reproached her. She has cost me my peace of mind, my
health, my life; she knows it, and she forsakes, betrays, insults, and
leaves me to die. I cannot command my temper sufficiently to be coherent
when I speak of her; I cannot express in words what I feel. How could
that most treacherous of beings, for ten years, make me believe that she
was my friend? Whilst I thought she really loved me, I pardoned her all
her faults--_all_--what a comprehensive word!--All, all I forgave; and
continually said--‘_but_ she has a good heart.’ A good heart!--she has
no heart!--she has no feeling for any living creature but herself. I
always thought that she cared for no one but for me; but now I find
she can throw me off as easily as she would her glove. And this, too, I
suppose she calls a frolic; or, in her own vulgar language, fun. Can you
believe it?--What do you think she has done, my dear? She has gone over
at last to odious Mrs. Luttridge-actually she has gone down with the
Luttridges to----shire. The independent member having taken the Chiltern
Hundreds, vacates his seat: a new election comes on directly: the
Luttridges are to bring in Freke--not Harriot’s cousin--they have cut
him,--but her husband, who is now to commence senator: he is to come
in for the county, upon condition that Luttridge shall have Freke’s
borough. Lord Delacour, without saying one syllable, has promised his
interest to this precious junto, and Lady Delacour is left a miserable
cipher. My lord’s motives I can clearly understand: he lost a thousand
guineas to Mrs. Luttridge this winter, and this is a convenient way of
paying her. Why Harriot should be so anxious to serve a husband whom
she hates, bitterly hates, might surprise any body who did not know
_les dessous des cartes_ as well as I do. You are but just come into the
world, Belinda--the world of wickedness, I mean, my dear, or you would
have heard what a piece of work there was a few years ago about Harriot
Freke and this cousin of hers. Without betraying her confidence, I may
just tell you what is known to every body, that she went so far, that if
it had not been for me, not a soul would have visited her: she swam in
the sea of folly out of her depth--the tide of fashion ebbed, and there
was she left sticking knee deep in the mud--a ridiculous, scandalous
figure. I had the courage and foolish good-nature to hazard myself for
her, and actually dragged her to terra firma:--how she has gone on
since I _cannot_ tell you precisely, because I am in the secret; but the
catastrophe is public: to make her peace with her husband, she gives
up her friend. Well, that I could have pardoned, if she had not been so
base as to go over to Mrs. Luttridge. Mrs. Luttridge offered (I’ve seen
the letter, and Harriot’s answer) to bring in Freke, the husband, and
to make both a county and a _family_ peace, on condition that Harriot
should give up all connexion with Lady Delacour. Mrs. Luttridge knew
this would provoke me beyond measure, and there is nothing she would not
do to gratify her mean, malevolent passions. She has succeeded for once
in her life. The blame of the duel, of course, is all thrown upon me.
And (would you believe it?) Harriot Freke, I am credibly informed,
throws all the blame of Lawless’s business on me; nay, hints that
Lawless’s deathbed declaration of my innocence was _very generous_. Oh,
the treachery, the baseness of this woman! And it was my fate to hear
all this last night at the masquerade. I waited, and waited, and looked
every where for Harriot--she was to be the widow Brady, I knew: at last
the widow Brady made her appearance, and I accosted her with all my
usual familiarity. The widow was dumb. I insisted upon knowing the cause
of this sudden loss of speech. The widow took me into another
apartment, unmasked, and there I beheld Mr. Freke, the husband. I was
astonished--had no idea of the truth. ‘Where is Harriot?’ I believe,
were the first words I said. ‘Gone to the country.’ ‘To the country!’
‘Yes; to----shire, with Mrs. Luttridge.’--Mrs. Luttridge--odious Mrs.
Luttridge! I could scarcely believe my senses. But Freke, who always
hated me, believing that I led his wife, instead of her leading me into
mischief, would have enjoyed my astonishment and my rage; so I concealed
both, with all possible presence of mind. He went on over-whelming me
with explanations and copies of letters; and declared it was at Mrs.
Freke’s request he did and said all this, and that he was to follow her
early the next morning to ----shire. I broke from him, simply wishing
him a good journey, and as much family peace as his patience merited. He
knows that I know his wife’s history, and though _she_ has no shame, he
has some. I had the _satisfaction_ to leave him blushing with anger, and
I supported the character of the comic muse a full hour afterwards,
to convince him that all their combined malice would fail to break
my spirit in public: what I suffer in private is known only to my own
heart.”

As she finished these words, Lady Delacour rose abruptly, and hummed a
new opera air. Then she retired to her boudoir, saying, with an air of
levity, to Belinda as she left the room,

“Good bye, my dear Belinda; I leave you to ruminate sweet and bitter
thoughts; to think of the last speech and confession of Lady Delacour,
or what will interest you much more, the first speech and confession
of--Clarence Hervey.”




CHAPTER V.

BIRTHDAY DRESSES.


Lady Delacour’s history, and the manner in which it was related,
excited in Belinda’s mind astonishment, pity, admiration, and contempt:
astonishment at her inconsistency, pity for her misfortunes, admiration
of her talents, and contempt for her conduct. To these emotions
succeeded the recollection of the promise which she had made, not to
leave her in her last illness at the mercy of an insolent attendant.
This promise Belinda thought of with terror: she dreaded the sight of
sufferings which she knew must end in death: she dreaded the sight of
that affected gaiety and of that real levity which so ill became the
condition of a dying woman. She trembled at the idea of being under the
guidance of one who was so little able to conduct herself: and she could
not help blaming her aunt Stanhope severely for placing her in such a
perilous situation. It was obvious that some of Lady Delacour’s history
must have been known to Mrs. Stanhope; and Belinda, the more she
reflected, was the more surprised at her aunt’s having chosen such
a chaperon for a young woman just entering into the world. When the
understanding is suddenly roused and forced to exert itself, what a
multitude of deductions it makes in a short time! Belinda saw things in
a new light; and for the first time in her life she reasoned for herself
upon what she saw and felt. It is sometimes safer for young people to
see than to hear of certain characters. At a distance, Lady Delacour had
appeared to Miss Portman the happiest person in the world; upon a nearer
view, she discovered that her ladyship was one of the most miserable of
human beings. To have married her niece to such a man as Lord Delacour,
Mrs. Stanhope would have thought the most fortunate thing imaginable;
but it was now obvious to Belinda, that neither the title of
viscountess, nor the pleasure of spending three fortunes, could ensure
felicity. Lady Delacour confessed, that in the midst of the utmost
luxury and dissipation she had been a constant prey to ennui; that
the want of domestic happiness could never be supplied by that public
admiration of which she was so ambitious; and that the immoderate
indulgence of her vanity had led her, by inevitable steps, into follies
and imprudences which had ruined her health, and destroyed her peace of
mind. “If Lady Delacour, with all the advantages of wealth, rank, wit,
and beauty, has not been able to make herself happy in this life of
fashionable dissipation,” said Belinda to herself, “why should I follow
the same course, and expect to be more fortunate?”

