CONTENTS

BELINDA

CHAPTER I. — CHARACTERS.

CHAPTER II. — MASKS

CHAPTER III. — LADY DELACOUR’S HISTORY.

CHAPTER IV. — LADY DELACOUR’S HISTORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER V. — BIRTHDAY DRESSES.

CHAPTER VI. — WAYS AND MEANS.

CHAPTER VII. — THE SERPENTINE RIVER.

CHAPTER VIII. — A FAMILY PARTY.

CHAPTER IX. — ADVICE.

CHAPTER X. — THE MYSTERIOUS BOUDOIR.

CHAPTER XI. — DIFFICULTIES.

CHAPTER XII. — THE MACAW.

CHAPTER XIII. — SORTES VIRGILIANAE.

CHAPTER XIV. — THE EXHIBITION.

CHAPTER XV. — JEALOUSY.

CHAPTER XVI. — DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

CHAPTER XVII. — RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

CHAPTER XVIII. — A DECLARATION.

CHAPTER XIX. — A WEDDING.

CHAPTER XX. — RECONCILIATION.

CHAPTER XXI. — HELENA

CHAPTER XXII. — A SPECTRE.

CHAPTER XXIII. — THE CHAPLAIN.

CHAPTER XXIV. — PEU À PEU.

CHAPTER XXV. — LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.

CHAPTER XXVI. — VIRGINIA

CHAPTER XXVII. — A DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER XXVIII. — E O.

CHAPTER XXIX. — A JEW.

CHAPTER XXX. — NEWS.

CHAPTER XXXI. — THE DENOUEMENT.

FOOTNOTES:

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.

“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.

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?”

“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.”

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 unasy,
    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.

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.

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 patience of any woman but Griselda. Do not,” continued he, turning to Clarence Hervey, “expect to see an old-fashioned, spiritless, patient Griselda, in Lady Anne Percival: I can assure you that she is—but I will neither tell you what she is, nor what she is not. Every man who has any abilities, likes to have the pleasure and honour of finding out a character by his own penetration, instead of having it forced upon him at full length in capital letters of gold, finely emblazoned and illuminated by the hand of some injudicious friend: every child thinks the violet of his own finding the sweetest. I spare you any farther allusion and illustrations,” concluded Dr. X——, “for here we are, thank God, in Upper Grosvenor-street.”

They found Lady Anne Percival in the midst of her children, who all turned their healthy, rosy, intelligent faces towards the door, the moment that they heard their father’s voice. Clarence Hervey was so much struck with the expression of happiness in Lady Anne’s countenance, that he absolutely forgot to compare her beauty with Lady Delacour’s. Whether her eyes were large or small, blue or hazel, he could not tell; nay, he might have been puzzled if he had been asked the colour of her hair. Whether she were handsome by the rules of art, he knew not; but he felt that she had the essential charm of beauty, the power of prepossessing the heart immediately in her favour. The effect of her manners, like that of her beauty, was rather to be felt than described. Every body was at ease in her company, and none thought themselves called upon to admire her. To Clarence Hervey, who had been used to the brilliant and exigeante Lady Delacour, this respite from the fatigue of admiration was peculiarly agreeable. The unconstrained cheerfulness of Lady Anne Percival spoke a mind at ease, and immediately imparted happiness by exacting sympathy; but in Lady Delacour’s wit and gaiety there was an appearance of art and effort, which often destroyed the pleasure that she wished to communicate. Mr. Hervey was, perhaps unusually, disposed to reflection, by having just escaped from drowning; for he had made all these comparisons, and came to this conclusion, with the accuracy of a metaphysician, who has been accustomed to study cause and effect—indeed there was no species of knowledge for which he had not taste and talents, though, to please fools, he too often affected “the bliss of ignorance.”

The children at Lady Anne Percival’s happened to be looking at some gold fish, which were in a glass globe, and Dr. X——, who was a general favourite with the younger as well as with the elder part of the family, was seized upon the moment he entered the room: a pretty little girl of five years old took him prisoner by the flap of the coat, whilst two of her brothers assailed him with questions about the ears, eyes, and fins of fishes. One of the little boys filliped the glass globe, and observed, that the fish immediately came to the surface of the water, and seemed to hear the noise very quickly; but his brother doubted whether the fish heard the noise, and remarked, that they might be disturbed by seeing or feeling the motion of the water, when the glass was struck.

Dr. X—— observed, that this was a very learned dispute, and that the question had been discussed by no less a person than the Abbé Nollet; and he related some of the ingenious experiments tried by that gentleman, to decide whether fishes can or cannot hear. Whilst the doctor was speaking, Clarence Hervey was struck with the intelligent countenance of one of the little auditors, a girl of about ten or twelve years old; he was surprised to discover in her features, though not in their expression, a singular resemblance to Lady Delacour. He remarked this to Mr. Percival, and the child, who overheard him, blushed as red as scarlet. Dinner was announced at this instant, and Clarence Hervey thought no more of the circumstance, attributing the girl’s blush to confusion at being looked at so earnestly. One of the little boys whispered as they were going down to dinner, “Helena, I do believe that this is the good-natured gentleman who went out of the path to make room for us, instead of running over us as the other man did.” The children agreed that Clarence Hervey certainly was the good-natured gentleman, and upon the strength of this observation, one of the boys posted himself next to Clarence at dinner, and by all the little playful manoeuvres in his power endeavoured to show his gratitude, and to cultivate a friendship which had been thus auspiciously commenced. Mr. Hervey, who piqued himself upon being able always to suit his conversation to his companions, distinguished himself at dinner by an account of the Chinese fishing-bird, from which he passed to the various ingenious methods of fishing practised by the Russian Cossacks. From modern he went to ancient fish, and he talked of that which was so much admired by the Roman epicures for exhibiting a succession of beautiful colours whilst it is dying; and which was, upon that account, always suffered to die in the presence of the guests, as part of the entertainment.—Clarence was led on by the questions of the children from fishes to birds; he spoke of the Roman aviaries, which were so constructed as to keep from the sight of the prisoners that they contained, “the fields, woods, and every object which might remind them of their former liberty.”—From birds he was going on to beasts, when he was nearly struck dumb by the forbidding severity with which an elderly lady, who sat opposite to him, fixed her eyes upon him. He had not, till this instant, paid the smallest attention to her; but her stern countenance was now so strongly contrasted with the approving looks of the children who sat next to her, that he could not help remarking it. He asked her to do him the honour to drink a glass of wine with him. She declined doing him that honour; observing that she never drank more than one glass of wine at dinner, and that she had just taken one with Mr. Percival. Her manner was well-bred, but haughty in the extreme; and she was so passionate, that her anger sometimes conquered even her politeness. Her dislike to Clarence Hervey was apparent, even in her silence. “If the old gentlewoman has taken an antipathy to me at first sight, I cannot help it,” thought he, and he went on to the beasts. The boy, who sat next him, had asked some questions about the proboscis of the elephant, and Mr. Hervey mentioned Ives’s account of the elephants in India, who have been set to watch young children, and who draw them back gently with their trunks, when they go out of bounds. He talked next of the unicorn; and addressing himself to Dr. X—— and Mr. Percival, he declared that in his opinion Herodotus did not deserve to be called the father of lies; he cited the mammoth to prove that the apocryphal chapter in the history of beasts should not be contemned—that it would in all probability be soon established as true history. The dessert was on the table before Clarence had done with the mammoth.

As the butler put a fine dish of cherries upon the table, he said,

“My lady, these cherries are a present from the old gardener to Miss Delacour.”

“Set them before Miss Delacour then,” said Lady Anne. “Helena, my dear, distribute your own cherries.”

At the name of Delacour, Clarence Hervey, though his head was still half full of the mammoth, looked round in astonishment; and when he saw the cherries placed before the young lady, whose resemblance to Lady Delacour he had before observed, he could not help exclaiming,

“That young lady then is not a daughter of your ladyship’s?”

“No; but I love her as well as if she were,” replied Lady Anne.—“What were you saying about the mammoth?”

“That the mammoth is supposed to be——————” but interrupting himself, Clarence said in an inquiring tone—“A niece of Lady Delacour’s?”

“Her ladyship’s daughter, sir,” said the severe old lady, in a voice more terrific than her looks.

“Shall I give you some strawberries, Mr. Hervey,” said lady Anne, “or will you let Helena help you to some cherries?”

“Her ladyship’s daughter!” exclaimed Clarence Hervey in a tone of surprise.

“Some cherries, sir?” said Helena; but her voice faltered so much, that she could hardly utter the words.

Clarence perceived that he had been the cause of her agitation, though he knew not precisely by what means; and he now applied himself in silence to the picking of his strawberries with great diligence.

The ladies soon afterwards withdrew, and as Mr. Percival did not touch upon the subject again, Clarence forbore to ask any further questions, though he was considerably surprised by this sudden discovery. When he went into the drawing-room to tea, he found his friend, the stern old lady, speaking in a high declamatory tone. The words which he heard as he came into the room were—

“If there were no Clarence Herveys, there would be no Lady Delacours.”—Clarence bowed as if he had received a high compliment—the old lady walked away to an antechamber, fanning herself with great energy.

“Mrs. Margaret Delacour,” said Lady Anne, in a low voice to Hervey, “is an aunt of Lord Delacour’s. A woman whose heart is warmer than her temper.”

“And that is never cool,” said a young lady, who sat next to Lady Anne. “I call Mrs. Margaret Delacour the volcano; I’m sure I am never in her company without dreading an eruption. Every now and then out comes with a tremendous noise, fire, smoke, and rubbish.”

“And precious minerals,” said Lady Anne, “amongst the rubbish.”

“But the best of it is,” continued the young lady, “that she is seldom in a passion without making a hundred mistakes, for which she is usually obliged afterwards to ask a thousand pardons.”

“By that account,” said Lady Anne, “which I believe to be just, her contrition is always ten times as great as her offence.”

“Now you talk of contrition, Lady Anne,” said Mr. Hervey, “I should think of my own offences: I am very sorry that my indiscreet questions gave Miss Delacour any pain—my head was so full of the mammoth, that I blundered on without seeing what I was about till it was too late.”

“Pray, sir,” said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who now returned, and took her seat upon a sofa, with the solemnity of a person who was going to sit in judgment upon a criminal, “pray, sir, may I ask how long you have been acquainted with my Lady Delacour?”

Clarence Hervey took up a book, and with great gravity kissed it, as if he had been upon his oath in a court of justice, and answered,

“To the best of my recollection, madam, it is now four years since I had first the pleasure and honour of seeing Lady Delacour.”

“And in that time, intimately as you have had the pleasure of being acquainted with her ladyship, you have never discovered that she had a daughter?”

“Never,” said Mr. Hervey.

“There, Lady Anne!—There!” cried Mrs. Delacour, “will you tell me after this, that Lady Delacour is not a monster?”

“Every body says that she’s a prodigy,” said Lady Anne; “and prodigies and monsters are sometimes thought synonymous terms.”

“Such a mother was never heard of,” continued Mrs. Delacour, “since the days of Savage and Lady Macclesfield. I am convinced that she hates her daughter. Why she never speaks of her—she never sees her—she never thinks of her!”

“Some mothers speak more than they think of their children, and others think more than they speak of them,” said Lady Anne.

“I always thought,” said Mr. Hervey, “that Lady Delacour was a woman of great sensibility.”

“Sensibility!” exclaimed the indignant old lady, “she has no sensibility, sir—none—none. She who lives in a constant round of dissipation, who performs no one duty, who exists only for herself; how does she show her sensibility?—Has she sensibility for her husband—for her daughter—for any one useful purpose upon earth?—Oh, how I hate the cambric handkerchief sensibility that is brought out only to weep at a tragedy!—Yes; Lady Delacour has sensibility enough, I grant ye, when sensibility is the fashion. I remember well her performing the part of a nurse with vast applause; and I remember, too, the sensibility she showed, when the child that she nursed fell a sacrifice to her dissipation. The second of her children, that she killed—”

“Killed!—Oh! surely, my dear Mrs. Delacour, that is too strong a word,” said Lady Anne: “you would not make a Medea of Lady Delacour!”

“It would have been better if I had,” cried Mrs. Delacour, “I can understand that there may be such a thing in nature as a jealous wife, but an unfeeling mother I cannot comprehend—that passes my powers of imagination.”

“And mine, so much,” said Lady Anne, “that I cannot believe such a being to exist in the world—notwithstanding all the descriptions I have heard of it: as you say, my dear Mrs. Delacour, it passes my powers of imagination. Let us leave it in Mr. Hervey’s apocryphal chapter of animals, and he will excuse us if I never admit it into true history, at least without some better evidence than I have yet heard.”

“Why, my dear, dear Lady Anne,” cried Mrs. Delacour—“I’ve made this coffee so sweet, there’s no drinking it—what evidence would you have?”

“None,” said Lady Anne, smiling, “I would have none.” “That is to say, you will take none,” said Mrs. Delacour: “but can any thing be stronger evidence than her ladyship’s conduct to my poor Helen—to your Helen, I should say—for you have educated, you have protected her, you have been a mother to her. I am an infirm, weak, ignorant, passionate old woman—I could not have been what you have been to that child—God bless you!—God will bless you!”

She rose as she spoke, to set down her coffee-cup on the table. Clarence Hervey took it from her with a look which said much, and which she was perfectly capable of understanding.

“Young man,” said she, “it is very unfashionable to treat age and infirmity with politeness. I wish that your friend, Lady Delacour, may at my time of life meet with as much respect, as she has met with admiration and gallantry in her youth. Poor woman, her head has absolutely been turned with admiration—and if fame say true, Mr. Hervey has had his share in turning that head by his flattery.”

“I am sure her ladyship has turned mine by her charms,” said Clarence; “and I certainly am not to be blamed for admiring what all the world admires.”

“I wish,” said the old lady, “for her own sake, for the sake of her family, and for the sake of her reputation, that my Lady Delacour had fewer admirers, and more friends.”

“Women who have met with so many admirers, seldom meet with many friends,” said Lady Anne.

“No,” said Mrs. Delacour, “for they seldom are wise enough to know their value.”

“We learn the value of all things, but especially of friends, by experience,” said Lady Anne; “and it is no wonder, therefore, that those who have little experience of the pleasures of friendship should not be wise enough to know their value.”

“This is very good-natured sophistry; but Lady Delacour is too vain ever to have a friend,” said Mrs. Delacour. “My dear Lady Anne, you don’t know her as well as I do—she has more vanity than ever woman had.”

“That is certainly saying a great deal,” said Lady Anne; “but then we must consider, that Lady Delacour, as an heiress, a beauty, and a wit, has a right to a triple share at least.”

“Both her fortune and her beauty are gone; and if she had any wit left, it is time it should teach her how to conduct herself, I think,” said Mrs. Delacour: “but I give her up—I give her up.”

“Oh, no,” said Lady Anne, “you must not give her up yet, I have been informed, and upon the best authority, that Lady Delacour was not always the unfeeling, dissipated fine lady that she now appears to be. This is only one of the transformations of fashion—the period of her enchantment will soon be at an end, and she will return to her natural character. I should not be at all surprised, if Lady Delacour were to appear at once la femme comme il y en a pen.”

“Or la bonne mère?” said Mrs. Delacour, sarcastically, “after thus leaving her daughter——”

“Pour bonne bouche,” interrupted Lady Anne, “when she is tired of the insipid taste of other pleasures, she will have a higher relish for those of domestic life, which will be new and fresh to her.”

“And so you really think, my dear Lady Anne, that my Lady Delacour will end by being a domestic woman. Well,” said Mrs. Margaret, after taking two pinches of snuff, “some people believe in the millennium; but I confess I am not one of them—are you, Mr. Hervey?”

“If it were foretold to me by a good angel,” said Clarence, smiling, as his eye glanced at Lady Anne; “if it were foretold to me by a good angel, how could I doubt it?”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of one of Lady Anne’s little boys, who came running eagerly up to his mother, to ask whether he might have “the sulphurs to show to Helena Delacour. I want to show her Vertumnus and Pomona, mamma,” said he. “Were not the cherries that the old gardener sent very good?”

“What is this about the cherries and the old gardener, Charles?” said the young lady who sat beside Lady Anne: “come here and tell me the whole story.”

“I will, but I should tell it you a great deal better another time,” said the boy, “because now Helena’s waiting for Vertumnus and Pomona.”

“Go then to Helena,” said Lady Anne, “and I will tell the story for you.”

Then turning to the young lady she began—“Once upon a time there lived an old gardener at Kensington; and this old gardener had an aloe, which was older than himself; for it was very near a hundred years of age, and it was just going to blossom, and the old gardener calculated how much he might make by showing his aloe, when it should be in full blow, to the generous public—and he calculated that he might make a 100l.; and with this 100l. he determined to do more than was ever done with a 100l. before: but, unluckily, as he was thus reckoning his blossoms before they were blown, he chanced to meet with a fair damsel, who ruined all his calculations.”

“Ay, Mrs. Stanhope’s maid, was not it?” interrupted Mrs. Margaret Delacour. “A pretty damsel she was, and almost as good a politician as her mistress. Think of that jilt’s tricking this poor old fellow out of his aloe, and—oh, the meanness of Lady Delacour, to accept of that aloe for one of her extravagant entertainments!”

“But I always understood that she paid fifty guineas for it,” said Lady Anne.

“Whether she did or not,” said Mrs. Delacour, “her ladyship and Mrs. Stanhope between them were the ruin of this poor old man. He was taken in to marry that jade of a waiting-maid; she turned out just as you might expect from a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope’s—the match-making Mrs. Stanhope—you know, sir.” (Clarence Hervey changed colour.) “She turned out,” continued Mrs. Delacour, “every thing that was bad—ruined her husband—ran away from him—and left him a beggar.”

“Poor man!” said Clarence Hervey.

“But now,” said Lady Anne, “let’s come to the best part of the story—mark how good comes out of evil. If this poor man had not lost his aloe and his wife, I probably should never have been acquainted with Mrs. Delacour, or with my little Helena. About the time that the old gardener was left a beggar, as I happened to be walking one fine evening in Sloane-street, I met a procession of school-girls—an old man begged from them in a most moving voice; and as they passed, several of the young ladies threw halfpence to him. One little girl, who observed that the old man could not stoop without great difficulty, stayed behind the rest of her companions, and collected the halfpence which they had thrown to him, and put them into his hat. He began to tell his story over again to her, and she stayed so long listening to it, that her companions had turned the corner of the street, and were out of sight. She looked about in great distress; and I never shall forget the pathetic voice with which she said, ‘Oh! what will become of me? every body will be angry with me.’ I assured her that nobody should be angry with her, and she gave me her little hand with the utmost innocent confidence. I took her home to her schoolmistress, and I was so pleased with the beginning of this acquaintance, that I was determined to cultivate it. One good acquaintance I have heard always leads to another. Helena introduced me to her aunt Delacour as her best friend. Mrs. Margaret Delacour has had the goodness to let her little niece spend the holidays and all her leisure time with me, so that our acquaintance has grown into friendship. Helena has become quite one of my family.”

“And I am sure she has become quite a different creature since she has been so much with you,” cried Mrs. Delacour; “her spirits were quite broken by her mother’s neglect of her: young as she is, she has a great deal of real sensibility; but as to her mother’s sensibility—”

At the recollection of Lady Delacour’s neglect of her child, Mrs. Delacour was going again to launch forth into indignant invective, but Lady Anne stopped her, by whispering—

“Take care what you say of the mother, for here is the daughter coming, and she has, indeed, a great deal of real sensibility.”

Helena and her young companions now came into the room, bringing with them the sulphurs at which they had been looking.

“Mamma,” said little Charles Percival, “we have brought the sulphurs to you, because there are some of them that I don’t know.”

“Wonderful!” said Lady Anne; “and what is not quite so wonderful, there are some of them that I don’t know.”

The children spread the sulphurs upon a little table, and all the company gathered round it.

“Here are all the nine muses for you,” said the least of the boys, who had taken his seat by Clarence Hervey at dinner; “here are all the muses for you, Mr. Hervey: which do you like best?—Oh, that’s the tragic muse that you have chosen!—You don’t like the tragic better than the comic muse, do you?”

Clarence Hervey made no answer, for he was at that instant recollecting how Belinda looked in the character of the tragic muse.

“Has your ladyship ever happened to meet with the young lady who has spent this winter with Lady Delacour?” said Clarence to Lady Anne.

“I sat near her one night at the opera,” said Lady Anne: “she has a charming countenance.”

“Who?—Belinda Portman, do you mean?” said Mrs. Delacour. “I am sure if I were a young man, I would not trust to the charming countenance of a young lady who is a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope’s, and a friend of—Helena, my dear, shut the door—the most dissipated woman in London.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Anne, “Miss Portman is in a dangerous situation; but some young people learn prudence by being placed in dangerous situations, as some young horses, I have heard Mr. Percival say, learn to be sure-footed, by being left to pick their own way on bad roads.”

Here Mr. Percival, Dr. X——, and some other gentlemen, came up stairs to tea, and the conversation took another turn. Clarence Hervey endeavoured to take his share in it with his usual vivacity, but he was thinking of Belinda Portman, dangerous situations, stumbling horses, &c; and he made several blunders, which showed his absence of mind.

“What have you there, Mr. Hervey?” said Dr. X——, looking over his shoulder—“the tragic muse? This tragic muse seems to rival Lady Delacour in your admiration.”

“Oh,” said Clarence, smiling, “you know I was always a votary of the muses.”

“And a favoured votary,” said Dr. X——. “I wish for the interests of literature, that poets may always be lovers, though I cannot say that I desire lovers should always be poets. But, Mr. Hervey, you must never marry, remember,” continued Dr. X——, “never—for your true poet must always be miserable. You know Petrarch tells us, he would not have been happy if he could; he would not have married his mistress if it had been in his power; because then there would have been an end of his beautiful sonnets.”

“Every one to his taste,” said Clarence; “for my part I have even less ambition to imitate the heroism than hope of being inspired with the poetic genius of Petrarch. I have no wish to pass whole nights composing sonnets. I would (am I not right, Mr. Percival?) infinitely rather be a slave of the ring than a slave of the lamp.”

Here the conversation ended; Clarence took his leave, and Mrs. Margaret Delacour said, the moment he had left the room, “Quite a different sort of young man from what I had expected to see!”

The next morning Mr. Hervey called on Dr. X——, and begged that he would accompany him to Lady Delacour’s.

“To be introduced to your tragic muse?” said the doctor.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hervey: “I must have your opinion of her before I devote myself.”

“My opinion! but of whom?—Of Lady Delacour?”

“No; but of a young lady whom you will see with her.”