It is singular, that the very means which Mrs. Stanhope had taken to
make a fine lady of her niece tended to produce an effect diametrically
opposite to what might have been expected. The result of Belinda’s
reflections upon Lady Delacour’s history was a resolution to benefit by
her bad example; but this resolution it was more easy to form than
to keep. Her ladyship, where she wished to please or to govern, had
fascinating manners, and could alternately use the sarcastic powers of
wit, and the fond tone of persuasion, to accomplish her purposes. It was
Belinda’s intention, in pursuance of her new plans of life, to spend,
whilst she remained in London, as little money as possible upon
superfluities and dress. She had, at her own disposal, only 100l. per
annum, the interest of her fortune; but besides this, her aunt, who was
desirous that she should go to court, and make a splendid figure there,
had sent her a draught on her banker for two hundred guineas. “You will,
I trust,” said her aunt, at the conclusion of the letter, “repay me when
you are established in the world; as I hope and believe, from what I
hear from Lady Delacour of the power of your charms, you will soon be,
to the entire satisfaction of all your friends. Pray do not neglect to
mention my friend Clarence Hervey particularly when you write next.
I understand from one who is well acquainted with him, and who has
actually seen his rent-roll, that he has a clear 10,000l. a year.”

Belinda resolved neither to go to court, nor to touch her aunt’s two
hundred guineas; and she wrote a long letter to her, in which she
explained her feelings and views at large. In this letter she meant
to have returned Mrs. Stanhope’s draught, but her feelings and views
changed between the writing of this epistle and the going out of the
post. Mrs. Franks, the milliner, came in the interim, and brought home
Lady Delacour’s beautiful dress: it was not the sight of this, however,
which changed Belinda’s mind; but she could not resist Lady Delacour’s
raillery.

“Why, my dear,” said her ladyship, after having listened to all Miss
Portman could say about her love of independence, and the necessity
of economy to preserve that independence, “all this is prodigiously
fine--but shall I translate it into plain English? You were mortally
wounded the other night by some random reflections of a set of foolish
young men--Clarence Hervey amongst the number; and instead of punishing
them, you sagely and generously determined to punish yourself. Then, to
convince this youth that you have not a thought of those odious nets and
cages, that you have no design whatever upon his heart, and that he has
no manner of influence on yours, you very judiciously determine, at
the first hint from him, to change your dress, your manners, and your
character, and thus to say to him, in as plain terms as possible--‘You
see, sir, a word to the wise is enough; I understand you disapprove of
showy dress and coquetry, and therefore, as I dressed and coquetted only
to please you, now I shall lay aside dress and coquetry, since I
find that they are not to your taste--and I hope, sir, you like my
simplicity!’ Depend upon it, my dear, Clarence Hervey understands
simplicity as well as you or I do. All this would be vastly well, if he
did not know that you overheard that conversation; but as he does know
it, trust me, he will attribute any sudden change in your manners and
appearance, right or wrong, to the motives I have mentioned. So don’t,
novice as you are! set about to manoeuvre for yourself. Leave all that
to your aunt Stanhope, or to me, and then you know your conscience will
be all the time as white as your hands,--which, by-the-bye, Clarence
Hervey, the other day, said were the whitest hands he had ever seen.
Perhaps all this time you have taken it into your head that full dress
will not become you; but I assure you that it will--you look well in any
thing--

   ‘But from the hoop’s bewitching round,
   The very shoe has power to wound.’

So come down to Mrs. Franks, and order your birthnight dress like a
reasonable creature.”

Like a reasonable creature, Miss Portman followed Lady Delacour, and
bespoke, or rather let her ladyship bespeak for her, fifty guineas’
worth of elegance and fashion. “You must go to the drawing-room with me
next week, and be presented,” said Lady Delacour, “and then, as it is
the first time, you must be elegantly dressed, and you must not wear
the same dress on the birthnight. So, Mrs. Franks, let this be finished
first, as fast as you can, and by that time, perhaps, we shall think of
something superlatively charming for the night of nights.”

Mrs. Franks departed, and Belinda sighed. “A silver penny for your
thoughts!” cried Lady Delacour. “You are thinking that you are like
Camilla, and I like Mrs. Mitten. Novel reading.--as I dare say you have
been told by your governess, as I was told by mine, and she by hers, I
suppose--novel reading for young ladies is the most dangerous----

“Oh, Clarence Hervey, I protest!” cried Lady Delacour, as he at this
instant entered the room. “Do, pray, Clarence, help me out, for the sake
of this young lady, with a moral sentence against novel reading: but
that might go against your conscience, or your interest; so we’ll spare
you. How I regret that we had not the charming serpent at the masquerade
the other night!”

The moment her ladyship mentioned the masquerade, the conversation
which had passed at Lady Singleton’s came full into Clarence Hervey’s
recollection, and his embarrassment was evident--not indeed to Belinda,
who had turned away to look over some new music that lay upon a stand
at the farthest end of the room; and she found this such a wonderfully
interesting occupation, that she did not for some minutes hear, or
appear to hear, one word of the conversation which was going on between
Mr. Hervey and Lady Delacour. At last, her ladyship tapped her upon
the shoulder, saying, in a playful tone, “Miss Portman, I arrest your
attention at the suit of Clarence Hervey: this gentleman is passionately
fond of music--to my curse--for he never sees my harp but he worries
me with reproaches for having left off playing upon it. Now he has just
given me his word that he will not reproach me again for a month to come
if you will favour us with one air. I assure you, Clarence, that Belinda
touches a harp divinely--she would absolutely charm----” “Your ladyship
should not waste such valuable praise,” interrupted Belinda. “Do you
forget that Belinda Portman and her accomplishments have already been as
well advertised as Packwood’s razor-strops?”

The manner in which these words were pronounced made a great impression
upon Clarence Hervey, and he began to believe it was possible that a
niece of the match-making Mrs. Stanhope might not be “a compound of
art and affectation.” “Though her aunt has advertised her,” said he to
himself, “she seems to have too much dignity to advertise herself, and
it would be very unjust to blame her for the faults of another person. I
will see more of her.”

Some morning visitors were announced, who for the time suspended
Clarence Hervey’s reflections: the effect of them, however, immediately
appeared; for as his good opinion of Belinda increased, his ambition to
please her was strongly excited. He displayed all his powers of wit
and humour; and not only Lady Delacour but every body present observed,
“that Mr. Hervey, who was always the most entertaining man in the world,
this morning surpassed himself, and was absolutely the most entertaining
man in the universe.” He was mortified, notwithstanding; for he
distinctly perceived, that whilst Belinda joined with ease and dignity
in the general conversation, her manner towards him was grave and
reserved. The next morning he called earlier than usual; but though Lady
Delacour was always at home to him, she was then unluckily dressing
to go to court: he inquired whether Miss Portman would accompany her
ladyship, and he learnt from his friend Marriott that she was not to be
presented this day, because Mrs. Franks had not brought home her dress.
Mr. Hervey called again two hours afterwards.--Lady Delacour was gone
to court. He asked for Miss Portman. “Not at home,” was the mortifying
answer; though, as he had passed by the windows, he had heard the
delightful sound of her harp. He walked up and down in the square
impatiently, till he saw Lady Delacour’s carriage appear.

“The drawing-room has lasted an unconscionable time this morning,”
 said he, as he handed her ladyship out of her coach, “Am not I the most
virtuous of virtuous women,” said Lady Delacour, “to go to court such a
day as this? But,” whispered she, as she went up stairs, “like all other
amazingly good people, I have amazingly good reasons for being good. The
queen is soon to give a charming breakfast at Frogmore, and I am paying
my court with all my might, in hopes of being asked; for Belinda must
see one of their galas before we leave town, _that_ I’m determined
upon.--But where is she?” “Not at home,” said Clarence, smiling. “Oh,
not at home is nonsense, you know. Shine out, appear, be found, my
lovely Zara!” cried Lady Delacour, opening the library door. “Here she
is--what doing I know not--studying Hervey’s Meditations on the Tombs, I
should guess, by the sanctification of her looks. If you be not totally
above all sublunary considerations, admire my lilies of the valley, and
let me give you a lecture, not upon heads, or upon hearts, but on what
is of much more consequence, upon hoops. Every body wears hoops, but
how few--‘tis a melancholy consideration--how very few can manage them!
There’s my friend Lady C----; in an elegant undress she passes for very
genteel, but put her into a hoop and she looks as pitiable a figure, as
much a prisoner, and as little able to walk, as a child in a go-cart.
She gets on, I grant you, and so does the poor child; but, getting on,
you know, is not walking. Oh, Clarence, I wish you had seen the two
Lady R.’s sticking close to one another, their father pushing them on
together, like two decanters in a bottle-coaster, with such magnificent
diamond labels round their necks!”

Encouraged by Clarence Hervey’s laughter, Lady Delacour went on to mimic
what she called the hoop awkwardness of all her acquaintance; and if
these could have failed to divert Belinda, it was impossible for her to
be serious when she heard Clarence Hervey declare that he was convinced
he could manage a hoop as well as any woman in England, except Lady
Delacour.

“Now here,” said he, “is the purblind dowager, Lady Boucher, just at the
door, Lady Delacour; she would not know my face, she would not see my
beard, and I will bet fifty guineas that I come into a room in a hoop,
and that she does not find me out by my air--that I do not betray
myself, in short, by my masculine awkwardness.”

“I hold you to your word, Clarence,” cried Lady Delacour. “They have let
the purblind dowager in; I hear her on the stairs. Here--through this
way you can go: as you do every thing quicker than any body else in the
world, you will certainly be full dressed in a quarter of an hour; I’ll
engage to keep the dowager in scandal for that time. Go! Marriott has
old hoops and old finery of mine, and you have all-powerful influence,
I know, with Marriott: so go and use it, and let us see you in all your
glory--though I vow I tremble for my fifty guineas.”

Lady Delacour kept the dowager in scandal, according to her engagement,
for a good quarter of an hour; then the dresses at the drawing-room took
up another quarter; and, at last, the dowager began to give an account
of sundry wonderful cures that had been performed, to her certain
knowledge, by her favourite concentrated extract or anima of quassia.
She entered into the history of the negro slave named Quassi, who
discovered this medical wood, which he kept a close secret till Mr.
Daghlberg, a magistrate of Surinam, wormed it out of him, brought
a branch of the tree to Europe, and communicated it to the great
Linnaeus--when Clarence Hervey was announced by the title of “The
Countess de Pomenars.”

“An émigrée--a charming woman!” whispered Lady Delacour “she was to have
been at the drawing-room to-day but for a blunder of mine: ready dressed
she was, and I didn’t call for her! Ah, Mad. de Pomenars, I am actually
ashamed to see you,” continued her ladyship; and she went forward to
meet Clarence Hervey, who really made his entrée with very composed
assurance and grace. He managed his hoop with such skill and dexterity,
that he well deserved the praise of being a universal genius. The
Countess de Pomenars spoke French and broken English incomparably well,
and she made out that she was descended from the Pomenars of the time
of Mad. de Sevigné: she said that she had in her possession several
original letters of Mad. de Sevigné, and a lock of Mad. de Grignan’s
fine hair.

“I have sometimes fancied, but I believe it is only my fancy,” said Lady
Delacour, “that this young lady,” turning to Belinda, “is not unlike
your Mad. de Grignan. I have seen a picture of her at Strawberry-hill.”

Mad. de Pomenars acknowledged that there was a resemblance, but added,
that it was flattery in the extreme to Mad. de Grignan to say so.

“It would be a sin, undoubtedly, to waste flattery upon the dead, my
dear countess,” said Lady Delacour; “but here, without flattery to the
living, as you have a lock of Mad. de Grignan’s hair, you can tell us
whether _la belle chevelure_, of which Mad. de Sevigné talked so much,
was any thing to be compared to my Belinda’s.” As she spoke, Lady
Delacour, before Belinda was aware of her intentions, dexterously let
down her beautiful tresses; and the Countess de Pomenars was so much
struck at the sight, that she was incapable of paying the necessary
compliments. “Nay, touch it,” said Lady Delacour--“it is so fine and so
soft.”

At this dangerous moment her ladyship artfully let drop the comb.
Clarence Hervey suddenly stooped to pick it up, totally forgetting his
hoop and his character. He threw down the music-stand with his hoop.
Lady Delacour exclaimed “Bravissima!” and burst out a-laughing. Lady
Boucher, in amazement, looked from one to another for an explanation,
and was a considerable time before, as she said, she could believe her
own eyes. Clarence Hervey acknowledged he had lost his bet, joined in
the laugh, and declared that fifty guineas was too little to pay for the
sight of the finest hair that he had ever beheld. “I declare he deserves
a lock of _la belle chevelure_ for that speech, Miss Portman,” cried
Lady Delacour; “I’ll appeal to all the world--Mad. de Pomenars must have
a lock to measure with Mad. de Grignan’s? Come, a second rape of the
lock, Belinda.”

Fortunately for Belinda, “the glittering forfex” was not immediately
produced, as fine ladies do not now, as in former times, carry any such
useless implements about with them.

Such was the modest, graceful dignity of Miss Portman’s manners, that
she escaped without even the charge of prudery. She retired to her own
apartment as soon as she could.

“She passes on in unblenched majesty,” said Lady Delacour.

“She is really a charming woman,” said Clarence Hervey, in a low voice,
to Lady Delacour, drawing her into a recessed window: he in the same
low voice continued, “Could I obtain a private audience of a few minutes
when your ladyship is at leisure?--I have--” “I am never at leisure,”
 interrupted Lady Delacour; “but if you have any thing particular to say
to me--as I guess you have, by my skill in human nature--come here to my
concert to-night, before the rest of the world. Wait patiently in the
music-room, and perhaps I may grant you a private audience, as you had
the grace not to call it a _tête-à-tête_. In the mean time, my dear
Countess de Pomenars, had we not better take off our hoops?” In the
evening, Clarence Hervey was in the music-room a considerable time
before Lady Delacour appeared: how patiently he waited is not known to
any one but himself.

“Have not I given you time to compose a charming speech?” said Lady
Delacour as she entered the room; “but make it as short as you can,
unless you wish that Miss Portman should hear it, for she will be down
stairs in three minutes.”

“In one word, then, my dear Lady Delacour, can you, and will you, make
my peace with Miss Portman?--I am much concerned about that foolish
razor-strop dialogue which she overheard at Lady Singleton’s.”

“You are concerned that she overheard it, no doubt.”

“No,” said Clarence Hervey, “I am rejoiced that she overheard it, since
it has been the means of convincing me of my mistake; but I am concerned
that I had the presumption and injustice to judge of Miss Portman so
hastily. I am convinced that, though she is a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s,
she has dignity of mind and simplicity of character. Will you, my dear
Lady Delacour, tell her so?”