“Is she handsome?”

“Beautiful!”

“And young?”

“And young.”

“And graceful?”

“The most graceful person you ever beheld.”

“Young, beautiful, graceful; then the deuce take me,” said Dr. X——, “if I give you my opinion of her: for the odds are, that she has a thousand faults, at least, to balance these perfections.”

“A thousand faults! a charitable allowance,” said Clarence, smiling.

“There now,” said Dr. X——

    ‘Touch him, and no minister’s so sore.’ 

To punish you for wincing at my first setting out, I promise you, that if the lady have a million of faults, each of them high as huge Olympus, I will see them as with the eye of a flatterer—not of a friend.”

“I defy you to be so good or so bad as your word, doctor,” said Hervey. “You have too much wit to make a good flatterer.”

“And perhaps you think too much to make a good friend,” said Dr. X——.

“Not so,” said Clarence: “I would at any time rather be cut by a sharp knife than by a blunt one. But, my dear doctor, I hope you will not be prejudiced against Belinda, merely because she is with Lady Delacour; for to my certain knowledge, she in not under her ladyship’s influence. She judges and acts for herself, of which I have had an instance.”

“Very possibly!” interrupted Dr. X——. “But before we go any farther, will you please to tell me of what Belinda you are talking?”

“Belinda Portman. I forgot that I had not told you.”

“Miss Portman, a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s?”

“Yes, but do not be prejudiced against her on that account,” said Clarence, eagerly, “though I was at first myself.”

“Then you will excuse my following your example instead of your precepts.”

“No,” said Clarence, “for my precepts are far better than my example.”

Lady Delacour received Dr. X—— most courteously, and thanked Mr. Hervey for introducing to her a gentleman with whom she had long desired to converse. Dr. X—— had a great literary reputation, and she saw that he was a perfectly well-bred man; consequently she was ambitious of winning his admiration. She perceived also that he had considerable influence with Clarence Hervey, and this was a sufficient reason to make her wish for his good opinion. Belinda was particularly pleased with his manners and conversation; she saw that he paid her much attention, and she was desirous that he should think favourably of her; but she had the good sense and good taste to avoid a display of her abilities and accomplishments. A sensible man, who has any knowledge of the world and talents for conversation, can easily draw out the knowledge of those with whom he converses. Dr. X—— possessed this power in a superior degree.

“Well,” cried Clarence, when their visit was over, “what is your opinion of Lady Delacour?”

“I am ‘blasted with excess of light,’” said the doctor.

“Her ladyship is certainly very brilliant,” said Clarence, “but I hope that Miss Portman did not overpower you.”

“No—I turned my eyes from Lady Delacour upon Miss Portman, as a painter turns his eyes upon mild green, to rest them, when they have been dazzled by glaring colours.

   ‘She yields her charms of mind with sweet delay.’”
 

“I was afraid,” said Hervey, “that you might think her manners too reserved and cold: they are certainly become more so than they used to be. But so much the better; by and by we shall find beautiful flowers spring up from beneath the snow.’”

“A very poetical hope,” said Dr. X——; “but in judging of the human character, we must not entirely trust to analogies and allusions taken from the vegetable creation.”

“What!” cried Clarence Hervey, looking eagerly in the doctor’s eyes, “what do you mean? I am afraid you do not approve of Belinda.”

“Your fears are almost as precipitate as your hopes, my good sir: but to put you out of pain, I will tell you, that I approve of all I have seen of this young lady, but that it is absolutely out of my power to form a decisive judgment of a woman’s temper and character in the course of a single morning visit. Women, you know, as well as men, often speak with one species of enthusiasm, and act with another. I must see your Belinda act, I must study her, before I can give you my final judgment. Lady Delacour has honoured me with her commands to go to her as often as possible. For your sake, my dear Hervey, I shall obey her ladyship most punctually, that I may have frequent opportunities of seeing your Miss Portman.”

Clarence expressed his gratitude with much energy, for this instance of the doctor’s friendship. Belinda, who had been entertained by Dr. X——‘s conversation during this first visit, was more and more delighted with his company as she became more acquainted with his understanding and character. She felt that he unfolded her powers, and that with the greatest politeness and address he raised her confidence in herself, without ever descending to flattery. By degrees she learned to look upon him as a friend; she imparted to him with great ingenuousness her opinions on various subjects, and she was both amused and instructed by his observations on the characters and manners of the company who frequented Lady Delacour’s assemblies. She did not judge of the doctor’s sincerity merely by the kindness he showed her, but by his conduct towards others.

One night, at a select party at Lady Delacour’s, a Spanish gentleman was amusing the company with some anecdotes, to prove the extraordinary passion which some of his countrymen formerly showed for the game of chess. He mentioned families, in which unfinished games, bequeathed by will, had descended from father to son, and where victory was doubtful for upwards of a century.

Mr. Hervey observed, that gaining a battle was, at that time, so common to the court of Spain, that a victory at chess seemed to confer more éclat; for that an abbé, by losing adroitly a game at chess to the Spanish minister, obtained a cardinal’s hat.

The foreigner was flattered by the manner in which Hervey introduced this slight circumstance, and he directed to him his conversation, speaking in French and Italian successively; he was sufficiently skilled in both languages, but Clarence spoke them better. Till he appeared, the foreigner was the principal object of attention, but he was soon eclipsed by Mr. Hervey. Nothing amusing or instructive that could be said upon the game of chess escaped him, and the literary ground, which the slow Don would have taken some hours to go regularly over, our hero traversed in a few minutes. From Twiss to Vida, from Irwin to Sir William Jones, from Spain to India, he passed with admirable celerity, and seized all that could adorn his course from Indian Antiquities or Asiatic Researches.

By this display of knowledge he surprised even his friend Dr. X——. The ladies admired his taste as a poet, the gentlemen his accuracy as a critic; Lady Delacour loudly applauded, and Belinda silently approved. Clarence was elated. The Spanish gentleman, to whom he had just quoted a case in point from Vida’s Scacchia, asked him if he were as perfect in the practice as in the theory of the game. Clarence was too proud of excelling in every thing to decline the Spaniard’s challenge. They sat down to chess. Lady Delacour, as they ranged the pieces on the board, cried, “Whoever wins shall be my knight; and a silver chess-man shall be his prize. Was it not Queen Elizabeth who gave a silver chess-man to one of her courtiers as a mark of her royal favour? I am ashamed to imitate such a pedantic coquet—but since I have said it, how can I retract?”

“Impossible! impossible!” cried Clarence Hervey: “a silver chess-man be our prize; and if I win it, like the gallant Raleigh, I will wear it in my cap; and what proud Essex shall dare to challenge it?”

The combat now began—the spectators were silent. Clarence made an error in his first move, for his attention was distracted by seeing Belinda behind his adversary’s chair. The Spaniard was deceived by this mistake into a contemptuous opinion of his opponent—Belinda changed her place—Clarence recovered his presence of mind, and convinced him that he was not a man to be despised. The combat was long doubtful, but at length to the surprise of all present, Clarence Hervey was victorious.

Exulting in his success, he looked round for Lady Delacour, from whom he expected the honours of his triumph. She had left the room, but soon she returned, dressed in the character of Queen Elizabeth, in which she had once appeared at a masquerade, with a large ruff, and all the costume of the times.

Clarence Hervey, throwing himself at her feet, addressed her in that high-flown style which her majesty was wont to hear from the gallant Raleigh, or the accomplished Essex.

Soon the coquetry of the queen entirely conquered her prudery; and the favoured courtier, evidently elated by his situation, was as enthusiastic as her majesty’s most insatiable vanity could desire. The characters were well supported; both the actor and actress were highly animated, and seemed so fully possessed by their parts as to be insensible to the comments that were made upon the scene. Clarence Hervey was first recalled to himself by the deep blush which he saw on Belinda’s cheek, when Queen Elizabeth addressed her as one of her maids of honour, of whom she affected to be jealous. He was conscious that he had been hurried by the enthusiasm of the moment farther than he either wished or intended. It was difficult to recede, when her majesty seemed disposed to advance; but Sir Walter Raleigh, with much presence of mind, turned to the foreigner, whom he accosted as the Spanish ambassador.

“Your excellency sees,” said he, “how this great queen turns the heads of her faithful subjects, and afterwards has the art of paying them with nothing but words. Has the new world afforded you any coin half so valuable?”

The Spanish gentleman’s grave replies to this playful question gave a new turn to the conversation, and relieved Clarence Hervey from his embarrassment. Lady Delacour, though still in high spirits, was easily diverted to other objects. She took the Spaniard with her to the next room, to show him a picture of Mary, Queen of Scots. The company followed her—Clarence Hervey remained with Dr. X—— and Belinda, who had just asked the doctor, to teach her the moves at chess.

“Lady Delacour has charming spirits,” said Clarence Hervey; “they inspire every body with gaiety.”

“Every body! they incline me more to melancholy than mirth,” said Dr. X——. “These high spirits do not seem quite natural. The vivacity of youth and of health, Miss Portman, always charms me; but this gaiety of Lady Delacour’s does not appear to me that of a sound mind in a sound body.”

The doctor’s penetration went so near the truth, that Belinda, afraid of betraying her friend’s secrets, never raised her eyes from the chess-board whilst he spoke, but went on setting up the fallen castles, and bishops, and kings, with expeditious diligence.

“You are putting the bishop into the place of the knight,” said Clarence.

“Lady Delacour,” continued the doctor, “seems to be in a perpetual fever, either of mind or body—I cannot tell which—and as a professional man, I really have some curiosity to determine the question. If I could feel her pulse, I could instantly decide; but I have heard her say that she has a horror against having her pulse felt, and a lady’s horror is invincible, by reason—”

“But not by address,” said Clarence. “I can tell you a method of counting her pulse, without her knowing it, without her seeing you, without your seeing her.”

“Indeed!” said Dr. X——, smiling; “that may be a useful secret in my profession; pray impart it to me—you who excel in every thing.”

“Are you in earnest, Mr. Hervey?” said Belinda.

“Perfectly in earnest—my secret is quite simple. Look through the door at the shadow of Queen Elizabeth’s ruff—observe how it vibrates; the motion as well as the figure is magnified in the shadow. Cannot you count every pulsation distinctly?”

“I can,” said Dr. X——, “and I give you credit for making an ingenious use of a trifling observation.” The doctor paused and looked round. “Those people cannot hear what we are saying, I believe?”

“Oh, no,” said Belinda, “they are intent upon themselves.” Doctor X——fixed his eyes mildly upon Clarence Hervey, and exclaimed in an earnest friendly tone—“What a pity, Mr. Hervey, that a young man of your talents and acquirements, a man who might be any thing, should—pardon the expression—choose to be—nothing; should waste upon petty objects powers suited to the greatest; should lend his soul to every contest for frivolous superiority, when the same energy concentrated might ensure honourable pre-eminence among the first men in his country. Shall he who might not only distinguish himself in any science or situation, who might not only acquire personal fame, but, oh, far more noble motive! who might be permanently useful to his fellow-creatures, content himself with being the evanescent amusement of a drawing-room?—Shall one, who might be great in public, or happy in private life, waste in this deplorable manner the best years of his existence—time that can never be recalled?—This is declamation!—No: it is truth put into the strongest language that I have power to use, in the hope of making some impression: I speak from my heart, for I have a sincere regard for you, Mr. Hervey, and if I have been impertinent, you must forgive me.”

“Forgive you!” cried Clarence Hervey, taking Dr. X—— by the hand, “I think you a real friend; you shall have the best thanks not in words, but in actions: you have roused my ambition, and I will pursue noble ends by noble means. A few years have been sacrificed; but the lessons that they have taught me remain. I cannot, presumptuous as I am, flatter myself that my exertions can be of any material utility to my fellow-creatures, but what I can do I will, my excellent friend! If I be hereafter either successful in public, or happy in private life, it is to you I shall owe it.”

Belinda was touched by the candour and good sense with which Clarence Hervey spoke. His character appeared in a new light: she was proud of her own judgment, in having discerned his merit, and for a moment she permitted herself to feel “unreproved pleasure in his company.”

The next morning, Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort called at Lady Delacour’s—Mr. Hervey was present—her ladyship was summoned to Mrs. Franks, and Belinda was left with these gentlemen.

“Why, damme, Clary! you have been a lost man,” cried Sir Philip, “ever since you were drowned. Damme, why did not you come to dine with us that day, now I recollect it? We were all famously merry; but for your comfort, Clarence, we missed you cursedly, and were damned sorry you ever took that unlucky jump into the Serpentine river—damned sorry, were not we, Rochfort?”

“Oh,” said Clarence, in an ironical tone, “you need no vouchers to convince me of the reality of your sorrow. You know I can never forget your jumping so courageously into the river, to save the life of your friend.”

“Oh, pooh! damn it,” said Sir Philip, “what signifies who pulled you out, now you are safe and sound? By-the-bye, Clary, did you ever quiz that doctor, as I desired you? No, that I’m sure you didn’t; but I think he has made a quiz of you: for, damme, I believe you have taken such a fancy to the old quizzical fellow, that you can’t live without him. Miss Portman, don’t you admire Hervey’s taste?”

“In this instance I certainly do admire Mr. Hervey’s taste,” said Belinda, “for the best of all possible reasons, because it entirely agrees with my own.”

“Very extraordinary, faith,” said Sir Philip.

“And what the devil can you find to like in him, Clary?” continued Mr. Rochfort, “for one wouldn’t be so rude to put that question to a lady. Ladies, you know, are never to be questioned about their likings and dislikings. Some have pet dogs, some have pet cats: then why not a pet quiz?”

“Ha! ha! ha! that’s a good one, Rochfort—a pet quiz!—Ha! ha! ha! Dr. X—— shall be Miss Portman’s pet quiz. Put it about, put it about, Rochfort,” continued the witty baronet, and he and his facetious companion continued to laugh as long as they possibly could at this happy hit.

Belinda, without being in the least discomposed by their insolent folly, as soon as they had finished laughing, very coolly observed, that she could have no objection to give her reasons for preferring Dr. X——‘s company but for fear they might give offence to Sir Philip and his friends. She then defended the doctor with so much firmness, and yet with so much propriety, that Clarence Hervey was absolutely enchanted with her, and with his own penetration in having discovered her real character, notwithstanding her being Mrs. Stanhope’s niece.

“I never argue, for my part,” cried Mr. Rochfort: “‘pon honour, ‘tis a deal too much trouble. A lady, a handsome lady, I mean, is always in the right with me.”

“But as to you, Hervey,” said Sir Philip, “damme, do you know, my boy, that our club has come to a determination to black-ball you, if you keep company with this famous doctor?”

“Your club, Sir Philip, will do me honour by such an ostracism.”

“Ostracism!” repeated Sir Philip.—“In plain English, does that mean that you choose to be black-balled by us? Why, damn it, Clary, you’ll be nobody. But follow your own genius—damn me, if I take it upon me to understand your men of genius—they are in the Serpentine river one day, and in the clouds the next: so fare ye well, Clary. I expect to see you a doctor of physic, or a methodist parson, soon, damn me if I don’t: so fare ye well, Clary. Is black-ball your last word? or will you think better on’t, and give up the doctor?”

“I can never give up Dr. X——‘s friendship—I would sooner be black-balled by every club in London. The good lesson you gave me, Sir Philip, the day I was fool enough to jump into the Serpentine river, has made me wiser for life. I know, for I have felt, the difference between real friends and fashionable acquaintance. Give up Dr. X——! Never! never!”

“Then fare you well, Clary,” said Sir Philip, “you’re no longer one of us.”

“Then fare ye well, Clary, you’re no longer the man for me,” said Rochfort.

“Tant pis, and tant mieux” said Clarence, and so they parted.

As they left the room, Clarence Hervey involuntarily turned to Belinda, and he thought that he read in her ingenuous, animated countenance, full approbation of his conduct.

“Hist! are they gone? quite gone?” said Lady Delacour, entering the room from an adjoining apartment; “they have stayed an unconscionable time. How much I am obliged to Mrs. Franks for detaining me! I have escaped their vapid impertinence; and in truth, this morning I have such a multiplicity of business, that I have scarcely a moment even for wit and Clarence Hervey. Belinda, my dear, will you have the charity to look over some of these letters for me, which, as Marriott tells me, have been lying in my writing-table this week—expecting, most unreasonably, that I should have the grace to open them? We are always punished for our indolence, as your friend Dr. X—— said the other day: if we suffer business to accumulate, it drifts with every ill wind like snow, till at last an avalanche of it comes down at once, and quite overwhelms us. Excuse me, Clarence,” continued her ladyship, as she opened her letters, “this is very rude: but I know I have secured my pardon from you by remembering your friend’s wit—wisdom, I should say: how seldom are wit and wisdom joined! They might have been joined in Lady Delacour, perhaps—there’s vanity!—if she had early met with such a friend as Dr. X——; but it’s too late now,” said she, with a deep sigh.

Clarence Hervey heard it, and it made a great impression upon his benevolent imagination. “Why too late?” said he to himself. “Mrs. Margaret Delacour is mistaken, if she thinks this woman wants sensibility.”

“What have you got there, Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour, taking from Belinda’s hand one of the letters which she had begged her to look over: “something wondrous pathetic, I should guess, by your countenance. ‘Helena Delacour.’ Oh! read it to yourself, my dear—a school-girl’s letter is a thing I abominate—I make it a rule never to read Helena’s epistles.”

“Let me prevail upon your ladyship to make an exception to the general rule then,” said Belinda; “I can assure you this is not a common school-girl’s letter: Miss Delacour seems to inherit her mother’s ‘eloquence de billet.’”

“Miss Portman seems to possess, by inheritance, by instinct, by magic, or otherwise, powers of persuasion, which no one can resist. There’s compliment for compliment, my dear. Is there any thing half so well turned in Helena’s letter? Really, ‘tis vastly well,” continued her ladyship, as she read the letter: “where did the little gipsy learn to write so charmingly? I protest I should like of all things to have her at home with me this summer—the 21st of June—well, after the birthday, I shall have time to think about it. But then, we shall be going out of town, and at Harrowgate I should not know what to do with her; she had better, much better, go to her humdrum Aunt Margaret’s, as she always does—she is a fixture in Grosvenor-square. These stationary good people, these zoophite friends, are sometimes very convenient; and Mrs. Margaret Delacour is the most unexceptionable zoophite in the creation. She has, it is true, an antipathy to me, because I’m of such a different nature from herself; but then her antipathy does not extend to my offspring: she is kind beyond measure to Helena, on purpose, I believe, to provoke me. Now I provoke her in my turn, by never being provoked, and she saves me a vast deal of trouble, for which she is overpaid by the pleasure of abusing me. This is the way of the world, Clarence. Don’t look so serious—you are not come yet to daughters and sons, and schools and holidays, and all the evils of domestic life.”

“Evils!” repeated Clarence Hervey, in a tone which surprised her ladyship. She looked immediately with a significant smile at Belinda. “Why do not you echo evils, Miss Portman?”

“Pray, Lady Delacour,” interrupted Clarence Hervey, “when do you go to Harrowgate?”

“What a sudden transition!” said Lady Delacour. “What association of ideas could just at that instant take you to Harrowgate? When do I go to Harrowgate? Immediately after the birthday, I believe we shall—I advise you to be of the party.”

“Your ladyship does me a great deal of honour,” said Hervey: “I shall, if it be possible, do myself the honour of attending you.”

And soon after this arrangement was made, Mr. Hervey took his leave.

“Well, my dear, are you still poring over that letter of Helena’s?” said Lady Delacour to Miss Portman.

“I fancy your ladyship did not quite finish it,” said Belinda.

“No; I saw something about the Leverian Museum, and a swallow’s nest in a pair of garden-shears; and I was afraid I was to have a catalogue of curiosities, for which I have little taste and less time.”

“You did not see, then, what Miss Delacour says of the lady who took her to that Museum?”

“Not I. What lady? her Aunt Margaret?”

“No; Mrs. Margaret Delacour, she says, has been so ill for some time past, that she goes no where but to Lady Anne Percival’s.”

“Poor woman,” said Lady Delacour, “she will die soon, and then I shall have Helena upon my hands, unless some other kind friend takes a fancy to her. Who is this lady that has carried her to the Leverian Museum?”

“Lady Anne Percival; of whom she speaks with so much gratitude and affection, that I quite long——”

“Lord bless me!” interrupted Lady Delacour, “Lady Anne Percival! Helena has mentioned this Lady Anne Percival to me before, I recollect, in some of her letters.”

“Then you did read some of her letters?”

“Half!—I never read more than half, upon my word,” said Lady Delacour, laughing.

“Why will you delight in making yourself appear less good than you are, my dear Lady Delacour?” said Belinda, taking her hand.

“Because I hate to be like other people,” said her ladyship, “who delight in making themselves appear better than they are. But I was going to tell you, that I do believe I did provoke Percival by marrying Lord Delacour: I cannot tell you how much this Mea delights me—I am sure that the man has a lively remembrance of me, or else he would never make his wife take so much notice of my daughter.”

“Surely, your ladyship does not think,” said Belinda, “that a wife is a being whose actions are necessarily governed by a husband.”

“Not necessarily—but accidentally. When a lady accidentally sets up for being a good wife, she must of course love, honour, and obey. Now, you understand, I am not in the least obliged to Lady Anne for her kindness to Helena, because it all goes under the head of obedience, in my imagination; and her ladyship is paid for it by an accession of character: she has the reward of having it said, ‘Oh, Lady Anne Percival is the best wife in the world!’—‘Oh, Lady Anne Percival is quite a pattern woman!’ I hate pattern women. I hope I may never see Lady Anne; for I’m sure I should detest her beyond all things living—Mrs. Luttridge not excepted.”

Belinda was surprised and shocked at the malignant vehemence with which her ladyship uttered these words; it was in vain, however, that she remonstrated on the injustice of predetermining to detest Lady Anne, merely because she had shown kindness to Helena, and because she bore a high character. Lady Delacour was a woman who never listened to reason, or who listened to it only that she might parry it by wit. Upon this occasion, her wit had not its usual effect upon Miss Portman; instead of entertaining, it disgusted her.

“You have called me your friend, Lady Delacour,” said she; “I should but ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to you—if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong.”

“But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, stopping her ears. “So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose that you have said every thing that is wise, and good, and proper, and sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends; you shall enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh—for my folly. Alas! my dear, ‘tis hardly worth while—my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must keep it up with incessant dissipation—the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us talk of the birthnight, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or the ridiculous figure Lady H—— made at the concert; or let us talk of Harrowgate, or what you will.”

Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure in Belinda’s mind, and she could hardly refrain from tears, whilst she saw this unhappy creature, with forced smiles, endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul: she could only say, “But, my dear Lady Delacour, do not you think that your little Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to your happiness at home?”

“Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me,” said Lady Delacour.

Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour’s lap.

“Can you wonder,” continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear which she had let fall; “can you wonder that I should talk of detesting Lady Anne Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections of my child. Helena asks to come home: yes, but how does she ask it? Coldly, formally,—as a duty. But look at the end of her letter; I have read it all—every bitter word of it I have tasted. How differently she writes—look even at the flowing hand—the moment she begins to speak of Lady Anne Percival; then her soul breaks out: ‘Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakly-park—she should be extremely happy to go, if I please.’ Yes, let her go; let her go as far from me as possible; let her never, never see her wretched mother more!—Write,” said Lady Delacour, turning hastily to Belinda, “write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-park, and to be happy.”

“But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with you?” said Belinda. “Let us see her—let us try the experiment.”

“No,” said Lady Delacour; “no—it is too late: I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim.”

Pride, anger, and sorrow, struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She turned her face from Belinda, and walked out of the room with dignity.

Nothing remains for me to do, thought Belinda, but to sooth this haughty spirit: all other hope, I see, is vain.

At this moment Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay, brilliant Lady Delacour was sinking into the grave, had formed a design worthy of his ardent and benevolent character. The manner in which her ladyship had spoken of his friend Dr. X——, the sigh which she gave at the reflection that she might have been a very different character if she had early had a sensible friend, made a great impression upon Mr. Hervey. Till then, he had merely considered her ladyship as an object of amusement, and an introduction to high life; but he now felt so much interested for her, that he determined to exert all his influence to promote her happiness. He knew that influence to be considerable: not that he was either coxcomb or dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacour was in love with him; he was perfectly sensible that her only wish was to obtain his admiration, and he resolved to show her that it could no longer be secured without deserving his esteem. Clarence Hervey was a thoroughly generous young man: capable of making the greatest sacrifices, when encouraged by the hope of doing good, he determined to postpone the declaration of his attachment to Belinda, that he might devote himself entirely to his new project. His plan was to wean Lady Delacour by degrees from dissipation, by attaching her to her daughter, and to Lady Anne Percival. He was sanguine in all his hopes, and rapid, but not unthinking, in all his decisions. From Lady Delacour he went immediately to Dr. X——, to whom he communicated his designs.

“I applaud your benevolent intentions,” said the doctor: “but have you really the presumption to hope, that an ingenuous young man of four-and-twenty can reform a veteran coquet of four-and-thirty?”

“Lady Delacour is not yet thirty,” said Clarence; “but the older she is, the better the chance of her giving up a losing game. She has an admirable understanding, and she will soon—I mean as soon as she is acquainted with Lady Anne Percival—discover that she has mistaken the road to happiness. All the difficulty will be to make them fairly acquainted with each other; for this, my dear doctor, I must trust to you. Do you prepare Lady Anne to tolerate Lady Delacour’s faults, and I will prepare Lady Delacour to tolerate Lady Anne’s virtues.”

“You have generously taken the more difficult task of the two,” replied Dr. X——. “Well, we shall see what can be done. After the birthday, Lady Delacour talks of going to Harrowgate: you know, Oakly-park is not far from Harrowgate, so they will have frequent opportunities of meeting. But, take my word for it, nothing can be done till after the birthday; for Lady Delacour’s head is at present full of crape petticoats, and horses, and carriages, and a certain Mrs. Luttridge, whom she hates with a hatred passing that of women.”

Accustomed to study human nature, Dr. X—— had acquired peculiar sagacity in judging of character. Notwithstanding the address with which Lady Delacour concealed the real motives for her apparently thoughtless conduct, he quickly discovered that the hatred of Mrs. Luttridge was her ruling passion. Above nine years of continual warfare had exasperated the tempers of both parties, and no opportunities of manifesting their mutual antipathy were ever neglected. Extravagantly as Lady Delacour loved admiration, the highest possible degree of positive praise was insipid to her taste, if it did not imply some superiority over the woman whom she considered as a perpetual rival.

Now it had been said by the coachmaker, that Mrs. Luttridge would sport a most elegant new vis-à-vis on the king’s birthday. Lady Delacour was immediately ambitious to outshine her in equipage; and it was this paltry ambition that made her condescend to all the meanness of the transaction by which she obtained Miss Portman’s draft, and Clarence Hervey’s two hundred guineas. The great, the important day, at length arrived—her ladyship’s triumph in the morning at the drawing-room was complete. Mrs. Luttridge’s dress, Mrs. Luttridge’s vis-à-vis, Mrs. Luttridge’s horses were nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison with Lady Delacour’s: her ladyship enjoyed the full exultation of vanity; and at night she went in high spirits to the ball.

“Oh, my dearest Belinda,” said she, as she left her dressing-room, “how terrible a thing it is that you cannot go with me!—None of the joys of this life are without alloy!—‘Twould be too much to see in one night Mrs. Luttridge’s mortification, and my Belinda’s triumph. Adieu! my love: we shall live to see another birthday, it is to be hoped. Marriott, my drops. Oh, I have taken them.”

Belinda, after her ladyship’s departure, retired to the library. Her time passed so agreeably during Lady Delacour’s absence, that she was surprised when she heard the clock strike twelve.

“Is it possible,” thought she, “that I have spent two hours by myself in a library without being tired of my existence?—How different are my feelings now from what they would have been in the same circumstances six months ago!—I should then have thought the loss of a birthnight ball a mighty trial of temper. It is singular, that my having spent a winter with one of the most dissipated women in England should have sobered my mind so completely. If I had never seen the utmost extent of the pleasures of the world, as they are called, my imagination might have misled me to the end of my life; but now I can judge from my own experience, and I am convinced that the life of a fine lady would never make me happy. Dr. X—— told me, the other day, that he thinks me formed for something better, and he is incapable of flattery.”

The idea of Clarence Hervey was so intimately connected with that of his friend, that Miss Portman could seldom separate them in her imagination; and she was just beginning to reflect upon the manner in which Clarence looked, whilst he declared to Sir Philip Baddely, that he would never give up Dr. X——, when she was startled by the entrance of Marriott.

“Oh, Miss Portman, what shall we do? what shall we do?-My lady! my poor lady!” cried she.

“What is the matter?” said Belinda.

“The horses—the young horses!—Oh, I wish my lady had never seen them. Oh, my lady, my poor lady, what will become of her?”

It was some minutes before Belinda could obtain from Marriott any intelligible account of what had happened.

“All I know, ma’am, is what James has just told me,” said Marriott. “My lady gave the coachman orders upon no account to let Mrs. Luttridge’s carriage get before hers. Mrs. Luttridge’s coachman would not give up the point either. My lady’s horses were young and ill broke, they tell me, and there was no managing of them no ways. The carriages got somehow across one another, and my lady was overturned, and all smashed to atoms. Oh, ma’am,” continued Marriott, “if it had not been for Mr. Hervey, they say, my lady would never have been got out of the crowd alive. He’s bringing her home in his own carriage, God bless him!”

“But is Lady Delacour hurt?” cried Belinda.

“She must,—to be sure, she must, ma’am,” cried Marriott, putting her hand upon her bosom. “But let her be ever so much hurt, my lady will keep it to herself: the footmen swear she did not give a scream, not a single scream; so it’s their opinion she was no ways hurt—but that, I know, can’t be—and, indeed, they are thinking so much about the carriage, that they can’t give one any rational account of any thing; and, as for myself, I’m sure I’m in such a flutter. Lord knows, I advised my lady not to go with the young horses, no later than—”

“Hark!” cried Belinda, “here they are.” She ran down stairs instantly. The first object that she saw was Lady Delacour in convulsions—the street-door was open—the hall was crowded with servants. Belinda made her way through them, and, in a calm voice, requested that Lady Delacour might immediately be brought to her own dressing-room, and that she should there be left to Marriott’s care and hers. Mr. Hervey assisted in carrying Lady Delacour—she came to her senses as they were taking her up stairs. “Set me down, set me down,” she exclaimed: “I am not hurt—I am quite well,—Where’s Marriott? Where’s Miss Portman?”

“Here we are—you shall be carried quite safely—trust to me,” said Belinda, in a firm tone, “and do not struggle.”

Lady Delacour submitted: she was in agonizing pain, but her fortitude was so great that she never uttered a groan. It was the constraint which she had put upon herself, by endeavouring not to scream, which threw her into convulsions. “She is hurt—I am sure she is hurt, though she will not acknowledge it,” cried Clarence Hervey. “My ankle is sprained, that’s all,” said Lady Delacour—“lay me on this sofa, and leave me to Belinda.”

“What’s all this?” cried Lord Delacour, staggering into the room: he was much intoxicated, and in this condition had just come home, as they were carrying Lady Delacour up stairs: he could not be made to understand the truth, but as soon as he heard Clarence Hervey’s voice, he insisted upon going up to his wife’s dressing-room. It was a very unusual thing, but neither Champfort nor any one else could restrain him, the moment that he had formed this idea; he forced his way into the room.

“What’s all this?—Colonel Lawless!” said he, addressing himself to Clarence Hervey, whom, in the confusion of his mind, he mistook for the colonel, the first object of his jealousy. “Colonel Lawless,” cried his lordship, “you are a villain. I always knew it.”

“Softly!—she’s in great pain, my lord,” said Belinda, catching Lord Delacour’s arm, just as he was going to strike Clarence Hervey. She led him to the sofa where Lady Delacour lay, and uncovering her ankle, which was much swelled, showed it to him. His lordship, who was a humane man, was somewhat moved by this appeal to his remaining senses, and he began roaring as loud as he possibly could for arquebusade.

Lady Delacour rested her head upon the back of the sofa, her hands moved with convulsive twitches—she was perfectly silent. Marriott was in a great bustle, running backwards and forwards for she knew not what, and continually repeating, “I wish nobody would come in here but Miss Portman and me. My lady says nobody must come in. Lord bless me! my lord here too!”

“Have you any arquebusade, Marriott? Arquebusade, for your lady, directly!” cried his lordship, following her to the door of the boudoir, where she was going for some drops.

“Oh, my lord, you can’t come in, I assure you, my lord, there’s nothing here, my lord, nothing of the sort,” said Marriott, setting her back against the door. Her terror and embarrassment instantly recalled all the jealous suspicions of Lord Delacour. “Woman!” cried he, “I will see whom you have in this room!—You have some one concealed there, and I will go in.” Then with brutal oaths he dragged Marriott from the door, and snatched the key from her struggling hand.

Lady Delacour started up, and gave a scream of agony. “My lord!—Lord Delacour,” cried Belinda, springing forward, “hear me.”

Lord Delacour stopped short. “Tell me, then,” cried Lord Delacour, “is not a lover of Lady Delacour’s concealed there?” “No!—No!—No!” answered Belinda. “Then a lover of Miss Portman?” said Lord Delacour. “Gad! we have hit it now, I believe.”

“Believe whatever you please, my lord,” said Belinda, hastily, “but give me the key.”

Clarence Hervey drew the key from Lord Delacour’s hand, gave it to Miss Portman without looking at her, and immediately withdrew. Lord Delacour followed him with a sort of drunken laugh; and no one remained in the room but Marriott, Belinda, and Lady Delacour. Marriott was so much fluttered, as she said, that she could do nothing. Miss Portman locked the room door, and began to undress Lady Delacour, who lay motionless. “Are we by ourselves?” said Lady Delacour, opening her eyes.

“Yes—are you much hurt?” said Belinda. “Oh, you are a charming girl!” said Lady Delacour. “Who would have thought you had so much presence of mind and courage—have you the key safe?” “Here it is,” said Belinda, producing it; and she repeated her question, “Are you much hurt?” “I am not in pain now,” said Lady Delacour, “but I have suffered terribly. If I could get rid of all this finery, if you could put me to bed, I could sleep perhaps.”

Whilst Belinda was undressing Lady Delacour, she shrieked several times; but between every interval of pain she repeated, “I shall be better to-morrow.” As soon as she was in bed, she desired Marriott to give her double her usual quantity of laudanum; for that all the inclination which she had felt to sleep was gone, and that she could not endure the shooting pains that she felt in her breast.

“Leave me alone with your lady, Marriott,” said Miss Portman, taking the bottle of laudanum from her trembling hand, “and go to bed; for I am sure you are not able to sit up any longer.”

As she spoke, she took Marriott into the adjoining dressing-room. “Oh, dear Miss Portman,” said Marriott, who was sincerely attached to her lady, and who at this instant forgot all her jealousies, and all her love of power, “I’ll do any thing you ask me; but pray let me stay in the room, though I know I’m quite helpless. It will be too much for you to be here all night by yourself. The convulsions may take my lady. What shrieks she gives every now and then!—and nobody knows what’s the matter but ourselves; and every body in the house is asking me why a surgeon is not sent for, if my lady is so much hurt. Oh, I can’t answer for it to my conscience, to have kept the matter secret so long; for to be sure a physician, if had in time, might have saved my lady—but now nothing can save her!” And here Marriott burst into tears.

“Why don’t you give me the laudanum?” cried Lady Delacour, in a loud peremptory voice; “Give it to me instantly.”—“No,” said Miss Portman, firmly.—“Hear me, Lady Delacour—you must allow me to judge, for you know that you are not in a condition to judge for yourself, or rather you must allow me to send for a physician, who may judge for us both.”

“A physician!” cried Lady Delacour, “Never—never. I charge you let no physician be sent for. Remember your promise: you cannot betray me—you will not betray me.”

“No,” said Belinda, “of that I have given sufficient proof—but you will betray yourself: it is already known by your servants that you have been hurt by the overturn of your carriage; if you do not let either a surgeon or physician see you it will excite surprise and suspicion. It is not in your power, when violent pain seizes you, to refrain from————-”

“It is,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “not another scream shall you hear—only do not, do not, my dear Belinda, send for a physician.”

“You will throw yourself again into convulsions,” said Belinda. “Marriott, you see, has lost all command of herself—I shall not have strength to manage you—-perhaps I may lose my presence of mind—I cannot answer for myself—your husband may desire to see you.”

“No danger of that,” said Lady Delacour: “tell him my ankle is sprained—tell him I am bruised all over—tell him any thing you will—he will not trouble himself any more about me—he will forget all that passed to-night by the time he is sober. Oh! give me the laudanum, dearest Belinda, and say no more about physicians.”

It was in vain to reason with Lady Delacour. Belinda attempted to persuade her: “For my sake, dear Lady Delacour,” said she, “let me send for Dr. X——; he is a man of honour, your secret will be perfectly safe with him.”

“He will tell it to Clarence Hervey,” said Lady Delacour: “of all men living, I would not send for Dr. X——; I will not see him if he comes.”

“Then,” said Belinda, calmly, but with a fixed determination of countenance, “I must leave you to-morrow morning—I must return to Bath.”

“Leave me! remember your promise.”

“Circumstances have occurred, about which I have made no promise,” said Belinda; “I must leave you, unless you will now give me your permission to send for Dr. X——.”

Lady Delacour hesitated. “You see,” continued Belinda, “that I am in earnest: when I am gone, you will have no friend left; when I am gone, your secret will inevitably be discovered; for without me, Marriott will not have sufficient strength of mind to keep it.”

“Do you think we might trust Dr. X——?” said Lady Delacour.

“I am sure you may trust him,” said Belinda, with energy; “I will pledge my life upon his honour.”

“Then send for him, since it must be so,” said Lady Delacour.

No sooner had the words passed Lady Delacour’s lips than Belinda flew to execute her orders. Marriott recovered her senses when she heard that her ladyship had consented to send for a physician; but she declared that she could not conceive how any thing less than the power of magic could have brought her lady to such a determination.

Belinda had scarcely despatched a servant for Dr. X——, when Lady Delacour repented of the permission she had given, and all that could be said to pacify only irritated her temper. She became delirious; Belinda’s presence of mind never forsook her, she remained quietly beside the bed waiting for the arrival of Dr. X——, and she absolutely refused admittance to the servants, who, drawn by their lady’s outrageous cries, continually came to her door with offers of assistance.

About four o’clock the doctor arrived, and Miss Portman was relieved from some of her anxiety. He assured her that there was no immediate danger, and he promised that the secret which she had entrusted to him should be faithfully kept. He remained with her some hours, till Lady Delacour became more quiet and fell asleep, exhausted with delirious exertions.—“I think I may now leave you,” said Dr. X——; but as he was going through the dressing-room, Belinda stopped him.—“Now that I have time to think of myself,” said she, “let me consult you as my friend: I am not used to act entirely for myself, and I shall be most grateful if you will assist me with your advice. I hate all mysteries, but I feel myself bound in honour to keep the secret with which Lady Delacour has entrusted me. Last night I was so circumstanced, that I could not extricate her ladyship without exposing myself to—to suspicion.”

Miss Portman then related all that had passed about the mysterious door, which Lord Delacour, in his fit of drunken jealousy, had insisted upon breaking open.

“Mr. Hervey,” continued Belinda, “was present when all this happened—he seemed much surprised: I should be sorry that he should remain in an error which might be fatal to my reputation—you know a woman ought not even to be suspected; yet how to remove this suspicion I know not, because I cannot enter into any explanation, without betraying Lady Delacour—she has, I know, a peculiar dread of Mr. Hervey’s discovering the truth.”

“And is it possible,” cried Dr. X——, “that any woman should be so meanly selfish, as thus to expose the reputation of her friend merely to preserve her own vanity from mortification?”

“Hush—don’t speak so loud,” said Belinda, “you will awaken her; and at present she is certainly more an object of pity than of indignation.—If you will have the goodness to come with me, I will take you by a back staircase up to the mysterious boudoir. I am not too proud to give positive proofs of my speaking truth; the key of that room now lies on Lady Delacour’s bed—it was that which she grasped in her hand during her delirium—she has now let it fall—it opens both the doors of the boudoir—you shall see,” added Miss Portman, with a smile, “that I am not afraid to let you unlock either of them.”

“As a polite man,” said Dr. X——, “I believe that I should absolutely refuse to take any external evidence of a lady’s truth; but demonstration is unanswerable even by enemies, and I will not sacrifice your interests to the foppery of my politeness—so I am ready to follow you. The curiosity of the servants may have been excited by last night’s disturbance, and I see no method so certain as that which you propose of preventing busy rumour. That goddess (let Ovid say what he pleases) was born and bred in a kitchen, or a servants’ hall.—But,” continued Dr. X——, “my dear Miss Portman, you will put a stop to a number of charming stories by this prudence of yours—a romance called the Mysterious Boudoir, of nine volumes at least, might be written on this subject, if you would only condescend to act like almost all other heroines, that is to say, without common sense.”

The doctor now followed Belinda, and satisfied himself by ocular demonstration, that this cabinet was the retirement of disease, and not of pleasure.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when Dr. X—— got home; he found Clarence Hervey waiting for him. Clarence seemed to be in great agitation, though he endeavoured, with all the power which he possessed over himself, to suppress his emotion.

“You have been to see Lady Delacour,” said he, calmly: “is she much hurt?—It was a terrible accident.”

“She has been much hurt,” said Dr. X——, “and she has been for some hours delirious; but ask me no more questions now, for I am asleep, and must go to bed, unless you have any thing to say that can waken me: you look as if some great misfortune had befallen you; what is the matter?”

“Oh, my dear friend,” said Hervey, taking his hand, “do not jest with me; I am not able to bear your raillery in my present temper—in one word, I fear that Belinda is unworthy of my esteem: I can tell you no more, except that I am more miserable than I thought any woman could make me.”

“You are in a prodigious hurry to be miserable,” said Dr. X——. “Upon my word I think you would make a mighty pretty hero in a novel; you take things very properly for granted, and, stretched out upon that sofa, you act the distracted lover vastly well—and to complete the matter, you cannot tell me why you are more miserable than ever man or hero was before. I must tell you, then, that you have still more cause for jealousy than you suspect. Ay, start—every jealous man starts at the sound of the word jealousy—a certain symptom this of the disease.”

“You mistake me,” cried Clarence Hervey; “no man is less disposed to jealousy than I am—but——”

“But your mistress—no, not your mistress, for you have never yet declared to her your attachment—but the lady you admire will not let a drunken man unlock a door, and you immediately suppose—”

“She has mentioned the circumstance to you!” exclaimed Hervey, in a joyful tone: “then she must be innocent.”

“Admirable reasoning!—I was going to have told you just now, if you would have suffered me to speak connectedly, that you have more reason for jealousy than you suspect, for Miss Portman has actually unlocked for me—for me! look at me—the door, the mysterious door—and whilst I live, and whilst she lives, we can neither of us ever tell you the cause of the mystery. All I can tell you is, that no lover is in the case, upon my honour—and now, if you should ever mistake curiosity in your own mind for jealousy, expect no pity from me.”

“I should deserve none,” said Clarence Hervey; “you have made me the happiest of men.”

“The happiest of men!—No, no; keep that superlative exclamation for a future occasion. But now you behave like a reasonable creature, you deserve to hear the praises of your Belinda—I am so much charmed with her, that I wish—”

“When can I see her?” interrupted Hervey; “I’ll go to her this instant.”

“Gently,” said Dr. X——, “you forget what time of the day it is—you forget that Miss Portman has been up all night—that Lady Delacour is extremely ill—and that this would be the most unseasonable opportunity you could possibly choose for your visit.”

To this observation Clarence Hervey assented; but he immediately seized a pen from the doctor’s writing table, and began a letter to Belinda. The doctor threw himself upon the sofa, saying, “Waken me when you want me,” and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

“Doctor, upon second thoughts,” said Clarence, rising suddenly, and tearing his letter down the middle, “I cannot write to her yet—I forgot the reformation of Lady Delacour: how soon do you think she will be well? Besides, I have another reason for not writing to Belinda at present—you must know, my dear doctor, that I have, or had, another mistress.”

“Another mistress, indeed!” cried Dr. X——, trying to waken himself.

“Good Heavens! I do believe you’ve been asleep.”

“I do believe I have.”

“But is it possible that you could fall sound asleep in that time?”

“Very possible,” said the doctor: “what is there so extraordinary in a man’s falling asleep? Men are apt to sleep sometime within the four-and-twenty hours, unless they have half-a-dozen mistresses to keep them awake, as you seem to have, my good friend.”

A servant now came into the room with a letter, that had just arrived express from the country for Dr. X——.

“This is another affair,” cried he, rousing himself.

The letter required the doctor’s immediate attendance. He shook hands with Clarence Hervey: “My dear friend, I am really concerned that I cannot stay to hear the history of your six mistresses; but you see that this is an affair of life and death.”