“Stay,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “let me get it by heart. I should
have made a terrible bad messenger of the gods and goddesses, for I
never in my life could, like Iris, repeat a message in the same words
in which it was delivered to me. Let me see--‘Dignity of mind and
simplicity of character,’ was not it? May not I say at once, ‘My dear
Belinda, Clarence Hervey desires me to tell you that he is convinced
you are an angel?’ That single word _angel_ is so expressive, so
comprehensive, so comprehensible, it contains, believe me, all that can
be said or imagined on these occasions, _de part et d’autre_.”

“But,” said Mr. Hervey, “perhaps Miss Portman has heard the song of--

    ‘What know we of angels?--    I spake it in jest.’”

“Then you are not in jest, but in downright sober earnest?--Ha!” said
Lady Delacour, with an arch look, “I did not know it was already come to
_this_ with you.”

And her ladyship, turning to her piano-forte, played--

    “There was a young man in Ballinacrasy,
    Who wanted a wife to make him un_asy_,
    And thus in gentle strains he spoke her,
    Arrah, will you marry me, my dear Ally Croker?”

“No, no,” exclaimed Clarence, laughing, “it is not come to _that_ with
me yet, Lady Delacour, I promise you; but is not it possible to say that
a young lady has dignity of mind and simplicity of character without
having or suggesting any thoughts of marriage?”

“You make a most proper, but not sufficiently emphatic difference
between having or suggesting such thoughts,” said Lady Delacour. “A
gentleman sometimes finds it for his interest, his honour, or his
pleasure, to suggest what he would not for the world promise,--I mean
perform.”

“A scoundrel,” cried Clarence Hervey, “not a gentleman, may find it for
his honour, or his interest, or his pleasure, to promise what he would
not perform; but I am not a scoundrel. I never made any promise to man
or woman that I did not keep faithfully. I am not a swindler in love.”

“And yet,” said Lady Delacour, “you would have no scruple to trifle or
flatter a woman out of her heart.”

_“Cela est selon!”_ said Clarence smiling; “a fair exchange, you know,
is no robbery. When a fine woman robs me of my heart, surely Lady
Delacour could not expect that I should make no attempt upon hers.”--“Is
this part of my message to Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour. “As your
ladyship pleases,” said Clarence; “I trust entirely to your discretion.”

“Why I really have a great deal of discretion,” said Lady Delacour; “but
you trust too much to it when you expect that I should execute, both
with propriety and success, the delicate commission of telling a young
lady, who is under my protection, that a young gentleman, who is a
professed admirer of mine, is in love with her, but has no thoughts, and
wishes to suggest no thoughts, of marriage.”

“In love!” exclaimed Clarence Hervey; “but when did I ever use the
expression? In speaking of Miss Portman, I simply expressed esteem and
ad--------”

“No additions,” said Lady Delacour; “content yourself with
esteem--simply,--and Miss Portman is safe, and you too, I presume.
Apropos; pray, Clarence, how do your esteem and _admiration_ (I may go
as far as that, may not I?) of Miss Portman agree with your admiration
of Lady Delacour?”

“Perfectly well,” replied Clarence; “for all the world must be sensible
that Clarence Hervey is a man of too much taste to compare a country
novice in wit and accomplishments to Lady Delacour. He might, as men
of genius sometimes do, look forward to the idea of forming a country
novice for a wife. A man must marry some time or other--but my hour,
thank Heaven, is not come yet.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Lady Delacour; “for you know a married man is lost
to the world of fashion and gallantry.”

“Not more so, I should hope, than a married woman,” said Clarence
Harvey. Here a loud knocking at the door announced the arrival of
company to the concert. “You will make my peace, you promise me, with
Miss Portman,” cried Clarence eagerly.

“Yes, I will make your peace, and you shall see Belinda smile upon
you once more, upon condition,” continued Lady Delacour, speaking
very quickly, as if she was hurried by the sound of people coming up
stairs--“but we’ll talk of that another time.”

“Nay, nay, my dear Lady Delacour, now, now,” said Clarence, seizing her
hand.--“Upon condition! upon what condition?”

“Upon condition that you do a little job for me--indeed for Belinda. She
is to go with me to the birth-night, and she has often hinted to me that
our horses are shockingly shabby for people of our condition. I know she
wishes that upon such an occasion--her first appearance at court, you
know--we should go in style. Now my dear positive lord has _said_ he
will not let us have a pair of the handsomest horses I ever saw, which
are at Tattersal’s, and on which Belinda, I know, has secretly set her
heart, as I have openly, in vain.”

“Your ladyship and Miss Portman cannot possibly set your hearts on
any thing in vain--especially on any thing that it is in the power of
Clarence Hervey to procure. Then,” added he, gallantly kissing her hand,
“may I thus seal my treaty of peace?”

“What audacity!--don’t you see these people coming in?” cried Lady
Delacour; and she withdrew her hand, but with no great precipitation.
She was evidently, “at this moment, as in all the past,” neither afraid
nor ashamed that Mr. Hervey’s devotions to her should be paid in public.
With much address she had satisfied herself as to his views with respect
to Belinda. She was convinced that he had no immediate thoughts of
matrimony; but that if he were condemned to marry, Miss Portman would
be his wife. As this did not interfere with her plans, Lady Delacour was
content.




CHAPTER VI.

WAYS AND MEANS.


When Lady Delacour repeated to Miss Portman the message about
“simplicity of mind and dignity of character,” she frankly said--

“Belinda, notwithstanding all this, observe, I’m determined to retain
Clarence Hervey among the number of my public worshippers during my
life--which you know cannot last long. After I am gone, my dear, he’ll
be all your own, and of that I give you joy. Posthumous fame is a silly
thing, but posthumous jealousy detestable.”

There was one part of the conversation between Mr. Hervey and her
ladyship which she, in her great discretion, did not immediately
repeat to Miss Portman--that part which related to the horses. In this
transaction Belinda had no farther share than having once, when her
ladyship had the handsome horses brought for her to look at, assented
to the opinion that they were the handsomest horses she ever beheld. Mr.
Hervey, however gallantly he replied to her ladyship, was secretly vexed
to find that Belinda had so little delicacy as to permit her name to
be employed in such a manner. He repented having used the improper
expression of _dignity of mind_, and he relapsed into his former opinion
of Mrs. Stanhope’s niece. A relapse is always more dangerous than the
first disease. He sent home the horses to Lady Delacour the next
day, and addressed Belinda, when he met her, with the air of a man of
gallantry, who thought that his peace had been cheaply made. But in
proportion as his manners became more familiar, hers grew more reserved.
Lady Delacour rallied her upon _her prudery_, but in vain. Clarence
Hervey seemed to think that her ladyship had not fulfilled her part of
the bargain.--“Is not _smiling_,” said he, “the epithet always applied
to peace? yet I have not been able to obtain one smile from Miss
Portman since I have been promised peace.” Embarrassed by Mr. Hervey’s
reproaches, and provoked to find that Belinda was proof against all her
raillery, Lady Delacour grew quite ill-humoured towards her. Belinda,
unconscious of having given any just cause of offence, was unmoved; and
her ladyship’s embarrassment increased. At last, resuming all her former
appearance of friendship and confidence, she suddenly exclaimed one
night after she had flattered Belinda into high spirits--

“Do you know, my dear, that I have been so ashamed of myself
for this week past, that I have hardly dared to look you in the face.
I am sensible I was downright rude and cross to you one day, and ever
since I have been penitent; and, as all penitents are, very stupid and
disagreeable, I am sure: but tell me you forgive my caprice, and Lady
Delacour will be herself again.”

It was not difficult to obtain Belinda’s forgiveness.

“Indeed,” continued Lady Delacour, “you are too good; but then in my
own justification I must say, that I have more things to make me
ill-humoured than most people have. Now, my dear, that most obstinate
of human beings, Lord Delacour, has reduced me to the most terrible
situation--I have made Clarence Hervey buy a pair of horses for me, and
I cannot make my Lord Delacour pay for them; but I forgot to tell you
that I took your name--not in vain indeed--in this business. I told
Clarence, that upon condition he would do this _job_ for me, you would
forgive him for all his sins, and--nay, my dear, why do you look as if
I had stabbed you to the heart?--after all, I only drew upon your
pretty mouth for a few smiles. Pray let me see whether it has actually
forgotten _how_ to smile.”

Belinda was too much vexed at this instant to understand raillery. She
was inspired by anger with unwonted courage, and, losing all fear of
Lady Delacour’s wit, she very seriously expostulated with her ladyship
upon having thus used her name without her consent or knowledge. Belinda
felt she was now in danger of being led into a situation which might
be fatal to her reputation and her happiness; and she was the more
surprised at her ladyship, when she recollected the history she had so
lately heard of Harriot Freke and Colonel Lawless.

“You cannot but be sensible, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, “that after
the contempt I have heard Mr. Hervey express for match-making with Mrs.
Stanhope’s nieces, I should degrade myself by any attempts to attract
his attention. No wit, no eloquence, can change my opinion upon this
subject--I cannot endure contempt.”

“Very likely--no doubt”--interrupted Lady Delacour; “but if you would
only open your eyes, which heroines make it a principle never to do--or
else there would be an end of the novel--if you would only open your
eyes, you would see that this man is in love with you; and whilst you
are afraid of his contempt, he is a hundred times more afraid of yours;
and as long as you are each of you in such fear of you know not
what, you must excuse me if I indulge myself in a little wholesome
raillery.”--Belinda smiled.--“There now; one such smile as that for
Clarence Hervey, and I’m out of debt and danger,” said Lady Delacour.

“O Lady Delacour, why, why will you try your power over me in this
manner?” said Belinda. “You know that I ought not to be persuaded to do
what I am conscious is wrong. But a few days ago you told me yourself
that Mr. Hervey is--is not a marrying man; and a woman of your
penetration must see that--that he only means to flirt with me. I am
not a match for Mr. Hervey in any respect. He is a man of wit and
gallantry--I am unpractised in the ways of the world. I was not educated
by my aunt Stanhope--I have only been with her a few years--I wish I had
never been with her in my life.”

“I’ll take care Mr. Hervey shall know that,” said Lady Delacour; “but in
the mean time I do think any fair appraiser of delicate distresses would
decide that I am, all the circumstances considered, more to be pitied
at this present moment than you are: for the catastrophe of the business
evidently is, that I must pay two hundred guineas for the horses somehow
or other.”

“I can pay for them,” exclaimed Belinda, “and will with the greatest
pleasure. I will not go to the birthnight--my dress is not bespoke.
Will two hundred guineas pay for the horses? Oh, take the money--pay Mr.
Hervey, dear Lady Delacour, and it will all be right.”

“You are a charming girl,” said Lady Delacour, embracing her; “but how
can I answer for it to my conscience, or to your aunt Stanhope, if you
don’t appear on the birthnight? That cannot be, my dear; besides, you
know Mrs. Franks will send home your drawing-room dress to-day, and
it would be so foolish to be presented for nothing--not to go to the
birthnight afterwards. If you say _a_ you must say _b.”_

“Then,” said Belinda, “I will not go to the drawing-room.”--“Not go, my
dear! What! throw away fifty guineas for nothing! Really I never saw any
one so lavish of her money, and so economic of her smiles.”

“Surely,” said Miss Portman, “it is better for me to throw away fifty
guineas, poor as I am, than to hazard the happiness of my life. Your
ladyship knows that if I say _a_ to Mr. Hervey, I must say _b_. No, no,
my dear Lady Delacour; here is the draught for two hundred guineas: pay
Mr. Hervey, for Heaven’s sake, and there is an end of the business.”

“What a positive child it is! Well, then, it shall not be forced to say
the a, b, c, of Cupid’s alphabet, to that terrible pedagogue, Clarence
Hervey, till it pleases: but seriously, Miss Portman, I am concerned
that you will make me take this draught: it is absolutely robbing you.
But Lord Delacour’s the person you must blame--it is all his obstinacy:
having once said he would not pay for the horses, he would see them
and me and the whole human race expire before he would change his silly
mind.--Next month I shall have it in my power, my dear, to repay you
with a thousand thanks; and in a few months more we shall have another
birthday, and a new star shall appear in the firmament of fashion,
and it shall be called Belinda. In the mean time, my dear, upon second
thoughts, perhaps we can get Mrs. Franks to dispose of your drawing-room
dress to some person of taste, and you may keep your fifty guineas for
the next occasion. I’ll see what can be done.--Adieu! a thousand thanks,
silly child as you are.”

Mrs. Franks at first declared that it would be an impossibility to
dispose of Miss Portman’s dress, though she would do any thing upon
earth to oblige Lady Delacour; however, ten guineas made every thing
possible. Belinda rejoiced at having, as she thought, extricated herself
at so cheap a rate; and well pleased with her own conduct, she wrote to
her aunt Stanhope, to inform her of as much of the transaction as she
could disclose, without betraying Lady Delacour. “Her ladyship,”
 she said, “had immediate occasion for two hundred guineas, and to
accommodate her with this sum she had given up the idea of going to
court.”

The tenor of Miss Portman’s letter will be sufficiently apparent from
Mrs. Stanhope’s answer.

MRS. STANHOPE TO MISS PORTMAN.

“Bath, June 2nd.

“I cannot but feel some astonishment, Belinda, at your very
extraordinary conduct, and more extraordinary letter. What you can mean
by principles and delicacy I own I don’t pretend to understand, when
I see you not only forget the respect that is due to the opinions
and advice of the aunt to whom you owe every thing; but you take upon
yourself to lavish her money, without common honesty. I send you two
hundred guineas, and desire you to go to court--you lend my two hundred
guineas to Lady Delacour, and inform me that as you think yourself bound
in honour to her ladyship, you cannot explain all the particulars to
me, otherwise you are sure I should approve of the reasons which have
influenced you. Mighty satisfactory, truly! And then, to mend the
matter, you tell me that you do not think that in your situation in life
it is necessary that you should go to court. Your opinions and mine, you
add, differ in many points. Then I must say that you are as ungrateful
as you are presumptuous; for I am not such a novice in the affairs of
the world as to be ignorant that when a young lady professes to be of
a different opinion from her friends, it is only a prelude to something
worse. She begins by saying that she is determined to think for herself,
and she is determined to act for herself--and then it is all over with
her: and all the money, &c. that has been spent upon her education is so
much dead loss to her friends.