“Farewell,” said Clarence: “I have not six, I have only three goddesses; even if you count Lady Delacour for one. But I really wanted your advice in good earnest.”

“If your case be desperate, you can write, cannot you? Direct to me at Horton-hall, Cambridge. In the mean time, as far as general rules go, I can give you my advice gratis, in the formula of an old Scotch song——

    “‘Tis good to be merry and wise,
    ‘Tis good to be honest and true,
    ‘Tis good to be off with the old love
    Before you be on with the new.’”
 

Before he left town, Dr. X—— called in Berkeley-square, to see Lady Delacour; he found that she was out of all immediate danger. Miss Portman was sorry that he was obliged to quit her at this time, but she felt the necessity for his going; he was sent for to attend Mr. Horton, an intimate friend of his, a gentleman of great talents, and of the most active benevolence, who had just been seized with a violent fever, in consequence of his exertions in saving the poor inhabitants of a village in his neighbourhood from the effects of a dreadful fire, which broke out in the middle of the night.

Lady Delacour, who heard Dr. X—— giving this account to Belinda, drew back her curtain, and said, “Go this instant, doctor—I am out of all immediate danger, you say; but if I were not—I must die in the course of a few months, you know—and what is my life, compared with the chance of saving your excellent friend! He is of some use in the world—I am of none—go this instant, doctor.”

“What a pity,” said Dr. X——, as he left the room, “that a woman who is capable of so much magnanimity should have wasted her life on petty objects!”

“Her life is not yet at an end—oh, sir, if you could save her!” cried Belinda.

Doctor X—— shook his head; but returning to Belinda, after going half way down stairs, he added, “when you read this paper, you will know all that I can tell you upon the subject.”

Belinda, the moment the doctor was gone, shut herself up in her own room to read the paper which he had given to her. Dr. X—— first stated that he was by no means certain that Lady Delacour really had the complaint which she so much dreaded; but it was impossible for him to decide without farther examination, to which her ladyship could not be prevailed upon to submit. Then he mentioned all that he thought would be most efficacious in mitigating the pain that Lady Delacour might feel, and all that could be done, with the greatest probability of prolonging her life. And he concluded with the following words: “These are all temporizing expedients: according to the usual progress of the disease, Lady Delacour may live a year, or perhaps two.

“It is possible that her life might be saved by a skilful surgeon. By a few words that dropped from her ladyship last night, I apprehend that she has some thoughts of submitting to an operation, which will be attended with much pain and danger, even if she employ the most experienced surgeon in London; but if she put herself, from a vain hope of secrecy, into ignorant hands, she will inevitably destroy herself.”

After reading this paper, Belinda had some faint hopes that Lady Delacour’s life might be saved; but she determined to wait till Dr. X——should return to town, before she mentioned his opinion to his patient; and she earnestly hoped that no idea of putting herself into ignorant hands would recur to her ladyship.

Lord Delacour, in the morning, when he was sober, retained but a confused idea of the events of the preceding night; but he made an awkwardly good-natured apology to Miss Portman for his intrusion, and for the disturbance he had occasioned, which, he said, must be laid to the blame of Lord Studley’s admirable burgundy. He expressed much concern for Lady Delacour’s terrible accident; but he could not help observing, that if his advice had been taken, the thing could not have happened—that it was the consequence of her ladyship’s self-willedness about the young horses.

“How she got the horses without paying for them, or how she got money to pay for them, I know not,” said his lordship; “for I said I would have nothing to do with the business, and I have kept to my resolution.”

His lordship finished his morning visit to Miss Portman, by observing that “the house would now be very dull for her: that the office of a nurse was ill-suited to so young and beautiful a lady, but that her undertaking it with so much cheerfulness was a proof of a degree of good-nature that was not always to be met with in the young and handsome.”

The manner in which Lord Delacour spoke convinced Belinda that he was in reality attached to his wife, however the fear of being, or of appearing to be, governed by her ladyship might have estranged him from her, and from home. She now saw in him much more good sense, and symptoms of a more amiable character, than his lady had described, or than she ever would allow that he possessed.

The reflections, however, which Miss Portman made upon the miserable life this ill-matched couple led together, did not incline her in favour of marriage in general; great talents on one side, and good-nature on the other, had, in this instance, tended only to make each party unhappy. Matches of interest, convenience, and vanity, she was convinced, diminished instead of increasing happiness. Of domestic felicity she had never, except during her childhood, seen examples—she had, indeed, heard from Dr. X—— descriptions of the happy family of Lady Anne Percival, but she feared to indulge the romantic hope of ever being loved by a man of superior genius and virtue, with a temper and manners suited to her taste. The only person she had seen, who at all answered this description, was Mr. Hervey; and it was firmly fixed in her mind, that he was not a marrying man, and consequently not a man of whom any prudent woman would suffer herself to think with partiality. She could not doubt that he liked her society and conversation; his manner had sometimes expressed more than cold esteem. Lady Delacour had assured her that it expressed love; but Lady Delacour was an imprudent woman in her own conduct, and not scrupulous as to that of others. Belinda was not guided by her opinions of propriety; and now that her ladyship was confined to her bed, and not in a condition to give her either advice or protection, she felt that it was peculiarly incumbent on her to guard, not only her conduct from reproach, but her heart from the hopeless misery of an ill-placed attachment. She examined herself with firm impartiality; she recollected the excessive pain that she had endured, when she first heard Clarence Hervey say, that Belinda Portman was a compound of art and affectation; but this she thought was only the pain of offended pride—of proper pride. She recollected the extreme anxiety she had felt, even within the last four-and-twenty hours, concerning the opinion which he might form of the transaction about the key of the boudoir—but this anxiety she justified to herself; it was due, she thought, to her reputation; it would have been inconsistent with female delicacy to have been indifferent about the suspicions that necessarily arose from the circumstances in which she was placed. Before Belinda had completed her self-examination, Clarence Hervey called to inquire after Lady Delacour. Whilst he spoke of her ladyship, and of his concern for the dreadful accident of which he believed himself to be in a great measure the cause, his manner and language were animated and unaffected; but the moment that this subject was exhausted, he became embarrassed; though he distinctly expressed perfect confidence and esteem for her, he seemed to wish, and yet to be unable, to support the character of a friend, contradistinguished to an admirer. He seemed conscious that he could not, with propriety, advert to the suspicions and jealousy which he had felt the preceding night; for a man who has never declared love would be absurd and impertinent, were he to betray jealousy. Clarence was destitute neither of address nor presence of mind; but an accident happened, when he was just taking leave of Miss Portman, which threw him into utter confusion. It surprised, if it did not confound, Belinda. She had forgotten to ask Dr. X—— for his direction; and as she thought it might be necessary to write to him concerning Lady Delacour’s health, she begged of Mr. Hervey to give it to her. He took a letter out of his pocket, and wrote the direction with a pencil; but as he opened the paper, to tear off the outside, on which he had been writing, a lock of hair dropped out of the letter; he hastily stooped for it, and as he took it up from the ground the lock unfolded. Belinda, though she cast but one involuntary, hasty glance at it, was struck with the beauty of its colour, and its uncommon length. The confusion of Clarence Hervey convinced her that he was extremely interested about the person to whom the hair belonged, and the species of alarm which she had felt at this discovery opened her eyes effectually to the state of her own heart. She was sensible that the sight of a lock of hair, however long, or however beautiful, in the hands of any man but Clarence Hervey, could not possibly have excited any emotion in her mind. “Fortunately,” thought she, “I have discovered that he is attached to another, whilst it is yet in my power to command my affections; and he shall see that I am not so weak as to form any false expectations from what I must now consider as mere common-place flattery.” Belinda was glad that Lady Delacour was not present at the discovery of the lock of hair, as she was aware that she would have rallied her unmercifully upon the occasion; and she rejoiced that she had not been prevailed upon to give Madame la Comtesse de Pomenars a lock of her belle chevelure. She could not help thinking, from the recollection of several minute circumstances, that Clarence Hervey had endeavoured to gain an interest in her affections, and she felt that there would be great impropriety in receiving his ambiguous visits during Lady Delacour’s confinement to her room. She therefore gave orders that Mr. Hervey should not in future be admitted, till her ladyship should again see company. This precaution proved totally superfluous, for Mr. Hervey never called again, during the whole course of Lady Delacour’s confinement, though his servant regularly came every morning with inquiries after her ladyship’s health. She kept her room for about ten days; a confinement to which she submitted with extreme impatience: bodily pain she bore with fortitude, but constraint and ennui she could not endure.

One morning as she was sitting up in bed, looking over a large collection of notes, and cards of inquiry after her health, she exclaimed—

“These people will soon be tired of4 bidding their footman put it into their heads to inquire whether I am alive or dead—I must appear amongst them again, if it be only for a few minutes, or they will forget me. When I am fatigued, I will retire, and you, my dear Belinda, shall represent me; so tell them to open my doors, and unmuffle the knocker: let me hear the sound of music and dancing, and let the house be filled again, for Heaven’s sake. Dr. Zimmermann should never have been my physician, for he would have prescribed solitude. Now solitude and silence are worse for me than poppy and mandragora. It is impossible to tell how much silence tires the ears of those who have not been used to it. For mercy’s sake, Marriott,” continued her ladyship, turning to Marriott, who just then came softly into the room, “for mercy’s sake, don’t walk to all eternity on tiptoes: to see people gliding about like ghosts makes me absolutely fancy myself amongst the shades below. I would rather be stunned by the loudest peal that ever thundering footman gave at my door, than hear Marriott lock that boudoir, as if my life depended on my not hearing the key turned.”

“Dear me! I never knew any lady that was ill, except my lady, complain of one’s not making a noise to disturb her,” said Marriott.

“Then to please you, Marriott, I will complain of the only noise that does, or ever did disturb me—the screaming of your odious macaw.”

Now Marriott had a prodigious affection for this macaw, and she defended it with as much eagerness as if it had been her child.

“Odious! O dear, my lady! to call my poor macaw odious!—I didn’t expect it would ever have come to this—I am sure I don’t deserve it—I’m sure I don’t deserve that my lady should have taken such a dislike to me.”

And here Marriott actually burst into tears. “But, my dear Marriott,” said Lady Delacour, “I only object to your macaw—may not I dislike your macaw without disliking you?—I have heard of ‘love me, love my dog;’ but I never heard of ‘love me, love my bird’—did you, Miss Portman?”

Marriott turned sharply round upon Miss Portman, and darted a fiery look at her through the midst of her tears. “Then ‘tis plain,” said she, “who I’m to thank for this;” and as she left the room her lady could not complain of her shutting the door after her too gently.

“Give her three minutes’ grace and she will come to her senses,” said Lady Delacour, “for she is not a bankrupt in sense. Oh, three minutes won’t do; I must allow her three days’ grace, I perceive,” said Lady Delacour when Marriott half an hour afterward reappeared, with a face which might have sat for the picture of ill-humour. Her ill-humour, however, did not prevent her from attending her lady as usual; she performed all her customary offices with the most officious zeal but in profound silence, except every now and then she would utter a sigh, which seemed to say, “See how much I’m attached to my lady, and yet my lady hates my macaw!” Her lady, who perfectly understood the language of sighs, and felt the force of Marriott’s, forbore to touch again on the tender subject of the macaw, hoping that when her house was once more filled with company, she should be relieved by more agreeable noises from continually hearing this pertinacious tormentor.

As soon as it was known that Lady Delacour was sufficiently recovered to receive company, her door was crowded with carriages; and as soon as it was understood that balls and concerts were to go on as usual at her house, her “troops of friends” appeared to congratulate her, and to amuse themselves.

“How stupid it is,” said Lady Delacour to Belinda, “to hear congratulatory speeches from people, who would not care if I were in the black hole at Calcutta this minute; but we must take the world as it goes—dirt and precious stones mixed together. Clarence Hervey, however, n’a pas une ame de boue; he, I am sure, has been really concerned for me: he thinks that his young horses were the sole cause of the whole evil, and he blames himself so sincerely, and so unjustly, that I really was half tempted to undeceive him; but that would have been doing him an injury, for you know great philosophers tell us that there is no pleasure in the world equal to that of being well deceived, especially by the fair sex. Seriously, Belinda, is it my fancy, or is not Clarence wonderfully changed? Is not he grown pale, and thin, and serious, not to say melancholy? What have you done to him since I have been ill?”

“Nothing—I have never seen him.”

“No! then the thing is accounted for very naturally—he is in despair because he has been banished from your divine presence.”

“More likely because he has been in anxiety about your ladyship,” said Belinda.

“I will find out the cause, let it be what it may,” said Lady Delacour: “luckily my address is equal to my curiosity, and that is saying a great deal.”

Notwithstanding all her ladyship’s address, her curiosity was baffled; she could not discover Clarence Hervey’s secret, and she began to believe that the change which she had noticed in his looks and manner was imaginary or accidental. Had she seen more of him at this time, she would not have so easily given up her suspicions; but she saw him only for a few minutes every day, and during that time he talked to her with all his former gaiety; besides, Lady Delacour had herself a daily part to perform, which occupied almost her whole attention. Notwithstanding the vivacity which she affected, Belinda perceived that she was now more seriously alarmed than she had ever been about her health. It was all that her utmost exertions could accomplish, to appear for a short time in the day—some evenings she came into company only for half an hour, on other days only for a few minutes, just walked through the rooms, paid her compliments to every body, complained of a nervous head-ache, left Belinda to do the honours for her, and retired.

Miss Portman was now really placed in a difficult and dangerous situation, and she had ample opportunities of learning and practising prudence. All the fashionable dissipated young men in London frequented Lady Delacour’s house, and it was said that they were drawn thither by the attractions of her fair representative. The gentlemen considered a niece of Mrs. Stanhope as their lawful prize. The ladies wondered that the men could think Belinda Portman a beauty; but whilst they affected to scorn, they sincerely feared her charms. Thus left entirely to her own discretion, she was exposed at once to the malignant eye of envy, and the insidious voice of flattery—she had no friend, no guide, and scarcely a protector: her aunt Stanhope’s letters, indeed, continually supplied her with advice, but with advice which she could not follow consistently with her own feelings and principles. Lady Delacour, even if she had been well, was not a person on whose counsels she could rely; our heroine was not one of those daring spirits, who are ambitious of acting for themselves; she felt the utmost diffidence of her own powers, yet at the same time a firm resolution not to be led even by timidity into follies which the example of Lady Delacour had taught her to despise. Belinda’s prudence seemed to increase with the necessity for its exertion. It was not the mercenary wily prudence of a young lady, who has been taught to think it virtue to sacrifice the affections of her heart to the interests of her fortune—it was not the prudence of a cold and selfish, but of a modest and generous woman. She found it most difficult to satisfy herself in her conduct towards Clarence Hervey: he seemed mortified and miserable if she treated him merely as a common acquaintance, yet she felt the danger of admitting him to the familiarity of friendship. Had she been thoroughly convinced that he was attached to some other woman, she hoped that she could freely converse with him, and look upon him as a married man; but notwithstanding the lock of beautiful hair, she could not entirely divest herself of the idea that she was beloved, when she observed the extreme eagerness with which Clarence Hervey watched all her motions, and followed her with his eye as if his fate depended upon her. She remarked that he endeavoured as much as possible to prevent this species of attention from being noticed, either by the public or by herself; his manner towards her every day became more distant and respectful, more constrained and embarrassed; but now and then a different look and expression escaped. She had often heard of Mr. Hervey’s great address in affairs of gallantry, and she was sometimes inclined to believe that he was trifling with her, merely for the glory of a conquest over her heart; at other times she suspected him of deeper designs upon her, such as would deserve contempt and detestation; but upon the whole she was disposed to believe that he was entangled by some former attachment from which he could not extricate himself with honour; and upon this supposition she thought him worthy of her esteem, and of her pity.

About this time Sir Philip Baddely began to pay a sort of lounging attention to Belinda: he knew that Clarence Hervey liked her, and this was the principal cause of his desire to attract her attention. “Belinda Portman” became his favourite toast, and amongst his companions he gave himself the air of talking of her with rapture.

“Rochfort,” said he, one day, to his friend, “damme, if I was to think of Belinda Portman in any way—you take me—Clary would look damned blue—hey?—damned blue, and devilish small, and cursed silly too—hey?”

“‘Pon honour, I should like to see him,” said Rochfort: “‘pon honour, he deserves it from us, Sir Phil, and I’ll stand your friend with the girl, and it will do no harm to give her a hint of Clary’s Windsor flame, as a dead secret—‘pon honour, he deserves it from us.”

Now it seems that Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, during the time of Clarence Hervey’s intimacy with them, observed that he paid frequent visits at Windsor, and they took it into their heads that he kept a mistress there. They were very curious to see her: and, unknown to Clarence, they made several attempts for this purpose: at last one evening, when they were certain that he was not at Windsor, they scaled the high garden wall of the house which he frequented, and actually obtained a sight of a beautiful young girl and an elderly lady, whom they took for her gouvernante. This adventure they kept a profound secret from Clarence, because they knew that he would have quarrelled with them immediately, and would have called them to account for their intrusion. They now determined to avail themselves of their knowledge, and of his ignorance of this circumstance: but they were sensible that it was necessary to go warily to work, lest they should betray themselves. Accordingly they began by dropping distant mysterious hints about Clarence Hervey to Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. Such for instance as—“Damme, we all know Clary’s a perfect connoisseur in beauty—hey, Rochfort?—one beauty at a time is not enough for him—hey, damme? And it is not fashion, nor wit, nor elegance, and all that, that he looks for always.”

These observations were accompanied with the most significant looks. Belinda heard and saw all this in painful silence, but Lady Delacour often used her address to draw some farther explanation from Sir Philip: his regular answer was, “No, no, your ladyship must excuse me there; I can’t peach, damme—hey, Rochfort?”

He was in hopes, from the reserve with which Miss Portman began to treat Clarence, that he should, without making any distinct charge, succeed in disgusting her with his rival. Mr. Hervey was about this time less assiduous than formerly in his visits at Lady Delacour’s; Sir Philip was there every day, and often for Miss Portman’s entertainment exerted himself so far as to tell the news of the town. One morning, when Clarence Hervey happened to be present, the baronet thought it incumbent upon him to eclipse his rival in conversation, and he began to talk of the last fête champêtre at Frogmore.

“What a cursed unlucky overturn that was of yours, Lady Delacour, with those famous young horses! Why, what with this sprain, and this nervous business, you’ve not been able to stir out since the birthday, and you’ve missed the breakfast, and all that, at Frogmore—why, all the world stayed broiling in town on purpose for it, and you that had a card too—how damned provoking!”

“I regret extremely that my illness prevented me from being at this charming fête; I regret it more on Miss Portman’s account than on my own,” said her ladyship. Belinda assured her that she felt no mortification from the disappointment.

“O, damme! but I would have driven you in my curricle,” said Sir Philip: “it was the finest sight and best conducted I ever saw, and only wanted Miss Portman to make it complete. We had gipsies, and Mrs. Mills the actress for the queen of the gipsies; and she gave us a famous good song, Rochfort, you know—and then there was two children upon an ass—damme, I don’t know how they came there, for they’re things one sees every day—and belonged only to two of the soldiers’ wives—for we had the whole band of the Staffordshire playing at dinner, and we had some famous glees—and Fawcett gave us his laughing song, and then we had the launching of the ship, and only it was a boat, it would have been well enough—but damme, the song of Polly Oliver was worth the whole—except the Flemish Hercules, Ducrow, you know, dressed in light blue and silver, and—Miss Portman, I wish you had seen this—three great coach-wheels on his chin, and a ladder and two chairs and two children on them—and after that, he sported a musquet and bayonet with the point of the bayonet on his chin—faith! that was really famous! But I forgot the Pyrrhic dance, Miss Portman, which was damned fine too—-danced in boots and spurs by those Hungarian fellows—they jump and turn about, and clap their knees with their hands, and put themselves in all sorts of ways—and then we had that song of Polly Oliver, as I told you before, and Mrs. Mills gave us—no, no—it was a drummer of the Staffordshire dressed as a gipsy girl, gave us the cottage on the moor, the most charming thing, and would suit your voice, Miss Portman—damme, you’d sing it like an angel——But where was I?—Oh, then they had tea—and fireplaces built of brick, out in the air—and then the entrance to the ball-room was all a colonnade done with lamps and flowers, and that sort of thing—and there was some bon-mot (but that was in the morning) amongst the gipsies about an orange and the stadtholder—and then there was a Turkish dance, and a Polonese dance, all very fine, but nothing to come up to the Pyrrhic touch, which was a great deal the most knowing, in boots and spurs—damme, now, I can’t describe the thing to you, ‘tis a cursed pity you weren’t there, damme.”

Lady Delacour assured Sir Philip that she had been more entertained by the description than she could have been by the reality.—“Clarence, was not it the best description you ever heard? But pray favour us with a touch of the Pyrrhic dance, Sir Philip.”

Lady Delacour spoke with such polite earnestness, and the baronet had so little penetration and so much conceit, that he did not suspect her of irony: he eagerly began to exhibit the Pyrrhic dance, but in such a manner that it was impossible for human gravity to withstand the sight—Rochfort laughed first, Lady Delacour followed him, and Clarence Hervey and Belinda could no longer restrain themselves.

“Damme, now I believe you’ve all been quizzing me,” cried the baronet, and he fell into a sulky silence, eyeing Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman from time to time with what he meant for a knowing look. His silence and sulkiness lasted till Clarence took his leave. Soon afterward Belinda retired to the music-room. Sir Philip then begged to speak a few words to Lady Delacour, with a face of much importance: and after a preamble of nonsensical expletives, he said that his regard for her ladyship and Miss Portman made him wish to explain hints which had been dropped from him at times, and which he could not explain to her satisfaction, without a promise of inviolable secresy. “As Hervey is or was a sort of a friend, I can’t mention this sort of thing without such a preliminary.”—Lady Delacour gave the preliminary promise, and Sir Philip informed her, that people began to take notice that Hervey was an admirer of Miss Portman, and that it might be a disadvantage to the young lady, as Mr. Hervey could have no serious intentions, because he had an attachment, to his certain knowledge, elsewhere.

“A matrimonial attachment?” said Lady Delacour.

“Why, damme, as to matrimony, I can’t say; but the girl’s so famously beautiful, and Clary has been constant to her so many years——”

“Many years! then she is not young?”

“Oh, damme, yes, she is not more than seventeen,—and, let her be what else she will, she’s a famous fine girl. I had a sight of her once at Windsor, by stealth.”

And then the baronet described her after his manner.—“Where Clary keeps her now, I can’t make out; but he has taken her away from Windsor. She was then with a gouvernante, and is as proud as the devil, which smells like matrimony for Clary.”