“Now I look upon it that a young girl who has been brought up, and
brought forward in the world as you have been by connexions, is bound to
be guided implicitly by them in all her conduct. What should you think
of a man who, after he had been brought into parliament by a friend,
would go and vote against that friend’s opinions? You do not want sense,
Belinda--you perfectly understand me; and consequently your errors I
must impute to the defect of your heart, and not of your judgment. I see
that, on account of the illness of the princess, the king’s birthday is
put off for a fortnight. If you manage properly, and if (unknown to Lady
----, who certainly has not used you well in this business, and to whom
therefore you owe no peculiar delicacy) you make Lord ---- sensible how
much your aunt Stanhope is disappointed and displeased (as I most truly
am) at your intention of missing this opportunity of appearing at court;
it is ten to one but his lordship--who has not made it a point to refuse
your request, I suppose--will pay you your two hundred guineas. You of
course will make proper acknowledgments; but at the same time entreat
that his lordship will not _commit_ you with his lady, as she might
be offended at your application to him. I understand from an intimate
acquaintance of his, that you are a great favourite of his lordship; and
though an obstinate, he is a good-natured man, and can have no fear of
being governed by you; consequently he will do just as you would have
him.

“Then you have an opportunity of representing the thing in the
prettiest manner imaginable to Lady ----, as an instance of her lord’s
consideration for her: so you will oblige all parties (a very desirable
thing) without costing yourself one penny, and go to the birthnight
after all: and this only by using a little address, without which
nothing is to be done in this world.

“Yours affectionately (if you follow my advice),

“SELINA STANHOPE.”

Belinda, though she could not, consistently with what she thought right,
follow the advice so artfully given to her in this epistle, was yet
extremely concerned to find that she had incurred the displeasure of an
aunt to whom she thought herself under obligations. She resolved to lay
by as much as she possibly could, from the interest of her fortune, and
to repay the two hundred guineas to Mrs. Stanhope. She was conscious
that she had no right to lend this money to Lady Delacour, if her aunt
had expressly desired that she should spend it only on her court-dress;
but this had not distinctly been expressed when Mrs. Stanhope sent her
niece the draft. That lady was in the habit of speaking and writing
ambiguously, so that even those who knew her best were frequently in
doubt how to interpret her words. Yet she was extremely displeased when
her hints and her half-expressed wishes were not understood. Beside
the concern she felt from the thoughts of having displeased her aunt,
Belinda was both vexed and mortified to perceive that in Clarence
Hervey’s manner towards her there was not the change which she had
expected that her conduct would naturally produce.

One day she was surprised at his reproaching her for caprice in having
given up her intentions of going to court. Lady Delacour’s embarrassment
whilst Mr. Hervey spoke, Belinda attributed to her ladyship’s desire
that Clarence should not know that she had been obliged to borrow the
money to pay him for the horses. Belinda thought that this was a
species of mean pride; but she made it a point to keep her ladyship’s
secret--she therefore slightly answered Mr. Hervey, “that she wondered
that a man who was so well acquainted with the female sex should be
surprised at any instance of caprice from a woman.” The conversation
then took another turn, and whilst they were talking of indifferent
subjects, in came Lord Delacour’s man, Champfort, with Mrs. Stanhope’s
draft for two hundred guineas, which the coachmaker’s man had just
brought back because Miss Portman had forgotten to endorse it. Belinda’s
astonishment was almost as great at this instant as Lady Delacour’s
confusion.

“Come this way, my dear, and we’ll find you a pen and ink. You need not
wait, Champfort; but tell the man to wait for the draft--Miss Portman
will endorse it immediately.”--And she took Belinda into another room.

“Good Heavens! Has not this money been paid to Mr. Hervey?” exclaimed
Belinda.

“No, my dear; but I will take all the blame upon myself, or, which
will do just as well for you, throw it all upon my better half. My Lord
Delacour would not pay for my new carriage. The coachmaker, insolent
animal, would not let it out of his yard without two hundred guineas in
ready money. Now you know I had the horses, and what could I do with the
horses without the carriage? Clarence Hervey, I knew, could wait for
his money better than a poor devil of a coachmaker; so I paid the
coachmaker, and a few months sooner or later can make no difference to
Clarence, who rolls in gold, my dear--if that will be any comfort to
you, as I hope it will.”

“Oh, what will he think of me!” said Belinda.

“Nay, what will he think of _me_, child!”

“Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, in a firmer tone than she had ever before
spoken, “I must insist upon this draft being given to Mr. Hervey.”

“Absolutely impossible, my dear.--I cannot take it from the coachmaker;
he has sent home the carriage: the thing’s done, and cannot be undone.
But come, since I know nothing else will make you easy, I will take
this mighty favour from Mr. Hervey entirely upon my own conscience: you
cannot object to that, for you are not the keeper of my conscience. I
will tell Clarence the whole business, and do you honour due, my dear:
so endorse the check, whilst I go and sound both the praises of your
dignity of mind, and simplicity of character, &c. &c. &c. &c.”

Her ladyship broke away from Belinda, returned to Clarence Hervey, and
told the whole affair with that peculiar grace with which she knew how
to make a good story of a bad one. Clarence was as favourable an auditor
at this time as she could possibly have found; for no human being could
value money less than he did, and all sense of her ladyship’s meanness
was lost in his joy at discovering that Belinda was worthy of his
esteem. Now he felt in its fullest extent all the power she had over
his heart, and he was upon the point of declaring his attachment to her,
when _malheureusement_ Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort announced
themselves by the noise they made on the staircase. These were the young
men who had spoken in such a contemptuous manner at Lady Singleton’s of
the match-making Mrs. Stanhope and her nieces. Mr. Hervey was anxious
that they should not penetrate into the state of his heart, and he
concealed his emotion by instantly assuming that kind of rattling gaiety
which always delighted his companions, who were ever in want of some
one to set their stagnant ideas in motion. At last they insisted upon
carrying Clarence away with them to taste some wines for Sir Philip
Baddely.




CHAPTER VII.

THE SERPENTINE RIVER.


In his way to St. James’s street, where the wine-merchant lived, Sir
Philip Baddely picked up several young men of his acquaintance, who were
all eager to witness a trial of _taste_, of epicurean taste, between the
baronet and Clarence Hervey. Amongst his other accomplishments our hero
piqued himself upon the exquisite accuracy of his organs of taste. He
neither loved wine, nor was he fond of eating; but at fine dinners,
with young men who were real epicures, Hervey gave himself the airs of
a connoisseur, and asserted superiority even in judging of wine and
sauces. Having gained immortal honour at an entertainment by gravely
protesting that some turtle would have been excellent if it had not
been done _a bubble too much_, he presumed, elate as he was with the
applauses of the company, to assert, that no man in England had a more
correct taste than himself.--Sir Philip Baddely could not passively
submit to this arrogance; he loudly proclaimed, that though he would
not dispute Mr. Hervey’s judgment as far as eating was concerned, yet he
would defy him as a connoisseur in wines, and he offered to submit the
competition to any eminent wine-merchant in London, and to some common
friend of acknowledged taste and experience.--Mr. Rochfort was chosen
as the common friend of acknowledged taste and experience; and a
fashionable wine-merchant was pitched upon to decide with him the merits
of these candidates for bacchanalian fame. Sir Philip, who was just
going to furnish his cellars, was a person of importance to the
wine-merchant, who produced accordingly his choicest treasures. Sir
Philip and Clarence tasted of all in their turns; Sir Philip with real,
and Clarence with affected gravity; and they delivered their opinions
of the positive and comparative merits of each. The wine-merchant
evidently, as Mr. Hervey thought, leaned towards Sir Philip. “Upon
my word, Sir Philip, you are right--that wine is the best I have--you
certainly have a most discriminating taste,” said the complaisant
wine-merchant.