“And do you know this peerless damsel’s name?”

“I think the old Jezebel called her Miss St. Pierre—ay, damme, it was Virginia too—Virginia St. Pierre.”

“Virginia St. Pierre, a pretty romantic name,” said Lady Delacour: “Miss Portman and I are extremely obliged by your attention to the preservation of our hearts, and I promise you we shall keep your counsel and our own.”

Sir Philip then, with more than his usual complement of oaths, pronounced Miss Portman to be the finest girl he had ever seen, and took his leave.

When Lady Delacour repeated this story to Belinda, she concluded by saying, “Now, my dear, you know Sir Philip Baddely has his own views in telling us all this—in telling you, all this; for evidently he admires you, and consequently hates Clarence. So I believe only half the man says; and the other half, though it has made you turn so horribly pale, my love, I consider as a thing of no manner of consequence to you.”

“Of no manner of consequence to me, I assure your ladyship,” said Belinda; “I have always considered Mr. Hervey as—”

“Oh, as a common acquaintance, no doubt—but we’ll pass over all those pretty speeches: I was going to say that this ‘mistress in the wood’ can be of no consequence to your happiness, because, whatever that fool Sir Philip may think, Clarence Hervey is not a man to go and marry a girl who has been his mistress for half a dozen years. Do not look so shocked, my dear—I really cannot help laughing. I congratulate you, however, that the thing is no worse—it is all in rule and in course—when a man marries, he sets up new equipages, and casts off old mistresses; or if you like to see the thing as a woman of sentiment rather than as a woman of the world, here is the prettiest opportunity for your lover’s making a sacrifice. I am sorry I cannot make you smile, my dear; but consider, as nobody knows this naughty thing but ourselves, we are not called upon to bristle up our morality, and the most moral ladies in the world do not expect men to be as moral as themselves: so we may suit the measure of our external indignation to our real feelings. Sir Philip cannot stir in the business, for he knows Clarence would call him out if his secret visit to Virginia were to come to light. I advise you d’aller votre train with Clarence, without seeming to suspect him in the least; there is nothing like innocence in these cases, my dear: but I know by the Spanish haughtiness of your air at this instant, that you would sooner die the death of the sentimental—than follow my advice.”

Belinda, without any haughtiness, but with firm gentleness, replied, that she had no designs whatever upon Mr. Hervey, and that therefore there could be no necessity for any manoeuvring on her part;—that the ambiguity of his conduct towards her had determined her long since to guard her affections, and that she had the satisfaction to feel that they were entirely under her command.

“That is a great satisfaction, indeed, my dear,” said Lady Delacour. “It is a pity that your countenance, which is usually expressive enough, should not at this instant obey your wishes and express perfect felicity. But though you feel no pain from disappointed affection, doubtless the concern that you show arises from the necessity you are under of withdrawing a portion of your esteem from Mr. Hervey—this is the style for you, is it not? After all, my dear, the whole maybe a quizzification of Sir Philip’s—and yet he gave me such a minute description of her person! I am sure the man has not invention or taste enough to produce such a fancy piece.”

“Did he mention,” said Belinda, in a low voice, “the colour of her hair?”

“Yes, light brown; but the colour of this hair seems to affect you more than all the rest.”

Here, to Belinda’s great relief, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Marriott. From all she had heard, but especially from the agreement between the colour of the hair which dropped from Hervey’s letter with Sir Philip’s description of Virginia’s, Miss Portman was convinced that Clarence had some secret attachment; and she could not help blaming him in her own mind for having, as she thought, endeavoured to gain her affections, whilst he knew that his heart was engaged to another. Mr. Hervey, however, gave her no farther reason to suspect him of any design to win her love; for about this time his manner towards her changed,—he obviously endeavoured to avoid her; his visits were short, and his attention was principally directed to Lady Delacour; when she retired, he took his leave, and Sir Philip Baddely had the field to himself. The baronet, who thought that he had succeeded in producing a coldness between Belinda and his rival, was surprised to find that he could not gain any advantage for himself; for some time he had not the slightest thoughts of any serious connexion with the lady, but at last he was piqued by her indifference, and by the raillery of his friend Rochfort.

“‘Pon honour,” said Rochfort, “the girl must be in love with Clary, for she minds you no more than if you were nobody.”

“I could make her sing to another tune, if I pleased,” said Sir Philip; “but, damme, it would cost me too much—a wife’s too expensive a thing, now-a-days. Why, a man could have twenty curricles, and a fine stud, and a pack of hounds, and as many mistresses as he chooses into the bargain, for what it would cost him to take a wife. Oh, damme, Belinda Portman’s a fine girl, but not worth so much as that comes to; and yet, confound me, if I should not like to see how blue Clary would look, if I were to propose for her in good earnest—hey, Rochfort?—I should like to pay him for the way he served us about that quiz of a doctor, hey?”

“Ay,” said Rochfort, “you know he told us there was a tant pis and a tant mieux in every thing—he’s not come to the tant pis yet. ‘Pon honour, Sir Philip, the thing rests with you.”

The baronet vibrated for some time between the fear of being taken in by one of Mrs. Stanhope’s nieces, and the hope of triumphing over Clarence Hervey. At last, what he called love prevailed over prudence, and he was resolved, cost him what it would, to have Belinda Portman. He had not the least doubt of being accepted, if he made a proposal of marriage; consequently, the moment that he came to this determination, he could not help assuming d’avance the tone of a favoured lover.

“Damme,” cried Sir Philip, one night, at Lady Delacour’s concert, “I think that Mr. Hervey has taken out a patent for talking to Miss Portman; but damme if I give up this place, now I have got it,” cried the baronet, seating himself beside Belinda.

Mr. Hervey did not contest his seat, and Sir Philip kept his post during the remainder of the concert; but, though he had the field entirely to himself, he could not think of any thing more interesting, more amusing, to whisper in Belinda’s ear, than, “Don’t you think the candles want snuffing famously?”

The baronet determined the next day upon the grand attack. He waited upon Miss Portman with the certainty of being favourably received; but he was, nevertheless, somewhat embarrassed to know how to begin the conversation, when he found himself alone with the lady.

He twirled and twisted a short stick that he held in his hand, and put it into and out of his boot twenty times, and at last he began with—“Lady Delacour’s not gone to Harrowgate yet?”

“No: her ladyship has not yet felt herself well enough to undertake the journey.”

“That was a cursed unlucky overturn! She may thank Clarence Hervey for that: it’s like him,—he thinks he’s a better judge of horses, and wine, and every thing else, than any body in the world. Damme, now if I don’t believe he thinks nobody else but himself has eyes enough to see that a fine woman’s a fine woman; but I’d have him to know, that Miss Belinda Portman has been Sir Philip Baddely’s toast these two months.”

As this intelligence did not seem to make the expected impression upon Miss Belinda Portman, Sir Philip had recourse again to his little stick, with which he went through the sword exercise. After a silence of some minutes, and after walking to the window, and back again, as if to look for sense, he exclaimed, “How is Mrs. Stanhope now, pray, Miss Portman? and your sister, Mrs. Tollemache? she was the finest woman, I thought, the first winter she came out, that ever I saw, damme. Have you ever been told that you’re like her?”

“Never, sir.”

“Oh, damn it then, but you are; only ten times handsomer.”

“Ten times handsomer than the finest woman you ever saw, Sir Philip?” said Belinda, smiling.

“Than the finest woman I had ever seen then,” said Sir Philip; “for, damme, I did not know what it was to be in love then” (here the baronet heaved an audible sigh): “I always laughed at love, and all that, then, and marriage particularly. I’ll trouble you for Mrs. Stanhope’s direction, Miss Portman; I believe, to do the thing in style, I ought to write to her before I speak to you.”

Belinda looked at him with astonishment; and laying down the pencil with which she had just begun to write a direction to Mrs. Stanhope, she said, “Perhaps, Sir Philip, to do the thing in style, I ought to pretend at this instant not to understand you; but such false delicacy might mislead you: permit me, therefore, to say, that if I have any concern in the letter which you, are going to write to my aunt Stanhope——”

“Well guessed!” interrupted Sir Philip: “to be sure you have, and you’re a charming girl—damn me if you aren’t—for meeting my ideas in this way, which will save a cursed deal of trouble,” added the polite lover, seating himself on the sofa, beside Belinda.

“To prevent your giving yourself any further trouble then, sir, on my account,” said Miss Portman——

“Nay, damme, don’t catch at that unlucky word, trouble, nor look so cursed angry; though it becomes you, too, uncommonly, and I like pride in a handsome woman, if it was only for variety’s sake, for it’s not what one meets with often, now-a-days. As to trouble, all I meant was, the trouble of writing to Mrs. Stanhope, which of course I thank you for saving me; for to be sure, I’d rather (and you can’t blame me for that) have my answer from your own charming lips, if it was only for the pleasure of seeing you blush in this heavenly sort of style.”

“To put an end to this heavenly sort of style, sir,” said Belinda, withdrawing her hand, which the baronet took as if he was confident of its being his willing prize, “I must explicitly assure you, that it is not in my power to encourage your addresses. I am fully sensible,” added Miss Portman, “of the honour Sir Philip Baddely has done me, and I hope he will not be offended by the frankness of my answer.”

“You can’t be in earnest, Miss Portman!” exclaimed the astonished baronet.

“Perfectly in earnest, Sir Philip.”

“Confusion seize me,” cried he, starting up, “if this isn’t the most extraordinary thing I ever heard! Will you do me the honour, madam, to let me know your particular objections to Sir Philip Baddely?”

“My objections,” said Belinda, “cannot be obviated, and therefore it would be useless to state them.”

“Nay, pray, ma’am, do me the favour—I only ask for information sake—is it to Sir Philip Baddely’s fortune, 15,000l. a year, you object, or to his family, or to his person?—Oh, curse it!” said he, changing his tone, “you’re only quizzing me to see how I should look—damn me, you did it too well, you little coquet!”

Belinda again assured him that she was entirely in earnest, and that she was incapable of the sort of coquetry which he ascribed to her.

“Oh, damme, ma’am, then I’ve no more to say—a coquet is a thing I understand as well as another, and if we had been only talking in the air, it would have been another thing; but when I come at once to a proposal in form, and a woman seriously tells me she has objections that cannot be obviated, damme, what must I, or what must the world conclude, but that she’s very unaccountable, or that she’s engaged—which last I presume to be the case, and it would have been a satisfaction to me to have known it sooner—at any rate, it is a satisfaction to me to know it now.”

“I am sorry to deprive you of so much satisfaction,” said Miss Portman, “by assuring you, that I am not engaged to any one.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Delacour, who came to inquire of Miss Portman how his lady did. The baronet, after twisting his little black stick into all manner of shapes, finished by breaking it, and then having no other resource, suddenly wished Miss Portman a good morning, and decamped with a look of silly ill-humour. He was determined to write to Mrs. Stanhope, whose influence over her niece he had no doubt would be decisive in his favour. “Sir Philip seems to be a little out of sorts this morning,” said Lord Delacour: “I am afraid he’s angry with me for interrupting his conversation; but really I did not know he was here, and I wanted to catch you a moment alone, that I might, in the first place, thank you for all your goodness to Lady Delacour. She has had a tedious sprain of it; these nervous fevers and convulsions—I don’t understand them, but I think Dr. X——‘s prescriptions seem to have done her good, for she is certainly better of late, and I am glad to hear music and people again in the house, because I know all this is what my Lady Delacour likes, and there is no reasonable indulgence that I would not willingly allow a wife; but I think there is a medium in all things. I am not a man to be governed by a wife, and when I have once said a thing, I like to be steady and always shall. And I am sure Miss Portman has too much good sense to think me wrong: for now, Miss Portman, in that quarrel about the coach and horses, which you heard part of one morning at breakfast—I must tell you the beginning of that quarrel.”

“Excuse me, my lord, but I would rather hear of the end than of the beginning of quarrels.”

“That shows your good sense as well as your good nature. I wish you could make my Lady Delacour of your taste—she does not want sense—but then (I speak to you freely of all that lies upon my mind, Miss Portman, for I know—I know you have no delight in making mischief in a house,) between you and me, her sense is not of the right kind. A woman may have too much wit—now too much is as bad as too little, and in a woman, worse; and when two people come to quarrel, then wit on either side, but more especially on the wife’s, you know is very provoking—‘tis like concealed weapons, which are wisely forbidden by law. If a person kill another in a fray, with a concealed weapon, ma’am, by a sword in a cane, for instance, ‘tis murder by the law. Now even if it were not contrary to law, I would never have such a thing in my cane to carry about with me; for when a man’s in a passion he forgets every thing, and would as soon lay about him with a sword as with a cane: so it is better such a thing should not be in his power. And it is the same with wit, which would be safest and best out of the power of some people.”

“But is it fair, my lord, to make use of wit yourself to abuse wit in others?” said Belinda with a smile, which put his lordship into perfect good-humour with both himself and his lady.

“Why, really,” said he, “there would be no living with Lady Delacour, if I did not come out with a little sly bit of wit now and then; but it is what I am not in the habit of doing, I assure you, except when very hard pushed. But, Miss Portman, as you like so much to hear the end of quarrels, here’s the end of one which you have a particular right to hear something of,” continued his lordship, taking out his pocket-book and producing some bank-notes: “you should have received this before, madam, if I had known of the transaction sooner—of your part of it, I mean.”

“Milord, de man call to speak about de burgundy you order, milord,” said Champfort, who came into the room with a sly, inquisitive face.

“Tell him I’ll see him immediately—show him into the parlour, and give him a newspaper to read.”

“Yes, milord—milord has it in his pocket since he dress.”

“Here it is,” said his lordship; and as Champfort came forward to receive the newspaper, his eye glanced at the bank-notes, and then at Miss Portman.

“Here,” continued Lord Delacour, as Champfort had left the room, “here are your two hundred guineas, Miss Portman; and as I am going to this man about my burgundy, and shall be out all the rest of the day, let me trouble you the next time you see Lady Delacour to give her this pocket-book from me. I should be sorry that Miss Portman, from any thing that has passed, should run away with the idea that I am a niggardly husband, or a tyrant, though I certainly like to be master in my own house. What are you doing, madam?—that is your note, that does not go into the pocket-book, you know.”

“Permit me to put it in, my lord,” said Belinda, returning the pocket-book to him, “and to beg you will give Lady Delacour the pleasure of seeing you: she has inquired several times whether your lordship were at home. I will run up to her dressing-room, and tell her that you are here.”

“How lightly she goes on the wings of good-nature!” said Lord Delacour. “I can do no less than follow her; for though I like to be treated with respect in my own house, there is a time for every thing. I would not give Lady Delacour the trouble of coming down here to me with her sprained ankle, especially as she has inquired for me several times.”

His lordship’s visit was not of unseasonable length; for he recollected that the man who came about the burgundy was waiting for him. But, perhaps, the shortness of the visit rendered it the more pleasing, for Lady Delacour afterward said to Belinda, “My dear, would you believe it, my Lord Delacour was absolutely a perfect example of the useful and agreeable this morning—who knows but he may become the sublime and beautiful in time? En attendant here are your two hundred guineas, my dear Belinda: a thousand thanks for the thing, and a million for the manner—manner is all in all in conferring favours. My lord, who, to do him justice, has too much honesty to pretend to more delicacy than he really possesses, told me that he had been taking a lesson from Miss Portman this morning in the art of obliging; and really, for a grown gentleman, and for the first lesson, he comes on surprisingly. I do think, that by the time he is a widower his lordship will be quite another thing, quite an agreeable man—not a genius, not a Clarence Hervey—that you cannot expect. Apropos, what is the reason that we have seen so little of Clarence Hervey lately? He has certainly some secret attraction elsewhere. It cannot be that girl Sir Philip mentioned; no, she’s nothing new. Can it be at Lady Anne Percival’s?—or where can it be? Whenever he sees me, I think he asks when we go to Harrowgate. Now Oakly-park is within a few miles of Harrowgate. I will not go there, that’s decided. Lady Anne is an exemplary matron, so she is out of the case; but I hope she has no sister excellence, no niece, no cousin, to entangle our hero.”

“Ours!” said Belinda.

“Well, yours, then,” said Lady Delacour.

“Mine!”

“Yes, yours: I never in my life saw a better struggle between a sigh and a smile. But what have you done to poor Sir Philip Baddely? My Lord Delacour told me—you know all people who have nothing else to say, tell news quicker than others—my Lord Delacour told me, that he saw Sir Philip part from you this morning in a terrible bad humour. Come, whilst you tell your story, help me to string these pearls; that will save you from the necessity of looking at me, and will conceal your blushes: you need not be afraid of betraying Sir Philip’s secrets; for I could have told you long ago, that he would inevitably propose for you—the fact is nothing new or surprising to me, but I should really like to hear how ridiculous the man made himself.”

“And that,” said Belinda, “is the only thing which I do not wish to tell your ladyship.”

“Lord, my dear, surely it is no secret that Sir Philip Baddely is ridiculous; but you are so good-natured that I can’t be out of humour with you. If you won’t gratify my curiosity, will you gratify my taste, and sing for me once more that charming song which none but you can sing to please me?—I must learn it from you, absolutely.”

Just as Belinda was beginning to sing, Marriott’s macaw began to scream, so that Lady Delacour could not hear any thing else.

“Oh, that odious macaw!” cried her ladyship, “I can endure it no longer” (and she rang her bell violently): “it kept me from sleeping all last night—Marriott must give up this bird. Marriott, I cannot endure that macaw—you must part with it for my sake, Marriott. It cost you four guineas: I am sure I would give five with the greatest pleasure to get rid of it, for it is the torment of my life.”

“Dear, my lady! I can assure you it is only because they will not shut the doors after them below, as I desire. I am certain Mr. Champfort never shut a door after him in his life, nor never will if he was to live to the days of Methuselah.”

“That is very little satisfaction to me, Marriott,” said Lady Delacour.

“And indeed, my lady, it is very little satisfaction to me, to hear my macaw abused as it is every day of my life, for Mr. Champfort’s fault.”

“But it cannot be Champfort’s fault that I have ears.”

“But if the doors were shut, my lady, you wouldn’t or couldn’t hear—as I’ll prove immediately,” said Marriott, and she ran directly and shut, according to her own account, “eleven doors which were stark staring wide open.”—“Now, my lady, you can’t hear a single syllable of the macaw.”

“No, but one of the eleven doors will open presently,” said Lady Delacour: “you will observe it is always more than ten to one against me.”

A door opened, and the macaw was heard to scream. “The macaw must go, Marriott, that is certain,” said her ladyship, firmly.

“Then I must go, my lady,” said Marriott, angrily, “that is certain; for to part with my macaw is a thing I cannot do to please any body.” Her eyes turned with indignation upon Belinda, from association merely; because the last time that she had been angry about her macaw, she had also been angry with Miss Portman, whom she imagined to be the secret enemy of her favourite.

“To stay another week in the house after my macaw’s discarded in disgrace is a thing nothing shall prevail upon me to do.” She flung out of the room in a fury.

“Good Heavens! am I reduced to this?” said Lady Delacour: “she thinks that she has me in her power. No; I can die without her: I have but a short time to live—I will not live a slave. Let the woman betray me, if she will. Follow her this moment, my dear generous friend; tell her never to come into this room again: take this pocket-book, pay her whatever is due to her in the first place, and give her fifty guineas—observe!—not as a bribe, but as a reward.”

It was a delicate and difficult commission. Belinda found Marriott at first incapable of listening to reason. “I am sure there is nobody in the world that would treat me and my macaw in this manner, except my lady,” cried she; “and somebody must have set her against me, for it is not natural to her: but since she can’t bear me about her any longer, ‘tis time I should be gone.”

“The only thing of which Lady Delacour complained was the noise of this macaw,” said Belinda; “it was a pretty bird—how long have you had it?”

“Scarcely a month,” said Marriott, sobbing.

“And how long have you lived with your lady?”

“Six years!—And to part with her after all!—”

“And for the sake of a macaw! And at a time when your lady is so much in want of you, Marriott! You know she cannot live long, and she has much to suffer before she dies, and if you leave her, and if in a fit of passion you betray the confidence she has placed in you, you will reproach yourself for it ever afterward. This bird—or all the birds in the world—will not be able to console you; for you are of an affectionate disposition, I know, and sincerely attached to your poor lady.”

“That I am!—and to betray her!—Oh, Miss Portman, I would sooner cut off my hand than do it. And I have been tried more than my lady knows of, or you either, for Mr. Champfort, who is the greatest mischief-maker in the world, and is the cause, by not shutting the door, of all this dilemma; for now, ma’am, I’m convinced, by the tenderness of your speaking, that you are not the enemy to me I supposed, and I beg your pardon; but I was going to say that Mr. Champfort, who saw the fracas between my lord and me, about the key and the door, the night of my lady’s accident, has whispered it about at Lady Singleton’s and every where—Mrs. Luttridge’s maid, ma’am, who is my cousin, has pestered me with so many questions and offers, from Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke, of any money, if I would only tell who was in the boudoir—and I have always answered, nobody—and I defy them to get any thing out of me. Betray my lady! I’d sooner cut my tongue out this minute! Can she have such a base opinion of me, or can you, ma’am?”

“No, indeed, I am convinced that you are incapable of betraying her, Marriott; but in all probability after you have left her——”

“If my lady would let me keep my macaw,” interrupted Marriott, “I should never think of leaving her.”

“The macaw she will not suffer to remain in the house, nor is it reasonable that she should: it deprives her of sleep—it kept her awake three hours this morning.”

Marriott was beginning the history of Champfort and the doors again; but Miss Portman stopped her by saying, “All this is past now. How much is due to you, Mrs. Marriott? Lady Delacour has commissioned me to pay you every thing that is due to you.”

“Due to me! Lord bless me, ma’am, am I to go?”

“Certainly, it was your own desire—it is consequently your lady’s: she is perfectly sensible of your attachment to her, and of your services, but she cannot suffer herself to be treated with disrespect. Here are fifty guineas, which she gives you as a reward for your past fidelity, not as a bribe to secure your future secresy. You are at liberty, she desires me to say, to tell her secret to the whole world, if you choose to do so.”

“Oh, Miss Portman, take my macaw—do what you will with it—only make my peace with my lady,” cried Marriott, clasping her hands, in an agony of grief: “here are the fifty guineas, ma’am, don’t leave them with me—I will never be disrespectful again—take my macaw and all! No, I will carry it myself to my lady.”

Lady Delacour was surprised by the sudden entrance of Marriott, and her macaw. The chain which held the bird Marriott put into her ladyship’s hand without being able to say any thing more than, “Do what you please, my lady, with it—and with me.”

Pacified by this submission, Lady Delacour granted Marriott’s pardon, and she most sincerely rejoiced at this reconciliation.

The next day Belinda asked the dowager Lady Boucher, who was going to a bird-fancier’s, to take her with her, in hopes that she might be able to meet with some bird more musical than a macaw, to console Marriott for the loss of her screaming favourite. Lady Delacour commissioned Miss Portman to go to any price she pleased. “If I were able, I would accompany you myself, my dear, for poor Marriott’s sake, though I would almost as soon go to the Augean stable.”

There was a bird-fancier in High Holborn, who had bought several of the hundred and eighty beautiful birds, which, as the newspapers of the day advertised, had been “collected, after great labour and expense, by Mons. Marten and Co. for the Republican Museum at Paris, and lately landed out of the French brig Urselle, taken on her voyage from Cayenne to Brest, by His Majesty’s Ship Unicorn.”

When Lady Boucher and Belinda arrived at this bird-fancier’s, they were long in doubt to which of the feathered beauties they should give the preference. Whilst the dowager was descanting upon their various perfections, a lady and three children came in; she immediately attracted Belinda’s attention, by her likeness to Clarence Hervey’s description of Lady Anne Percival—it was Lady Anne, as Lady Boucher, who was slightly acquainted with her, informed Belinda in a whisper.

The children were soon eagerly engaged looking at the birds.

“Miss Portman,” said Lady Boucher, “as Lady Delacour is so far from well, and wishes to have a bird that will not make any noise in the house, suppose you were to buy for Mrs. Marriott this beautiful pair of green parroquets; or, stay, a goldfinch is not very noisy, and here is one that can play a thousand pretty tricks. Pray, sir, make it draw up water in its little bucket for us.”

“Oh, mamma!” said one of the little boys, “this is the very thing that is mentioned in Bewick’s History of Birds. Pray look at this goldfinch, Helena, now it is drawing up its little bucket—but where is Helena? here’s room for you, Helena.”

Whilst the little boys were looking at the goldfinch, Belinda felt somebody touch her gently: it was Helena Delacour.

“Can I speak a few words to you?” said Helena.

Belinda walked to the farthest end of the shop with her.

“Is my mamma better?” said she, in a timid tone. “I have some gold fish, which you know cannot make the least noise: may I send them to her? I heard that lady call you Miss Portman: I believe you are the lady who wrote such a kind postscript to me in mamma’s last letter—that is the reason I speak so freely to you now. Perhaps you would write to tell me if mamma will see me; and Lady Anne Percival would take me at any time, I am sure—but she goes to Oakly-park in a few days. I wish I might be with mamma whilst she is ill; I would not make the least noise. But don’t ask her, if you think it will be troublesome—only let me send the gold fish.”

Belinda was touched by the manner in which this affectionate little girl spoke to her. She assured her that she would say all she wished to her mother, and she begged Helena to send the gold fish whenever she pleased.

“Then,” said Helena, “I will send them as soon as I go home as soon as I go back to Lady Anne Percival’s, I mean.” Belinda, when she had finished speaking to Helena, heard the man who was showing the birds, lament that he had not a blue macaw, which Lady Anne Percival was commissioned to procure for Mrs. Margaret Delacour.

“Red macaws, my lady, I have in abundance; but unfortunately, a blue macaw I really have not at present; nor have I been able to get one, though I have inquired amongst all the bird-fanciers in town; and I went to the auction at Haydon-square on purpose, but could not get one.”

Belinda requested Lady Boucher would tell her servants to bring in the cage that contained Marriott’s blue macaw; and as soon as it was brought she gave it to Helena, and begged that she would carry it to her Aunt Delacour.

“Lord, my dear Miss Portman,” said Lady Boucher, drawing her aside, “I am afraid you will get yourself into a scrape; for Lady Delacour is not upon speaking terms with this Mrs. Margaret Delacour—she cannot endure her; you know she is my Lord Delacour’s aunt.”

Belinda persisted in sending the macaw, for she was in hopes that these terrible family quarrels might be made up, if either party would condescend to show any disposition to oblige the other.

Lady Anne Percival understood Miss Portman’s civility as it was meant.

“This is a bird of good omen,” said she; “it augurs family peace.”

“I wish you would do me the favour, Lady Boucher, to introduce me to Miss Portman,” continued Lady Anne.

“The very thing I wished!” cried Helena.

A few minutes’ conversation passed afterward upon different subjects, and Lady Anne Percival and Belinda parted with a mutual desire to see more of each other.

When Belinda got home, Lady Delacour was busy in the library looking over a collection of French plays with the ci-devant Count de N——; a gentleman who possessed such singular talents for reading dramatic compositions, that many people declared that they would rather hear him read a play than see it performed at the theatre. Even those who were not judges of his merit, and who had little taste for literature, crowded to hear him, because it was the fashion. Lady Delacour engaged him for a reading party at her house, and he was consulting with her what play would be most amusing to his audience. “My dear Belinda! I am glad you are come to give us your opinion,” said her ladyship; “no one has a better taste: but first I should ask you what you have done at your bird-fancier’s; I hope you have brought home some horned cock5, or some monstrously beautiful creature for Marriott. If it has not a voice like the macaw I shall be satisfied; but even if it be the bird of paradise, I question whether Marriott will like it as well as its screaming predecessor.”

“I am sure she will like what is coming for her,” said Belinda, “and so will your ladyship; but do not let me interrupt you and monsieur le Comte.” And as she spoke, she took up a volume of plays which lay upon the table.

“Nanine, or La Prude, which shall we have?” said Lady Delacour: “or what do you think of L’Ecossaise?”

“The scene of L’Ecossaise is laid in London,” said Belinda; “I should think with an English audience it would therefore be popular.”

“Yes! so it will,” said Lady Delacour: “then let it be L’Ecossaise. M. le Comte I am sure will do justice to the character of Friport the Englishman, ‘qui scait donner, mais qui ne scait pas vivre.’ My dear, I forgot to tell you that Clarence Hervey has been here: it is a pity you did not come a little sooner, you would have heard a charming scene of the School for Scandal read by him. M. le Comte was quite delighted; but Clarence was in a great hurry, he would only give us one scene, he was going to Mr. Percival’s on business. I am sure what I told you the other day is true: but, however, he has promised to come back to dine with me—M. le Comte, you will dine with us, I hope?”

The count was extremely sorry that it was impossible—he was engaged. Belinda suddenly recollected that it was time to dress for dinner; but just as the count took his leave, and as she was going up stairs, a footman met her, and told her that Mr. Hervey was in the drawing-room, and wished to speak to her. Many conjectures were formed in Belinda’s mind as she passed on to the drawing-room; but the moment that she opened the door, she knew the nature of Mr. Hervey’s business, for she saw the glass globe containing Helena Delacour’s gold fishes standing on the table beside him. “I have been commissioned to present these to you for Lady Delacour,” said Mr. Hervey, “and I have seldom received a commission that has given me so much pleasure. I perceive that Miss Portman is indeed a real friend to Lady Delacour—how happy she is to have such a friend!”

After a pause Mr. Hervey went on speaking of Lady Delacour, and of his earnest desire to see her as happy in domestic life as she appeared to be in public. He frankly confessed, that when he was first acquainted with her ladyship, he had looked upon her merely as a dissipated woman of fashion, and he had considered only his own amusement in cultivating her society: “But,” continued he, “of late I have formed a different opinion of her character; and I think, from what I have observed, that Miss Portman’s ideas on this subject agree with mine. I had laid a plan for making her ladyship acquainted with Lady Anne Percival, who appears to me one of the most amiable and one of the happiest of women. Oakly-park is but a few miles from Harrowgate.—But I am disappointed in this scheme; Lady Delacour has changed her mind, she says, and will not go there. Lady Anne, however, has just told me, that, though it is July, and though she loves the country, she will most willingly stay in town a month longer, as she thinks that, with your assistance, there is some probability of her effecting a reconciliation between Lady Delacour and her husband’s relations, with some of whom Lady Anne is intimately acquainted. To begin with my friend, Mrs. Margaret Delacour: the macaw was most graciously received, and I flatter myself that I have prepared Mrs. Delacour to think somewhat more favourably of her niece than she was wont to do. All now depends upon Lady Delacour’s conduct towards her daughter: if she continues to treat her with neglect, I shall be convinced that I have been mistaken in her character.”

Belinda was much pleased by the openness and the unaffected good-nature with which Clarence Hervey spoke, and she certainly was not sorry to hear from his own lips a distinct explanation of his views and sentiments. She assured him that no effort that she could make with propriety should be wanting to effect the desirable reconciliation between her ladyship and her family, as she perfectly agreed with him in thinking that Lady Delacour’s character had been generally misunderstood by the world.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hervey, “her connexion with that Mrs. Freke hurt her more in the eyes of the world than she was aware of. It is tacitly understood by the public, that every lady goes bail for the character of her female friends. If Lady Delacour had been so fortunate as to meet with such a friend as Miss Portman in her early life, what a different woman she would have been! She once said some such thing to me herself, and she never appeared to me so amiable as at that moment.”

Mr. Hervey pronounced these last words in a manner more than usually animated; and whilst he spoke, Belinda stooped to gather a sprig from a myrtle, which stood on the hearth. She perceived that the myrtle, which was planted in a large china vase, was propped up on one side with the broken bits of Sir Philip Baddely’s little stick: she took them up, and threw them out of the window. “Lady Delacour stuck those fragments there this morning,” said Clarence smiling, “as trophies. She told me of Miss Portman’s victory over the heart of Sir Philip Baddely; and Miss Portman should certainly have allowed them to remain there, as indisputable evidence in favour of the baronet’s taste and judgment.”

Clarence Hervey appeared under some embarrassment, and seemed to be restrained by some secret cause from laying open his real feelings: his manner varied continually. Belinda could not avoid seeing his perplexity—she had recourse again to the gold fishes and to Helena: upon these subjects they could both speak very fluently. Lady Delacour made her appearance by the time that Clarence had finished repeating the Abbé Nollet’s experiments, which he had heard from his friend Doctor X——.

“Now, Miss Portman, the transmission of sound in water,” said Clarence——

“Deep in philosophy, I protest!” said Lady Delacour, as she came in. “What is this about the transmission of sound in water?—Ha! whence come these pretty gold fishes?”

“These gold fishes,” said Belinda, “are come to console Marriott for the loss of her macaw.”

“Thank you, my dear Belinda, for these mute comforters,” said her ladyship; “the very best things you could have chosen.”

“I have not the merit of the choice,” said Belinda, “but I am heartily glad that you approve of it.”

“Pretty creatures,” said Lady Delacour: “no fish were ever so pretty since the days of the prince of the Black Islands in the Arabian Tales. And am I obliged to you, Clarence, for these subjects?”

“No; I have only had the honour of bringing them to your ladyship from——”

“From whom?—Amongst all my numerous acquaintance, have I one in the world who cares a gold fish about me?—Stay, don’t tell me, let me guess——Lady Newland?—No; you shake your heads. I guessed her ladyship, merely because I know she wants to bribe me some way or other to go to one of her stupid entertainments; she wants to pick out of me taste enough to spend a fortune. But you say it was not Lady Newland?—Mrs. Hunt then perhaps? for she has two daughters whom she wants me to ask to my concerts. It was not Mrs. Hunt?—Well, then, it was Mrs. Masterson; for she has a mind to go with me to Harrowgate, where, by-the-bye, I shall not go; so I won’t cheat her out of her gold fishes; it was Mrs. Masterson, hey?”

“No. But these little gold fishes came from a person who would be very glad to go with you to Harrowgate!” said Clarence Hervey. “Or who would be very glad to stay with you in town,” said Belinda: “from a person who wants nothing from you but—your love.”

“Male or female?” said Lady Delacour.

“Female.”

“Female? I have not a female friend in the world but yourself, my dear Belinda; nor do I know another female in the world, whose love I should think about for half an instant. But pray tell me the name of this unknown friend of mine, who wants nothing from me but love.”

“Excuse me,” said Belinda; “I cannot tell her name, unless you will promise to see her.”

“You have really made me impatient to see her,” said Lady Delacour: “but I am not able to go out, you know, yet; and with a new acquaintance, one must go through the ceremony of a morning visit. Now, en conscience, is it worth while?”

“Very well worth while,” cried Belinda and Clarence Hervey, eagerly.

“Ah, pardi! as M. le Comte exclaims continually, Ah, pardi! You are both wonderfully interested in this business. It is some sister, niece, or cousin of Lady Anne Percival’s; or—no, Belinda looks as if I were wrong. Then, perhaps, it is Lady Anne herself?—Well, take me where you please, my dear Belinda, and introduce me where you please: I depend on your taste and judgment in all things; but I really am not yet able to pay morning visits.”

“The ceremony of a morning visit is quite unnecessary here,” said Belinda: “I will introduce the unknown friend to you to-morrow, if you will let me invite her to your reading-party.”

“With pleasure. She is some charming émigrée of Clarence Hervey’s acquaintance. But where did you meet with her this morning? You have both of you conspired to puzzle me. Take it upon yourselves, then, if this new acquaintance should not, as Ninon de l’Enclos used to say, quit cost. If she be half as agreeable and graceful, Clarence, as Madame la Comtesse de Pomenars, I should not think her acquaintance too dearly purchased by a dozen morning visits.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by a thundering knock at the door.

“Whose carriage is it?” said Lady Delacour. “Oh! Lady Newland’s ostentatious livery; and here is her ladyship getting out of her carriage as awkwardly as if she had never been in one before. Overdressed, like a true city dame! Pray, Clarence, look at her, entangled in her bale of gold muslin, and conscious of her bulse of diamonds!—‘Worth, if I’m worth a farthing, five hundred thousand pounds bank currency!’ she says or seems to say, whenever she comes into a room. Now let us see her entrée—”

“But, my dear,” cried Lady Delacour, starting at the sight of Belinda, who was still in her morning dress, “absolutely below par!—Make your escape to Marriott, I conjure you, by all your fears of the contempt of a lady, who will at the first look estimate you, au juste, to a farthing a yard.”

As she left the room, Belinda heard Clarence Hervey repeat to Lady Delacour—

    “Give me a look, give me a face,
    That makes simplicity a grace;
    Robes loosely flowing, hair as free—”
 

he paused—but Belinda recollected the remainder of the stanza—

    “Such sweet neglect more taketh me
    Than all th’adulteries of art,
    That strike mine eyes, but not mine heart.”
 

It was observed, that Miss Portman dressed herself this day with the most perfect simplicity.

Lady Delacour’s curiosity was raised by the description which Belinda and Clarence Hervey had given of the new acquaintance who sent her the gold fishes, and who wanted nothing from her but her love.

Miss Portman told her that the unknown would probably come half an hour earlier to the reading-party than any of the rest of the company. Her ladyship was alone in the library, when Lady Anne Percival brought Helena, in consequence of a note from Belinda.

Miss Portman ran down stairs to the hall to receive her: the little girl took her hand in silence. “Your mother was much pleased with the pretty gold fishes,” said Belinda, “and she will be still more pleased, when she knows that they came from you:—she does not know that yet.”

“I hope she is better to-day? I will not make the least noise,” whispered Helena, as she went up stairs on tiptoe.

“You need not be afraid to make a noise—you need not walk on tiptoe, nor shut the doors softly; for Lady Delacour seems to like all noises except the screaming of the macaw. This way, my dear.”

“Oh, I forgot—it is so long since!—Is mamma up and dressed?”

“Yes. She has had concerts and balls since her illness. You will hear a play read to-night,” said Belinda, “by that French gentleman whom Lady Anne Percival mentioned to me yesterday.”

“But there is a great deal of company, then, with mamma?”

“Nobody is with her now: so come into the library with me,” said Belinda. “Lady Delacour, here is the young lady who sent you the gold fishes.”

“Helena!” cried Lady Delacour.

“You must, I am sure, acknowledge that Mr. Hervey was in the right, when he said that the lady was a striking resemblance of your ladyship.”

“Mr. Hervey knows how to flatter. I never had that ingenuous countenance, even in my best days: but certainly the hair of her head is like mine—and her hands and arms. But why do you tremble, Helena? Is there any thing so very terrible in the looks of your mother?”

“No, only———”

“Only what, my dear?”

“Only—I was afraid—you might not like me.”

“Who has filled your little foolish head with these vain fears? Come, simpleton, kiss me, and tell me how comes it that you are not at Oakly-hall, or—What’s the name of the place?—Oakly-park?”

“Lady Anne Percival would not take me out of town, she said, whilst you were ill; because she thought that you might wish—I mean she thought that I should like to see you—if you pleased.”

“Lady Anne is very good—very obliging—very considerate.”

“She is very good-natured,” said Helena.

“You love this Lady Anne Percival, I perceive.”

“Oh, yes, that I do. She has been so kind to me! I love her as if she were——”

“As if she were—What? finish your sentence.”

“My mother,” said Helena, in a low voice, and she blushed.

“You love her as well as if she were your mother,” repeated Lady Delacour: “that is intelligible: speak intelligibly whatever you say, and never leave a sentence unfinished.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Nothing can be more ill-bred, nor more absurd; for it shows that you have the wish without the power to conceal your sentiments. Pray, my dear,” continued Lady Delacour, “go to Oakly-park immediately—all farther ceremony towards me may be spared.”

“Ceremony, mamma!” said the little girl, and the tears came into her eyes. Belinda sighed; and for some moments there was a dead silence.

“I mean only to say, Miss Portman,” resumed Lady Delacour, “that I hate ceremony: but I know that there are people in the world who love it, who think all virtue, and all affection, depend on ceremony—who are

    ‘Content to dwell in decencies for ever.’ 

I shall not dispute their merits. Verily, they have their reward in the good opinion and good word of all little minds, that is to say, of above half the world. I envy them not their hard-earned fame. Let ceremony curtsy to ceremony with Chinese decorum; but, when ceremony expects to be paid with affection, I beg to be excused.”

“Ceremony sets no value upon affection, and therefore would not desire to be paid with it,” said Belinda.

“Never yet,” continued lady Delacour, pursuing the train of her own thoughts without attending to Belinda, “never yet was any thing like real affection won by any of these ceremonious people.”

“Never,” said Miss Portman, looking at Helena; who, having quickness enough to perceive that her mother aimed this tirade against ceremony at Lady Anne Percival, sat in the most painful embarrassment, her eyes cast down, and her face and neck colouring all over. “Never yet,” said Miss Portman, “did mere ceremonious person win any thing like real affection; especially from children, who are often excellent, because unprejudiced, judges of character.”

“We are all apt to think, that an opinion that differs from our own is a prejudice,” said Lady Delacour: “what is to decide?”

“Facts, I should think,” said Belinda.

“But it is so difficult to get at facts, even about the merest trifles,” said Lady Delacour. “Actions we see, but their causes we seldom see—an aphorism worthy of Confucius himself: now to apply. Pray, my dear Helena, how came you by the pretty gold fishes that you were so good as to send to me yesterday?”

“Lady Anne Percival gave them to me, ma’am.”

“And how came her ladyship to give them to you, ma’am?”

“She gave them to me,” said Helena, hesitating.

“You need not blush, nor repeat to me that she gave them to you; that I have heard already—that is the fact: now for the cause—unless it be a secret. If it be a secret which you have been desired to keep, you are quite right to keep it. I make no doubt of its being necessary, according to some systems of education, that children should be taught to keep secrets; and I am convinced (for Lady Anne Percival is, I have heard, a perfect judge of propriety) that it is peculiarly proper that a daughter should know how to keep secrets from her mother: therefore, my dear, you need not trouble yourself to blush or hesitate any more—I shall ask no farther questions: I was not aware that there was any secret in the case.”

“There is no secret in the world in the case, mamma,” said Helena; “I only hesitated because—”

“You hesitated only because, I suppose you mean. I presume Lady Anne Percival will have no objection to your speaking good English?”

“I hesitated only because I was afraid it would not be right to praise myself. Lady Anne Percival one day asked us all—”

“Us all?”

“I mean Charles, and Edward, and me, to give her an account of some experiments, on the hearing of fishes, which Dr. X—— had told to us: she promised to give the gold fishes, of which we were all very fond, to whichever of us should give the best account of them—Lady Anne gave the fishes to me.”

“And is this all the secret? So it was real modesty made her hesitate, Belinda? I beg your pardon, my dear, and Lady Anne’s: you see how candid I am, Belinda. But one question more, Helena: Who put it into your head to send me your gold fishes?”

“Nobody, mamma; no one put it into my head. But I was at the bird-fancier’s yesterday, when Miss Portman was trying to get some bird for Mrs. Marriott, that could not make any noise to disturb you; so I thought my fishes would be the nicest things for you in the world; because they cannot make the least noise, and they are as pretty as any birds in the world—prettier, I think—and I hope Mrs. Marriott thinks so too.”

“I don’t know what Marriott thinks about the matter, but I can tell you what I think,” said Lady Delacour, “that you are one of the sweetest little girls in the world, and that you would make me love you if I had a heart of stone, which I have not, whatever some people may think.—Kiss me, my child!”

The little girl sprang forwards, and threw her arms round her mother, exclaiming, “Oh, mamma, are you in earnest?” and she pressed close to her mother’s bosom, clasping her with all her force.

Lady Delacour screamed, and pushed her daughter away.

“She is not angry with you, my love,” said Belinda, “she is in sudden and violent pain—don’t be alarmed—she will be better soon. No, don’t ring the bell, but try whether you can open these window-shutters, and throw up the sash.”

Whilst Belinda was supporting Lady Delacour, and whilst Helena was trying to open the window, a servant came into the room to announce the Count de N——.

“Show him into the drawing-room,” said Belinda. Lady Delacour, though in great pain, rose and retired to her dressing-room. “I shall not be able to go down to these people yet,” said she; “you must make my excuses to the count and to every body; and tell poor Helena I was not angry, though I pushed her away. Keep her below stairs: I will come as soon as I am able. Send Marriott. Do not forget, my dear, to tell Helena I was not angry.”

The reading party went on, and Lady Delacour made her appearance as the company were drinking orgeat, between the fourth and fifth act. “Helena, my dear,” said she, “will you bring me a glass of orgeat?”

Clarence Hervey looked at Belinda with a congratulatory smile: “do not you think,” whispered he, “that we shall succeed? Did you see that look of Lady Delacour’s?”

Nothing tends more to increase the esteem and affection of two people for each other than their having one and the same benevolent object. Clarence Hervey and Belinda seemed to know one another’s thoughts and feelings this evening better than they had ever done before during the whole course of their acquaintance.