“I’ll tell you what,” cried Sir Philip, “the thing is this: by Jove!
now, there’s no possibility now--no possibility now, by Jove! of
imposing upon me.”

“Then,” said Clarence Hervey, “would you engage to tell the differences
between these two wines ten times running, blind-fold?”

“Ten times! that’s nothing,” replied Sir Philip: “yes, fifty times, I
would, by Jove!”

But when it came to the trial, Sir Philip had nothing left but oaths
in his own favour. Clarence Hervey was victorious; and his sense of the
importance of this victory was much increased by the fumes of the wine,
which began to operate upon his brain. His triumph was, as he said it
ought to be, bacchanalian: he laughed and sang with anacreontic
spirit, and finished by declaring that he deserved to be crowned with
vine-leaves.

“Dine with me, Clarence,” said Rochfort, “and we’ll crown you with three
times three; and,” whispered he to Sir Philip, “we’ll have another trial
after dinner.”

“But as it’s not near dinner-time yet--what shall we do with ourselves
till dinner-time?” said Sir Philip, yawning pathetically.

Clarence not being used to drink in a morning, though all his companions
were, was much affected by the wine, and Rochfort proposed that they
should take a turn in the park to cool Hervey’s head. To Hyde-park they
repaired; Sir Philip boasting, all the way they walked, of the superior
strength of his head.

Clarence protested that his own was stronger than any man’s in England,
and observed, that at this instant he walked better than any person in
company, Sir Philip Baddely not excepted. Now Sir Philip Baddely was a
noted pedestrian, and he immediately challenged our hero to walk
with him for any money he pleased. “Done,” said Clarence, “for ten
guineas--for any money you please:” and instantly they set out to
walk, as Rochfort cried “one, two, three, and away; keep the path, and
whichever reaches that elm tree first has it.”

They were exactly even for some yards, then Clarence got ahead of Sir
Philip, and he reached the elm tree first; but as he waved his hat,
exclaiming, “Clarence has won the day,” Sir Philip came up with his
companions, and coolly informed him that he had lost his wager--“Lost!
lost! lost! Clarence--fairly lost.”

“Didn’t I reach the tree first?” said Clarence.

“Yes,” answered his companions; “but you didn’t keep the path. You
turned out of the way when you met that crowd of children yonder.”

“Now _I_,” said Sir Philip, “dashed fairly through them--kept the path,
and won my bet.”

“But,” said Hervey, “would you have had me run over that little child,
who was stooping down just in my way?”

“_I_!’ not I,” said Sir Philip; “but I would have you go through with
your civility: if a man will be polite, he must pay for his politeness
sometimes.--You said you’d lay me _any money_ I pleased, recollect--now
I’m very moderate--and as you are a particular friend, Clarence, I’ll
only take your ten guineas.”

A loud laugh from his companions provoked Clarence; they were glad “to
have a laugh against him,” because he excited universal envy by the real
superiority of his talents, and by his perpetually taking the lead in
those trifles which were beneath his ambition, and exactly suited to
engage the attention of his associates.

“Be it so, and welcome; I’ll pay ten guineas for having better manners
than any of you,” cried Hervey, laughing; “but remember, though I’ve lost
this bet, I don’t give up my pedestrian fame.--Sir Philip, there are no
women to throw golden apples in my way now, and no children for me to
stumble over: I dare you to another trial--double or quit.”

“I’m off, by Jove!” said Sir Philip. “I’m too hot, damme, to walk with
you any more--but I’m your man if you’ve a mind for a swim--here’s the
Serpentine river, Clarence--hey? damn it!--hey?”

Sir Philip and all his companions knew that Clarence had never learned
to swim.

“You may wink at one another, as wisely as you please,” said Clarence,
“but come on, my boys--I am your man for a swim--hundred guineas upon
it!

    ----‘Darest thou, Rochfort, now
    Leap in with me into this weedy flood,
    And swim to yonder point?’”

and instantly Hervey, who had in his confused head some recollection of
an essay of Dr. Franklin on swimming, by which he fancied that he could
ensure at once his safety and his fame, threw off his coat and jumped
into the river--luckily he was not in boots. Rochfort, and all the other
young men stood laughing by the river side.

“Who the devil are these two that seem to be making up to us?” said
Sir Philip, looking at two gentlemen who were coming towards them; “St.
George, hey? you know every body.”

“The foremost is Percival, of Oakly-park, I think, ‘pon my honour,”
 replied Mr. St. George, and he then began to settle how many thousands
a year Mr. Percival was worth. This point was not decided when the
gentlemen came up to the spot where Sir Philip was standing.

The child for whose sake Clarence Hervey had lost his bet was Mr.
Percival’s, and he came to thank him for his civility.--The gentleman
who accompanied Mr. Percival was an old friend of Clarence Hervey’s; he
had met him abroad, but had not seen him for some years.

“Pray, gentlemen,” said he to Sir Philip and his party, “is Mr. Clarence
Hervey amongst you? I think I saw him pass by me just now.”

“Damn it, yes--where is Clary, though?” exclaimed Sir Philip, suddenly
recollecting himself.--Clarence Hervey at this instant was drowning: he
had got out of his depth, and had struggled in vain to recover himself.

“Curse me, if it’s not all over with Clary,” continued Sir Philip. “Do
any of you see his head any where? Damn you, Rochfort, yonder it is.”

“Damme, so it is,” said Rochfort; “but he’s so heavy in his clothes,
he’d pull me down along with him to Davy’s locker:--damme, if I’ll go
after him.”

“Damn it, though, can’t some of ye swim? Can’t some of ye jump in?”
 cried Sir Philip, turning to his companions: “damn it, Clarence will go
to the bottom.”

And so he inevitably would have done, had not Mr. Percival at this
instant leaped into the river, and seized hold of the drowning Clarence.
It was with great difficulty that he dragged him to the shore.--Sir
Philip’s party, as soon as the danger was over, officiously offered
their assistance. Clarence Hervey was absolutely senseless. “Damn it,
what shall we do with him now?” said Sir Philip: “Damn it, we must call
some of the people from the boat-house--he’s as heavy as lead: damn me,
if I know what to do with him.” [2]

Whilst Sir Philip was damning himself, Mr. Percival ran to the
boat-house for assistance, and they carried the body into the house.
The elderly gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Percival now made his way
through the midst of the noisy crowd, and directed what should be done
to restore Mr. Hervey’s suspended animation. Whilst he was employed in
this benevolent manner, Clarence’s worthy friends were sneering at him,
and whispering to one another; “Ecod, he talks as if he was a doctor,”
 said Rochfort.

“‘Pon honour, I do believe,” said St. George, “he is the famous Dr.
X----; I met him at a circulating library t’other day.”

“Dr. X---- the writer, do you mean?” said Sir Philip; “then, damn me,
we’d better get out of his way as fast as we can, or he’ll have some
of us down in black and white; and curse me, if I should choose to meet
with myself in a book.”

“No danger of that,” said Rochfort; “for how can one meet with oneself
in a book, Sir Philip, if one never opens one?--By Jove, that’s the true
way.”

“But, ‘pon my honour,” said St. George, “I should like of all things to
see myself in print; ‘twould make one famously famous.”

“Damn me, if I don’t flatter myself, though, one can make oneself famous
enough to all intents and purposes without having any thing to say to
these author geniuses. You’re a famous fellow, faith! to want to see
yourself in print--I’ll publish this in Bond-street: damn it, in point
of famousness, I’d sport my Random against all the books that ever were
read or written, damn me! But what are we doing here?”