After the play was over, most of the company went away; only a select party of beaux esprits stayed to supper; they were standing at the table at which the count had been reading: several volumes of French plays and novels were lying there, and Clarence Hervey, taking up one of them, cried, “Come, let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae.”

Lady Delacour opened the book, which was a volume of Marmontel’s Tales.

“La femme comme il y en a peu!” exclaimed Hervey.

“Who will ever more have faith in the Sortes Virgilianae?” said Lady Delacour, laughing; but whilst she laughed she went closer to a candle, to read the page which she had opened. Belinda and Clarence Hervey followed her. “Really, it is somewhat singular, Belinda, that I should have opened upon this passage,” continued she, in a low voice, pointing it out to Miss Portman.

It was a description of the manner in which la femme comme il y en a peu managed a husband, who was excessively afraid of being thought to be governed by his wife. As her ladyship turned over the page, she saw a leaf of myrtle which Belinda, who had been reading the story the preceding day, had put into the book for a mark.

“Whose mark is this? Yours, Belinda, I am sure, by its elegance,” said Lady Delacour. “So! this is a concerted plan between you two, I see,” continued her ladyship, with an air of pique: “you have contrived prettily de me dire des vérités! One says, ‘Let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae;’ the other has dexterously put a mark in the book, to make it open upon a lesson for the naughty child.”

Belinda and Mr. Hervey assured her that they had used no such mean arts, that nothing had been concerted between them.

“How came this leaf of myrtle here, then?” said Lady Delacour.

“I was reading that story yesterday, and left it as my mark.”

“I cannot help believing you, because you never yet deceived me, even in the merest trifle: you are truth itself, Belinda. Well, you see that you were the cause of my drawing such an extraordinary lot; the book would not have opened here but for your mark. My fate, I find, is in your hands: if Lady Delacour is ever to be la femme comme il y en a peu, which is the most improbable thing in the world, Miss Portman will be the cause of it.”

“Which is the most probable thing in the world,” said Clarence Hervey. “This myrtle has a delightful perfume,” added he, rubbing the leaf between his fingers.

“But, after all,” said Lady Delacour, throwing aside the book, “This heroine of Marmontel’s is not la femme comme il y en a peu, but la femme comme il n’y en a point.”

“Mrs. Margaret Delacour’s carriage, my lady, for Miss Delacour,” said a footman to her ladyship.

“Helena stays with me to-night—my compliments,” said Lady Delacour.

“How pleased the little gipsy looks!” added she, turning to Helena, who heard the message; “and how handsome she looks when she is pleased!—Do these auburn locks of yours, Helena, curl naturally or artificially?”

“Naturally, mamma.”

“Naturally! so much the better: so did mine at your age.”

Some of the company now took notice of the astonishing resemblance between Helena and her mother; and the more Lady Delacour considered her daughter as a part of herself, the more she was inclined to be pleased with her. The glass globe containing the gold fishes was put in the middle of the table at supper; and Clarence Hervey never paid her ladyship such respectful attention in his life as he did this evening.

The conversation at supper turned upon a magnificent and elegant entertainment which had lately been given by a fashionable duchess, and some of the company spoke in high terms of the beauty and accomplishments of her grace’s daughter, who had for the first time appeared in public on that occasion.

“The daughter will eclipse, totally eclipse, the mother,” said Lady Delacour. “That total eclipse has been foretold by many knowing people,” said Clarence Hervey; “but how can there be an eclipse between two bodies which never cross one another and that I understand to be the case between the duchess and her daughter.”

This observation seemed to make a great impression upon Lady Delacour. Clarence Hervey went on, and with much eloquence expressed his admiration of the mother who had stopped short in the career of dissipation to employ her inimitable talents in the education of her children; who had absolutely brought Virtue into fashion by the irresistible powers of wit and beauty.

“Really, Clarence,” said Lady Delacour, rising from table, “vous parlez avec beaucoup d’onction. I advise you to write a sentimental comedy, a comédie larmoyante, or a drama on the German model, and call it The School for Mothers, and beg her grace of —— to sit for your heroine.”

“Your ladyship, surely, would not be so cruel as to send a faithful servant a begging for a heroine?” said Clarence Hervey.

Lady Delacour smiled at first at the compliment, but a few minutes afterwards she sighed bitterly. “It is too late for me to think of being a heroine,” said she.

“Too late?” cried Hervey, following her eagerly as she walked out of the supper-room; “too late? Her grace of —— is some years older than your ladyship.”

“Well, I did not mean to say too late,” said Lady Delacour; “but let us go on to something else. Why were you not at the fète champêtre the other day? and where were you all this morning? And pray can you tell me when your friend doctor X—— returns to town?”

“Mr. Horton is getting better,” said Clarence, “and I hope that we shall have Dr. X—— soon amongst us again. I hear that he is to be in town in the course of a few days.”

“Did he inquire for me?—Did he ask how I did?”

“No. I fancy he took it for granted that your ladyship was quite well; for I told him you were getting better every day, and that you were in charming spirits.”

“Yes,” said Lady Delacour, “but I wear myself out with these charming spirits. I am very nervous still, I assure you, and sitting up late is not good for me: so I shall wish you and all the world a good night. You see I am absolutely a reformed rake.”

Two hours after her ladyship had retired to her room, as Belinda was passing by the door to go to her own bedchamber, she heard Lady Delacour call to her.

“Belinda, you need not walk so softly; I am not asleep. Come in, will you, my dear? I have something of consequence to say to you. Is all the world gone?”

“Yes; and I thought that you were asleep. I hope you are not in pain.”

“Not just at present, thank you; but that was a terrible embrace of poor little Helena’s. You see to what accidents I should be continually exposed, if I had that child always about me; and yet she seems of such an affectionate disposition, that I wish it were possible to keep her at home. Sit down by my bedside, my dear Belinda, and I will tell you what I have resolved upon.”

Belinda sat down, and Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes.

“I am resolved,” said she, “to make one desperate effort for my life. New plans, new hopes of happiness, have opened to my imagination, and, with my hopes of being happy, my courage rises. I am determined to submit to the dreadful operation which alone can radically cure me—you understand me; but it must be kept a profound secret. I know of a person who could be got to perform this operation with the utmost secrecy.”

“But, surely,” said Belinda, “safety must be your first object!”

“No, secrecy is my first object. Nay, do not reason with me; it is a subject on which I cannot, will not, reason. Hear me—I will keep Helena with me for a few days; she was surprised by what passed in the library this evening—I must remove all suspicion from her mind.”

“There is no suspicion in her mind,” said Belinda.

“So much the better: she shall go immediately to school, or to Oakly-park. I will then stand my trial for life or death; and if I live I will be, what I have never yet been, a mother to Helena. If I die, you and Clarence Hervey will take care of her; I know you will. That young man is worthy of you, Belinda. If I die, I charge you to tell him that I knew his value; that I had a soul capable of being touched by the eloquence of virtue.” Lady Delacour, after a pause, said, in an altered tone, “Do you think, Belinda, that I shall survive this operation?”

“The opinion of Dr. X——,” said Belinda, “must certainly be more satisfactory than mine;” and she repeated what the doctor had left with her in writing upon this subject. “You see,” said Belinda, “that Dr. X——is by no means certain that you have the complaint which you dread.”

“I am certain of it,” said Lady Delacour, with a deep sigh. Then, after a pause, she resumed: “So it is the doctor’s opinion, that I shall inevitably destroy myself if, from a vain hope of secrecy, I put myself into ignorant hands? These are his own words, are they? Very strong; and he is prudent to leave that opinion in writing. Now, whatever happens, he cannot be answerable for ‘measures which he does not guide:’ nor you either, my dear; you have done all that is prudent and proper. But I must beg you to recollect, that I am neither a child nor a fool; that I am come to years of discretion, and that I am not now in the delirium of a fever; consequently, there can be no pretence for managing me. In this particular I must insist upon managing myself. I have confidence in the skill of the person whom I shall employ: Dr. X——, very likely, would have none, because the man may not have a diploma for killing or curing in form. That is nothing to the purpose. It is I that am to undergo the operation: it is my health, my life, that is risked; and if I am satisfied, that is enough. Secrecy, as I told you before, is my first object.”

“And cannot you,” said Belinda, “depend with more security upon the honour of a surgeon who is at the head of his profession, and who has a high reputation at stake, than upon a vague promise of secrecy from some obscure quack, who has no reputation to lose?”

“No,” said Lady Delacour: “I tell you, my dear, that I cannot depend upon any of these ‘honourable men.’ I have taken means to satisfy myself on this point: their honour and foolish delicacy would not allow them to perform such an operation for a wife, without the knowledge, privity, consent, &c. &c. &c. of her husband. Now Lord Delacour’s knowing the thing is quite out of the question.”

“Why, my dear Lady Delacour, why?” said Belinda, with great earnestness. “Surely a husband has the strongest claim to be consulted upon such an occasion! Let me entreat you to tell Lord Delacour your intention, and then all will be right. Say Yes, my dear friend! let me prevail upon you,” said Belinda, taking her ladyship’s hand, and pressing it between both of hers with the most affectionate eagerness.

Lady Delacour made no answer, but fixed her eyes upon Belinda’s.

“Lord Delacour,” continued Miss Portman, “deserves this from you, by the great interest, the increasing interest, that he has shown of late about your health: his kindness and handsome conduct the other morning certainly pleased you, and you have now an opportunity of showing that confidence in him, which his affection and constant attachment to you merit.”

“I trouble myself very little about the constancy of Lord Delacour’s attachment to me,” said her ladyship coolly, withdrawing her hand from Belinda; “whether his lordship’s affection for me has of late increased or diminished, is an object of perfect indifference to me. But if I were inclined to reward him for his late attentions, I should apprehend that we might hit upon some better reward than you have pitched upon. Unless you imagine that Lord Delacour has a peculiar taste for surgical operations, I cannot conceive how his becoming my confidant upon this occasion could have an immediate tendency to increase his affection for me—about which affection I don’t care a straw, as you, better than any one else, must know; for I am no hypocrite. I have laid open my whole heart to you, Belinda.”

“For that very reason,” said Miss Portman, “I am eager to use the influence which I know I have in your heart for your happiness. I am convinced that it will be absolutely impossible that you should carry on this scheme in the house with your husband without its being discovered. If he discover it by accident, he will feel very differently from what he would do if he were trusted by you.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear,” cried Lady Delacour, “let me hear no more about Lord Delacour’s feelings.”

“But allow me then to speak of my own,” said Belinda: “I cannot be concerned in this affair, if it is to be concealed from your husband.”

“You will do about that as you think proper,” said Lady Delacour haughtily. “Your sense of propriety towards Lord Delacour is, I observe, stronger than your sense of honour towards me. But I make no doubt that you act upon principle—just principle. You promised never to abandon me; but when I most want your assistance, you refuse it, from consideration for Lord Delacour. A scruple of delicacy absolves a person of nice feelings, I find, from a positive promise—a new and convenient code of morality!”

Belinda, though much hurt by the sarcastic tone in which her ladyship spoke, mildly answered, that the promise she had made to stay with her ladyship during her illness was very different from an engagement to assist her in such a scheme as she had now in contemplation.

Lady Delacour suddenly drew the curtain between her and Belinda, saying, “Well, my dear, at all events, I am glad to hear you don’t forget your promise of staying with me. You are, perhaps, prudent to refuse me your assistance, all circumstances considered. Good night: I have kept you up too long—good night!”

“Good night!” said Belinda, drawing aside the curtain, “You will not be displeased with me, when you reflect coolly.”

“The light blinds me,” said Lady Delacour; and she turned her face away from Miss Portman, and added, in a drowsy voice, “I will think of what has been said some time or other: but just now I would rather go to sleep than say or hear any more; for I am more than half asleep already.”

Belinda closed the curtains and left the room. But Lady Delacour, notwithstanding the drowsy tone in which she pronounced these last words, was not in the least inclined to sleep. A passion had taken possession of her mind, which kept her broad awake the remainder of the night—the passion of jealousy. The extreme eagerness with which Belinda had urged her to consult Lord Delacour, and to trust him with her secret, displeased her; not merely as an opposition to her will, and undue attention to his lordship’s feelings, but as “confirmation strong” of a hint which had been dropped by Sir Philip Baddely, but which never till now had appeared to her worthy of a moment’s consideration. Sir Philip had observed, that, “if a young lady had any hopes of being a viscountess, it was no wonder she thought a baronet beneath her notice.” “Now,” thought Lady Delacour, “this is not impossible. In the first place, Belinda Portman is niece to Mrs. Stanhope; she may have all her aunt’s art, and the still greater art to conceal it under the mask of openness and simplicity: Volto sciolto, pensieri stretti, is the grand maxim of the Stanhope school.” The moment Lady Delacour’s mind turned to suspicion, her ingenuity rapidly supplied her with circumstances and arguments to confirm and justify her doubts.

“Miss Portman fears that my husband is growing too fond of me: she says, he has been very attentive to me of late. Yes, so he has; and on purpose to disgust him with me, she immediately urges me to tell him that I have a loathsome disease, and that I am about to undergo a horrid operation. How my eyes have been blinded by her artifice! This last stroke was rather too bold, and has opened them effectually, and now I see a thousand things that escaped me before. Even to-night, the Sortes Virgilianae, the myrtle leaf, Miss Portman’s mark, left in the book exactly at the place where Marmontel gives a receipt for managing a husband of Lord Delacour’s character. Ah, ah! By her own confession, she had been reading this: studying it. Yes, and she has studied it to some purpose; she has made that poor weak lord of mine think her an angel. How he ran on in her praise the other day, when he honoured me with a morning visit! That morning visit, too, was of her suggestion; and the bank-notes, as he, like a simpleton, let out in the course of the conversation, had been offered to her first. She, with a delicacy that charmed my short-sighted folly, begged that they might go through my hands. How artfully managed! Mrs. Stanhope herself could not have done better. So, she can make Lord Delacour do whatever she pleases; and she condescends to make him behave prettily to me, and desires him to bring me peace-offerings of bank-notes! She is, in fact, become my banker; mistress of my house, my husband, and myself! Ten days I have been confined to my room. Truly, she has made a good use of her time: and I, fool that I am, have been thanking her for all her disinterested kindness!

“Then her attention to my daughter! disinterested, too, as I thought!—But, good Heavens, what an idiot I have been! She looks forward to be the step-mother of Helena; she would win the simple child’s affections even before my face, and show Lord Delacour what a charming wife and mother she would make! He said some such thing to me, as well as I remember, the other day. Then her extreme prudence! She never coquets, not she, with any of the young men who come here on purpose to see her. Is this natural? Absolutely unnatural—artifice! artifice! To contrast herself with me in Lord Delacour’s opinion is certainly her object. Even to Clarence Hervey, with whom she was, or pretended to be, smitten, how cold and reserved she is grown of late; and how haughtily she rejected my advice, when I hinted that she was not taking the way to win him! I could not comprehend her; she had no designs on Clarence Hervey, she assured me. Immaculate purity! I believe you.

“Then her refusal of Sir Philip Baddely!—a baronet with fifteen thousand a year to be refused by a girl who has nothing, and merely because he is a fool! How could I be such a fool as to believe it? Worthy niece of Mrs. Stanhope, I know you now! And now I recollect that extraordinary letter of Mrs. Stanhope’s which I snatched out of Miss Portman’s hands some months ago, full of blanks, and inuendoes, and references to some letter which Belinda had written about my disputes with my husband! From that moment to this, Miss Portman has never let me see another of her aunt’s letters. So I may conclude they are all in the same style; and I make no doubt that she has instructed her niece, all this time, how to proceed. Now I know why she always puts Mrs. Stanhope’s letters into her pocket the moment she receives them, and never opens them in my presence. And I have been laying open my whole heart, telling my whole history, confessing all my faults and follies, to this girl! And I have told her that I am dying! I have taught her to look forward with joy and certainty to the coronet, on which she has fixed her heart.

“On my knees I conjured her to stay with me to receive my last breath. Oh, dupe, miserable dupe, that I am! could nothing warn me? In the moment that I discovered the treachery of one friend, I went and prostrated myself to the artifices of another—of another a thousand times more dangerous—ten thousand times more beloved! For what was Harriot Freke in comparison with Belinda Portman? Harriot Freke, even whilst she diverted me most, I half despised. But Belinda!—Oh, Belinda! how entirely have I loved—trusted—admired—adored—respected—revered you!”

Exhausted by the emotions to which she had worked herself up by the force of her powerful imagination, Lady Delacour, after passing several restless hours in bed, fell asleep late in the morning; and when she awaked, Belinda was standing by her bedside. “What could you be dreaming of?” said Belinda, smiling. “You started, and looked at me with such horror, when you opened your eyes, as if I had been your evil genius.” It is not in human nature, thought Lady Delacour, suddenly overcome by the sweet smile and friendly tone of Belinda, it is not in human nature to be so treacherous; and she stretched out both her arms to Belinda, saying, “You my evil genius? No. My guardian angel, my dearest Belinda, kiss me, and forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what?” said Belinda; “I believe you are dreaming still, and I am sorry to awaken you; but I am come to tell you a wonderful thing—that Lord Delacour is up, and dressed, and actually in the breakfast-room; and that he has been talking to me this half hour—of what do you think?—of Helena. He was quite surprised, he said, to see her grown such a fine girl, and he declares that he no longer regrets that she was not a boy; and he says that he will dine at home to-day, on purpose to drink Helena’s health in his new burgundy; and, in short, I never saw him in such good spirits, or so agreeable: I always thought he was one of the best-natured men I had ever seen. Will not you get up to breakfast? Lord Delacour has asked for you ten times within these five minutes.”

“Indeed!” said Lady Delacour, rubbing her eyes. “All this is vastly wonderful; but I wish you had not awakened me so soon.”

“Nay, nay,” said Belinda, “I know by the tone of your voice, that you do not mean what you say; I know you will get up, and come down to us directly—so I will send Marriott.”

Lady Delacour got up, and went down to breakfast, in much uncertainty what to think of Miss Portman; but ashamed to let her into her mind, and still more afraid that Lord Delacour should suspect her of doing him the honour to be jealous, Belinda had not the least guess of what was really passing in her ladyship’s heart; she implicitly believed her expressions of complete indifference to her lord; and jealousy was the last feeling which Miss Portman would have attributed to Lady Delacour, because she unfortunately was not sufficiently aware that jealousy can exist without love. The idea of Lord Delacour as an object of attachment, or of a coronet as an object of ambition, or of her friend’s death as an object of joy, were so foreign to Belinda’s innocent mind, that it was scarcely possible she could decipher Lady Delacour’s thoughts. Her ladyship affected to be in “remarkable good spirits this morning,” declared that she had never felt so well since her illness, ordered her carriage as soon as breakfast was over, and said she would take Helena to Maillardet’s, to see the wonders of his little conjuror and his singing-bird. “Nothing equal to Maillardet’s singing-bird has ever been seen or heard of, my dear Helena, since the days of Aboulcasem’s peacock in the Persian Tales. Since Lady Anne Percival has not shown you these charming things, I must.”

“But I hope you won’t tire yourself, mamma,” said the little girl.

“I’m afraid you will,” said Belinda. “And you know, my dear,” added Lord Delacour, “that Miss Portman, who is so very obliging and good-natured, could go just as well with Helena; and I am sure, would, rather than that you should tire yourself, or give yourself an unnecessary trouble.”

“Miss Portman is very good,” answered Lady Delacour, hastily; “but I think it no unnecessary trouble to give my daughter any pleasure in my power. As to its tiring me, I am neither dead, nor dying, yet; for the rest, Miss Portman, who understands what is proper, blushes for you, as you see, my lord, when you propose that she, who is not yet a married woman, should chaperon a young lady. It is quite out of rule; and Mrs. Stanhope would be shocked if her niece could, or would, do such a thing to oblige any body.”

Lord Delacour was too much in the habit of hearing sarcastic, and to him incomprehensible speeches from her ladyship, to take any extraordinary notice of this; and if Belinda blushed, it was merely from the confusion into which she was thrown by the piercing glance of Lady Delacour’s black eyes—a glance which neither guilt nor innocence could withstand. Belinda imagined that her ladyship still retained some displeasure from the conversation that had passed the preceding night, and the first time that she was alone with Lady Delacour, she again touched upon the subject, in hopes of softening or convincing her. “At all events, my dear friend,” said she, “you will not, I hope, be offended by the sincerity with which I speak—I can have no object but your safety and happiness.”

“Sincerity never offends me,” was her ladyship’s cold answer. And all the time that they were out together, she was unusually ceremonious to Miss Portman; and there would have been but little conversation, if Helena had not been present, to whom her mother talked with fluent gaiety. When they got to Spring Gardens, Helena exclaimed, “Oh! there’s Lady Anne Percival’s carriage, and Charles and Edward with her—they are going to the same place that we are, I dare say, for I heard Charles ask Lady Anne to take him to see Maillardet’s little bird—Mr. Hervey mentioned it to us, and he said it was a curious piece of machinery.”

“I wish you had told me sooner that Lady Anne was likely to be there—I don’t wish to meet her so awkwardly: I am not well enough yet, indeed, to go to these odious, hot, close places; and, besides, I hate seeing sights.”

Helena, with much good humour, said that she would rather give up seeing the sight than be troublesome to her mother. When they came to Maillardet’s, however, Lady Delacour saw Mrs. —— getting out of her carriage, and to her she consigned Helena and Miss Portman, saying that she would take a turn or two in the park, and call for them in half an hour. When the half hour was over, and her ladyship returned, she carelessly asked, as they were going home, whether they had been pleased with their visit to the bird and the conjuror. “Oh, yes, mamma!” said Helena: “and do you know, that one of the questions that the people ask the conjuror is, Where is the happiest family to be found?” And Charles and Edward immediately said, “if he is a good conjuror, if he tells truth, he’ll answer, ‘At Oakly-park.’”

“Miss Portman, had you any conversation with Lady Anne Percival?” said Lady Delacour, coldly.

“A great deal,” said Belinda, “and such as I am sure you would have liked: and so far from being a ceremonious person, I think I never saw any body who had such easy engaging manners.”

“And did she ask you, Helena, again to go with her to that place where the happiest family in the world is to be found?”

“Oakly-park?—No, mamma; she said that she was very glad that I was with you; but she asked Miss Portman to come to see her whenever it was in her power.”

“And could Miss Portman withstand such a temptation?”

“You know that I am engaged to your ladyship,” said Belinda.

Lady Delacour bowed. “But from what passed last night,” said she, “I was afraid that you might repent your engagement to me: and if so, I give up my bond. I should be miserable if I apprehended that any one, but more especially Miss Portman, felt herself a prisoner in my house.”