“Hervey’s in good hands,” said Rochfort, “and this here’s a cursed
stupid lounge for us--besides, it’s getting towards dinner-time; so
my voice is, let’s be off, and we can leave St. George (who has such a
famous mind to be in the doctor’s book) to bring Clary after us, when
he’s ready for dinner and good company again, you know--ha! ha! ha!”

Away the faithful friends went to the important business of their day.

When Clarence Hervey came to his senses he started up, rubbed his eyes,
and looked about, exclaiming--“What’s all this?--Where am I?--Where’s
Baddely?--Where’s Rochfort?--Where are they all?”

“Gone home to dinner,” answered Mr. St. George, who was a hanger-on of
Sir Philip’s; “but they left me to bring you after them. Faith, Clary,
you’ve had a squeak for your life! ‘Pon my honour, we thought at one
time it was all over with you--but you’re a rough one: we shan’t have to
‘pour over your grave a full bottle of red’ as yet, my boy--you’ll do as
well as ever. So I’ll step and call a coach for you, Clary, and we shall
be at dinner as soon as the best of ‘em after all, by jingo! I leave you
in good hands with the doctor here, that brought you to life, and the
gentleman that dragged you out of the water. Here’s a note for you,”
 whispered Mr. St. George, as he leaned over Clarence Hervey--“here’s
a note for you from Sir Philip and Rochfort: read it, do you mind, to
_yourself_.”

“If I can,” said Clarence; “but Sir Philip writes a _bloody bad hand_.”
 [3]

“Oh, he’s a _baronet_,” said St. George, “ha! ha! ha!” and, charmed with
his own wit, he left the boat-house.

Clarence with some difficulty deciphered the note, which contained these
words:

“Quiz the doctor, Clary, as soon as you are up to it--he’s an author--so
fair game--quiz the doctor, and we’ll drink your health with three times
three in Rochfort’s burgundy.

“Yours, &c.

“PHIL. BADDELY.

“P.S. Burn this when read.”

With the request contained in the postscript Clarence immediately
complied; he threw the note into the fire with indignation the moment
that he had read it, and turning towards the gentleman to whom it
alluded, he began to express, in the strongest terms, his gratitude
for their benevolence. But he stopped short in the midst of his
acknowledgments, when he discovered to whom he was speaking.

“Dr. X----!” cried he. “Is it possible? How rejoiced I am to see you,
and how rejoiced I am to be obliged to you! There is not a man in
England to whom I would rather be obliged.”

“You are not acquainted with Mr. Percival, I believe,” said Dr. X----:
“give me leave, Mr. Percival, to introduce to you the young gentleman
whose life you have saved, and whose life--though, by the company in
which you found him, you might not think so--is worth saving. This, sir,
is no less a man than Mr. Clarence Hervey, of whose universal genius you
have just had a specimen; for which he was crowned with sedges, as he
well deserved, by the god of the Serpentine river. Do not be so unjust
as to imagine that he has any of the presumption which is sometimes the
chief characteristic of a man of universal genius. Mr. Clarence Hervey
is, without exception, the most humble man of my acquaintance; for
whilst all good judges would think him fit company for Mr. Percival, he
has the humility to think himself upon a level with Mr. Rochfort and Sir
Philip Baddely.”

“You have lost as little of your satirical wit, Dr. X----, as of your
active benevolence, I perceive,” said Clarence Hervey, “since I met you
abroad. But as I cannot submit to your unjust charge of humility, will
you tell me where you are to be found in town, and to-morrow------”

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” said Dr. X----: “why not
to-day?”

“I am engaged,” said Clarence, hesitating and laughing---“I am
unfortunately engaged to-day to dine with Mr. Rochfort and Sir Philip
Baddely, and in the evening I am to be at Lady Delacour’s.”

“Lady Delacour! Not the same Lady Delacour whom four years ago, when we
met at Florence, you compared to the Venus de Medici--no, no, it cannot
be the same--a goddess of four years’ standing!--Incredible!”

“Incredible as it seems,” said Clarence, “it is true: I admire her
ladyship more than ever I did.”

“Like a true connoisseur,” said Dr. X----, “you admire a fine picture
the older it grows: I hear that her ladyship’s face is really one of the
finest pieces of painting extant, with the advantage of

    ‘Ev’ry grace which time alone can grant.’”

“Come, come, Dr. X----,” cried Mr. Percival, “no more wit at Lady
Delacour’s expense: I have a fellow-feeling for Mr. Hervey.”

“Why, you are not in love with her ladyship, are you?” said Dr. X----.
“I am not in love with Lady Delacour’s picture of herself,” replied Mr.
Percival, “but I was once in love with the original.”

“How?--When?--Where?” cried Clarence Hervey, in a tone totally different
from that in which he had first addressed Mr. Percival.

“To-morrow you shall know the how, the when, and the where,” said Mr.
Percival: “here’s your friend, Mr. St. George, and his coach.”

“The deuce take him!” said Clarence: “but tell me, is it possible that
you are not in love with her still?--and why?”

“Why?” said Mr. Percival--“why? Come to-morrow, as you have promised, to
Upper Grosvenor-street, and let me introduce you to Lady Anne Percival;
she can answer your question better than I can--if not entirely to your
satisfaction, at least entirely to mine, which is more surprising, as
the lady is my wife.”

By this time Clarence Hervey was equipped in a dry suit of clothes;
and by the strength of an excellent constitution, which he had never
injured, even amongst his dissipated associates, he had recovered from
the effects of his late imprudence.--“Clary, let’s away, here’s the
coach,” said Mr. St. George. “Why, my boy--that’s a famous fellow,
faith!--why, you look the better for being drowned. ‘Pon honour, if I
were you, I would jump into the Serpentine river once a day.”

“If I could always be sure of such good friends to pull me out,” said
Hervey.--“Pray, St. George, by-the-bye, what were you, and Rochfort,
and Sir Philip, and all the rest of my friends doing, whilst I was
drowning?”

“I can’t say particularly, upon my soul,” replied Mr. St. George; “for
my own part, I was in boots, so you know I was out of the question. But
what signifies all that now? Come, come, we had best think of looking
after our dinners.”

Clarence Hervey, who had very quick feelings, was extremely hurt by
the indifference which his dear friends had shown when his life was in
danger: he was apt to believe that he was really an object of affection
and admiration amongst his companions; and that though they were neither
very wise, nor very witty, they were certainly very good-natured. When
they had forfeited, by their late conduct, these claims to his regard,
his partiality for them was changed into contempt.

“You had better come home and dine with me, Mr. Hervey,” said Mr.
Percival, “if you be not absolutely engaged; for here is your physician,
who tells me that temperance is necessary for a man just recovered from
drowning, and Mr. Rochfort keeps too good a table, I am told, for one in
your condition.”

Clarence accepted of this invitation with a degree of pleasure which
perfectly astonished Mr. St. George.

“Every man knows his own affairs best,” said he to Clarence, as he
stepped into his hackney coach; “but for my share, I will do my friend
Rochfort the justice to say that no one lives as well as he does.”

“If to live well mean nothing but to eat,” said Clarence.

“Now,” said Dr. X----, looking at his watch, “it will be eight o’clock
by the time we get to Upper Grosvenor-street, and Lady Anne will
probably have waited dinner for us about two hours, which I apprehend
is sufficient to try the

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