“Dear Lady Delacour! I do not feel myself a prisoner; I have always till now felt myself a friend in your house; but we’ll talk of this another time. Do not look at me with so much coldness; do not speak to me with so much politeness. I will not let you forget that I am your friend.”

“I do not wish to forget it, Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, with emotion; “I am not ungrateful, though I may seem capricious—bear with me.”

“There now, you look like yourself again, and I am satisfied,” cried Belinda. “As to going to Oakly-park, I give you my word I have not the most distant thoughts of it. I stay with you from choice, and not from compulsion, believe me.”

“I do believe you,” said Lady Delacour; and for a moment she was convinced that Belinda stayed with her for her own sake alone; but the next minute she suspected that Lord Delacour was the secret cause of her refusing to go to Oakly-park. His lordship dined at home this day, and two or three succeeding days, and he was not intoxicated from Monday till Thursday. These circumstances appeared to his lady very extraordinary. In fact, he was pleased and amused with his little daughter, Helena; and whilst she was yet almost a stranger to him, he wished to appear to her in the most agreeable and respectable light possible. One day after dinner, Lord Delacour, who was in a remarkably good humour, said to her ladyship, “My dear, you know that your new carriage was broken almost to pieces the night when you were overturned. Well, I have had it all set to rights again, and new painted, and it is all complete, except the hammer-cloth, which must have new fringe. What colour will you have the fringe?”

“What do you say, Miss Portman?” said her ladyship.

“Black and orange would look well, I think,” said Belinda, “and would suit the lace of your liveries—would not it?”

“Certainly: black and orange then,” said Lord Delacour, “it shall be.”

“If you ask my opinion,” said Lady Delacour, “I am for blue and white, to match the cloth of the liveries.”

“Blue and white then it shall be,” said Lord Delacour.

“Nay, Miss Portman has a better taste than I have; and she says black and orange, my lord.”

“Then you’ll have it black and orange, will you?” said Lord Delacour.

“Just as you please,” said Lady Delacour, and no more passed.

Soon afterward a note came from Lady Anne Percival, with some trifles belonging to Helena, for which her mother had sent. The note was for Belinda—another pressing invitation to Oakly-park—and a very civil message from Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and thanks to Lady Delacour for the macaw. Ay, thought Lady Delacour, Miss Portman wants to ingratiate herself in time with all my husband’s relations. “Mrs. Margaret Delacour should have addressed these thanks to you, Miss Portman, for I had not the grace to think of sending her the macaw.” Lord Delacour, who was very fond of his aunt, immediately joined his thanks, and observed that Miss Portman was always considerate—always obliging—always kind. Then he drank her health in a bumper of burgundy, and insisted upon his little Helena’s drinking her health. “I am sure you ought, my dear, for Miss Portman is very good—too good to you, child.”

“Very good—not too good, I hope,” said Lady Delacour. “Miss Portman, your health.”

“And I hope,” continued his lordship, after swallowing his bumper, “that my Lady Anne Percival does not mean to inveigle you away from us, Miss Portman. You don’t think of leaving us, Miss Portman, I hope? Here’s Helena would break her little heart;—I say nothing for my Lady Delacour, because she can say every thing so much better for herself; and I say nothing for myself, because I am the worst man in the world at making speeches, when I really have a thing at heart—as I have your staying with us, Miss Portman.”

Belinda assured him that there was no occasion to press her to do what was perfectly agreeable to her, and said that she had no thoughts of leaving Lady Delacour. Her ladyship, with some embarrassment, expressed herself “extremely obliged, and gratified, and happy.” Helena, with artless joy, threw her arms about Belinda, and exclaimed, “I am glad you are not going; for I never liked any body so much, of whom I knew so little.”

“The more you know of Miss Portman the more you will like her, child—at least I have found it so,” said Lord Delacour.

“Clarence Hervey would, I am sure, have given the Pigot diamond, if it were in his gift, for such a smile as you bestowed on Lord Delacour just now,” whispered Lady Delacour. For an instant Belinda was struck with the tone of pique and reproach, in which, her ladyship spoke. “Nay, my dear, I did not mean to make you blush so piteously,” pursued her ladyship: “I really did not think it a blushing matter—but you know best. Believe me, I spoke without malice; we are so apt to judge from our own feelings—and I could as soon blush about the old man of the mountains as about my Lord Delacour.”

“Lord Delacour!” said Belinda, with a look of such unfeigned surprise, that her ladyship instantly changed countenance, and, taking her hand with gaiety, said, “So, my little Belinda, I have caught you—the blush belongs then to Clarence Hervey? Well, any man of common sense would rather have one blush than a thousand smiles for his share: now we understand one another. And will you go with me to the exhibition to-morrow? I am told there are some charming pictures this year. Helena, who really has a genius for drawing, should see these things; and whilst she is with me, I will make her as happy as possible. You see the reformation is beginning—Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman can do wonders. If it be my fate, at last, to be la bonne mère, or la femme comme il y en a peu, how can I help it? There is no struggling against fate, my dear!”

Whenever Lady Delacour’s suspicions of Belinda were suspended, all her affections returned with double force; she wondered at her own folly, she was ashamed that she could have let such ideas enter her mind, and she was beyond measure astonished that any thing relative to Lord Delacour could so far have interested her attention. “Luckily,” said she to herself, “he has not the penetration of a blind beetle; and, besides, he has little snug jealousies of his own: so he will never find me out. It would be an excellent thing indeed, if he were to turn my ‘master-torment’ against myself—it would be a judgment upon me. The manes of poor Lawless would then be appeased. But it is impossible I should ever be a jealous wife: I am only a jealous friend, and I must satisfy myself about Belinda. To be a second time a dupe to the treachery of a friend would be too much for me—too much for my pride—too much for my heart.”

The next day, when they came to the exhibition, Lady Delacour had an opportunity of judging of Belinda’s real feelings. As they went up the stairs, they heard the voices of Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, who were standing upon the landing-place, leaning over the banisters, and running their little sticks along the iron rails, to try which could make the loudest noise.

“Have you been much pleased with the pictures, gentlemen?” said Lady Delacour, as she passed them.

“Oh, damme! no—‘tis a cursed bore; and yet there are some fine pictures: one in particular—hey, Rochfort?—one damned fine picture!” said Sir Philip. And the two gentlemen laughing significantly, followed Lady Delacour and Belinda into the rooms.

“Ay, there’s one picture that’s worth all the rest, ‘pon honour!” repeated Rochfort; “and we’ll leave it to your ladyship’s and Miss Portman’s taste and judgment to find it out, mayn’t we, Sir Philip?”

“Oh, damme! yes,” said Sir Philip, “by all means.” But he was so impatient to direct her eyes, that he could not keep himself still an instant.

“Oh, curse it! Rochfort, we’d better tell the ladies at once, else they may be all day looking and looking!”

“Nay, Sir Philip, may not I be allowed to guess? Must I be told which is your fine picture?—This is not much in favour of my taste.”

“Oh, damn it! your ladyship has the best taste in the world, every body knows; and so has Miss Portman—and this picture will hit her taste particularly, I’m sure. It is Clarence Hervey’s fancy; but this is a dead secret—dead—Clary no more thinks that we know it, than the man in the moon.”

“Clarence Hervey’s fancy! Then I make no doubt of its being good for something,” said Lady Delacour, “if the painter have done justice to his imagination; for Clarence has really a fine imagination.”

“Oh, damme! ‘tis not amongst the history pieces,” cried Sir Philip; “‘tis a portrait.”

“And a history piece, too, ‘pon honour!” said Rochfort: “a family history piece, I take it, ‘pon honour! it will turn out,” said Rochfort; and both the gentlemen were, or affected to be, thrown into convulsions of laughter, as they repeated the words, “family history piece, ‘pon honour!—family history piece, damme!”

“I’ll take my oath as to the portrait’s being a devilish good likeness,” added Sir Philip; and as he spoke, he turned to Miss Portman: “Miss Portman has it! damme, Miss Portman has him!”

Belinda hastily withdrew her eyes from the picture at which she was looking. “A most beautiful creature!” exclaimed Lady Delacour.

“Oh, faith! yes; I always do Clary the justice to say, he has a damned good taste for beauty.”

“But this seems to be foreign beauty,” continued Lady Delacour, “if one may judge by her air, her dress, and the scenery about her—cocoa-trees, plantains: Miss Portman, what think you?”

“I think,” said Belinda, (but her voice faltered so much that she could hardly speak,) “that it is a scene from Paul and Virginia. I think the figure is St. Pierre’s Virginia.”

“Virginia St. Pierre! ma’am,” cried Mr. Rochfort, winking at Sir Philip. “No, no, damme! there you are wrong, Rochfort; say Hervey’s Virginia, and then you have it, damme! or, may be, Virginia Hervey—who knows?”

“This is a portrait,” whispered the baronet to Lady Delacour, “of Clarence’s mistress.” Whilst her ladyship leant her ear to this whisper, which was sufficiently audible, she fixed a seemingly careless, but most observing, inquisitive eye upon poor Belinda. Her confusion, for she heard the whisper, was excessive.

“She loves Clarence Hervey—she has no thoughts of Lord Delacour and his coronet: I have done her injustice,” thought Lady Delacour, and instantly she despatched Sir Philip out of the room, for a catalogue of the pictures, begged Mr. Rochfort to get her something else, and, drawing Miss Portman’s arm within hers, she said, in a low voice, “Lean upon me, my dearest Belinda: depend upon it, Clarence will never be such a fool as to marry the girl—Virginia Hervey she will never be!”

“And what will become of her? can Mr. Hervey desert her? she looks like innocence itself—and so young, too! Can he leave her for ever to sorrow, and vice, and infamy?” thought Belinda, as she kept her eyes fixed, in silent anguish, upon the picture of Virginia. “No, he cannot do this: if he could he would be unworthy of me, and I ought to think of him no more. No; he will marry her; and I must think of him no more.”

She turned abruptly away from the picture, and she saw Clarence Hervey standing beside her.

“What do you think of this picture? is it not beautiful? We are quite enchanted with it; but you do not seem to be struck with it, as we were at the first glance,” said Lady Delacour.

“Because,” answered Clarence, gaily, “it is not the first glance I have had at that picture—I admired it yesterday, and admire it to-day.”

“But you are tired of admiring it, I see. Well, we shall not force you to be in raptures with it—shall we, Miss Portman? A man may be tired of the most beautiful face in the world, or the most beautiful picture; but really there is so much sweetness, so much innocence, such tender melancholy in this countenance, that, if I were a man, I should inevitably be in love with it, and in love for ever! Such beauty, if it were in nature, would certainly fix the most inconstant man upon earth.”

Belinda ventured to take her eyes for an instant from the picture, to see whether Clarence Hervey looked like the most inconstant man upon earth. He was intently gazing upon her; but as soon as she looked round, he suddenly exclaimed, as he turned to the picture—“A heavenly countenance, indeed!—the painter has done justice to the poet.”

“Poet!” repeated Lady Delacour: “the man’s in the clouds!”

“Pardon me,” said Clarence; “does not M. de St. Pierre deserve to be called a poet? Though he does not write in rhyme, surely he has a poetical imagination.”

“Certainly,” said Belinda; and from the composure with which Mr. Hervey now spoke, she was suddenly inclined to believe, or to hope, that all Sir Philip’s story was false. “M. de St. Pierre undoubtedly has a great deal of imagination, and deserves to be called a poet.”

“Very likely, good people!” said Lady Delacour; “but what has that to do with the present purpose?”

“Nay,” cried Clarence, “your ladyship certainly sees that this is St. Pierre’s Virginia?”

“St. Pierre’s Virginia! Oh, I know who it is, Clarence, as well as you do. I am not quite so blind, or so stupid, as you take me to be.” Then recollecting her promise, not to betray Sir Philip’s secret, she added, pointing to the landscape of the picture, “These cocoa trees, this fountain, and the words Fontaine de Virginie, inscribed on the rock—I must have been stupidity itself, if I had not found it out. I absolutely can read, Clarence, and spell, and put together. But here comes Sir Philip Baddely, who, I believe, cannot read, for I sent him an hour ago for a catalogue, and he pores over the book as if he had not yet made out the title.”

Sir Philip had purposely delayed, because he was afraid of rejoining Lady Delacour whilst Clarence Hervey was with her, and whilst they were talking of the picture of Virginia.

“Here’s the catalogue; here’s the picture your ladyship wants. St. Pierre’s Virginia: damme! I never heard of that fellow before—he is some new painter, damme! that is the reason I did not know the hand. Not a word of what I told you, Lady Delacour—you won’t blow us to Clary,” added he aside to her ladyship. “Rochfort keeps aloof; and so will I, damme!”

A gentleman at this instant beckoned to Mr. Hervey with an air of great eagerness. Clarence went and spoke to him, then returned with an altered countenance, and apologized to Lady Delacour for not dining with her, as he had promised. Business, he said, of great importance required that he should leave town immediately. Helena had just taken Miss Portman into a little room, where Westall’s drawings were hung, to show her a group of Lady Anne Percival and her children; and Belinda was alone with the little girl, when Mr. Hervey came to bid her adieu. He was in much agitation.

“Miss Portman, I shall not, I am afraid, see you again for some time;—perhaps I may never have that—hem!—happiness. I had something of importance that I wished to say to you before I left town; but I am forced to go so suddenly, I can hardly hope for any moment but the present to speak to you, madam. May I ask whether you purpose remaining much longer with Lady Delacour?”

“Yes,” said Belinda, much surprised. “I believe—I am not quite certain—but I believe I shall stay with her ladyship some time longer.”

Mr. Hervey looked painfully embarrassed, and his eyes involuntarily fell upon little Helena. Helena drew her hand gently away from Belinda, left the room, and retired to her mother.

“That child, Miss Portman, is very fond of you,” said Mr. Hervey. Again he paused, and looked round to see whether he could be overheard. “Pardon me for what I am going to say. This is not a proper place. I must be abrupt; for I am so circumstanced, that I have not a moment’s time to spare. May I speak to you with the sincerity of a friend?”

“Yes. Speak to me with sincerity,” said Belinda, “and you will deserve that I should think you my friend.” She trembled excessively, but spoke and looked with all the firmness that she could command.

“I have heard a report,” said Mr. Hervey, “which is most injurious to you.”

“To me!”

“Yes. No one can escape calumny. It is whispered, that if Lady Delacour should die—.”

At the word die, Belinda started.

“That if Lady Delacour should die, Miss Portman would become the mother of Helena!”

“Good Heavens! what an absurd report! Surely you could not for an instant believe it, Mr. Hervey?”

“Not for an instant. But I resolved, as soon as I heard it, to mention it to you; for I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries—from the want of courage to speak the truth. Now that you are upon your guard, your own prudence will defend you sufficiently. I never saw any of your sex who appeared to me to have so much prudence, and so little art; but—farewell—I have not a moment to lose,” added Clarence, suddenly checking himself; and he hurried away from Belinda, who stood fixed to the spot where he left her, till she was roused by the voices of several people who came into the room to see the drawings. She started as if from a dream, and went immediately in search of Lady Delacour.

Sir Philip Baddely was in earnest conversation with her ladyship; but he stopped speaking when Belinda came within hearing, and Lady Delacour turned to Helena, and said, “My dear, if you are satisfied, for mercy’s sake let us be gone, for I am absolutely overcome with heat—and with curiosity,” added she in a low voice to Belinda: “I long to hear how Clarence Hervey likes Westall’s drawings.”

As soon as they got home, Lady Delacour sent her daughter to practise a new lesson upon the piano forte. “And now sit down, my dear Belinda,” said she, “and satisfy my curiosity. It is the curiosity of a friend, not of an impertinent busybody. Has Clarence declared himself? He chose an odd time and place; but that is no matter; I forgive him, and so do you, I dare say. But why do you tear that unfortunate carnation to pieces? Surely you cannot be embarrassed in speaking to me! What’s the matter? I once did tell you, that I would not give up my claim to Clarence’s adorations during my life; but I intend to live a few years longer after the amazonian operation is performed, you know; and I could not have the conscience to keep you waiting whole years. It is better to do things with a good grace, lest one should be forced at last to do them with an ill grace. Therefore I give up all manner of claim to every thing but—flattery! that of course you will allow me from poor Clarence. So now do not begin upon another flower; but, without any farther superfluous modesty, let me hear all the pretty things Clarence said or swore.”

Whilst Belinda was pulling the carnation to pieces, she recollected what Mr. Hervey had said to her about mysteries: his words still sounded in her ear. “I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries—from the want of courage to speak the truth.” I will have the courage to speak the truth, thought she, whatever it may cost me.

“The only pretty thing that Mr. Hervey said was, that he never saw any woman who had so much prudence and so little art,” said Belinda.

“A very pretty thing indeed, my dear! But it might have been said in open court by your grandfather, or your great-grandfather. I am sorry, if that was all, that Helena did not stay to hear such a charming moral compliment—Moralité à la glace. The last thing I should have expected in a tête-à-tête with Clarence Hervey. Was it worth while to pull that poor flower to pieces for such a pretty speech as this? And so that was all?”

“No, not all: but you overpower me with your wit; and I cannot stand the ‘lightning of your eyes.’”

“There!” said her ladyship, letting down her veil over her face, “the fire of my eyes is not too much for you now.”

“Helena was showing me Westall’s drawing of Lady Anne Percival and her children—”

“And Mr. Hervey wished that he was the father of such a charming group of children, and you the mother—hey? was not that it? It was not put in such plain terms, but that was the purport, I presume?”

“No, not at all; he said nothing about Lady Anne Percival’s children, but—”

“But—why then did you bring in her ladyship and her children? To gain time?—Bad policy!—Never, whilst you live, when you have a story to tell, bring in a parcel of people who have nothing to do with the beginning, the middle, or the end of it. How could I suspect you of such false taste! I really imagined these children were essential to the business; but I beg pardon for giving you these elements of criticism. I assure you I interrupt you, and talk on so fast, from pure good-nature, to give you time to recollect yourself; for I know you’ve the worst of memories, especially for what Clarence Hervey says. But come, my dear, dash into the middle of things at once, in the true Epic style.”

“Then to dash into the midst of things at once,” said Miss Portman, speaking very quick: “Mr. Hervey observed that Miss Delacour was growing very fond of me.”

“Miss Delacour, did you say?” cried her ladyship: “Et puis?”

At this instant Champfort opened the door, looked in, and seeing Lady Delacour, immediately retired.

“Champfort, whom do you want—or what do you want?” said her ladyship.

“Miladi, c’est que—I did come from milord, to see if miladi and mademoiselle were visible. I did tink miladi was not at home.”

“You see I am at home, though,” said her ladyship. “Has Lord Delacour any business with me?”

“No, miladi: not with miladi,” said Champfort; “it was with mademoiselle.”

“With me, Monsieur Champfort? then you will be so good as to tell Lord Delacour I am here.”

“And that I am not here, Champfort; for I must be gone to dress.”

She rose hastily to leave the room, but Miss Portman caught her hand: “You won’t go, I hope, Lady Delacour,” said she, “till I have finished my long story?” Lady Delacour sat down again, ashamed of her own embarrassment.

Whether this be art, innocence, or assurance, thought she, I cannot tell; but we shall see.

Lord Delacour now came in, with a half-unfolded newspaper, and a packet of letters in his hand. He came to apologize to Miss Portman for having, by mistake, broken the seal of a letter to her, which had been sent under cover to him. He had simply asked Champfort whether the ladies were at home, that he might not have the trouble of going up stairs if they were out. Monsieur Champfort possessed, in an eminent degree, the mischievous art of appearing mysterious about the simplest things in the world.

“Though I was so thoughtless as to break the seal before I looked at the direction of the letter,” said Lord Delacour, “I assure you I went no farther than the first three words; for I knew ‘my dear niece’ could not possibly mean me.” He gave Miss Portman the letter, and left the room. This explanation was perfectly satisfactory to Belinda; but Lady Delacour, prejudiced by the hesitation of Champfort, could not help suspecting that this letter was merely the ostensible cause of his lordship’s visit.

“From my aunt Stanhope,” said Miss Portman, as she opened her letter. She folded it up again after glancing over the first page, and put it into her pocket, colouring deeply.

All Lady Delacour’s suspicions about Mrs. Stanhope’s epistolary counsels and secrets instantly recurred, with almost the force of conviction to her mind.

“Miss Portman,” said she, “I hope your politeness to me does not prevent you from reading your letter? Some ceremonious people think it vastly rude to read a letter in company; but I am not one of them: I can write whilst you read, for I have fifty notes and more to answer. So pray read your letter at your ease.”

Belinda had but just unfolded her letter again, when Lord Delacour returned, followed by Champfort, who brought with him a splendid hammer-cloth.

“Here, my dear Lady Delacour,” said his lordship, “is a little surprise for you: here is a new hammer-cloth, of my bespeaking and taste, which I hope you will approve of.”

“Very handsome, upon my word!” said Lady Delacour, coldly, and she fixed her eyes upon the fringe, which was black and orange: “Miss Portman’s taste, I see!”

“Did you not say black and orange fringe, my dear?”

“No. I said blue and white, my lord.”

His lordship declared he did not know how the mistake had happened; it was merely a mistake:—but her ladyship was convinced that it was done on purpose. And she said to herself, “Miss Portman will order my liveries next! I have not even the shadow of power left in my own house! I am not treated with even a decent show of respect! But this shall go on till I have full conviction of her views.”

Dissembling her displeasure, she praised the hammer-cloth, and especially the fringe. Lord Delacour retired satisfied; and Miss Portman sat down to read the following letter from her aunt Stanhope.

“Crescent, Bath, July—Wednesday.

“MY DEAR NIECE,

“I received safely the bank notes for my two hundred guineas, enclosed in your last. But you should never trust unnecessarily in this manner to the post—always, when you are obliged to send bank notes by post, cut them in two, and send half by one post and half by another. This is what is done by all prudent people. Prudence, whether in trifles or in matters of consequence, can be learned only by experience (which is often too dearly bought), or by listening, which costs nothing, to the suggestions of those who have a thorough knowledge of the world.

“A report has just reached me concerning you and a certain lord, which gives me the most heartfelt concern. I always knew, and told you, that you were a great favourite with the person in question. I depended on your prudence, delicacy, and principles, to understand this hint properly, and I trusted that you would conduct yourself accordingly. It is too plain, (from the report alluded to,) that there has been some misconduct or mis-management somewhere. The misconduct I cannot—the mis-management I must, attribute to you, my dear; for let a man’s admiration for any woman be ever so great, unless she suffer herself to be dazzled by vanity, or unless she be naturally of an inconsiderate temper, she can surely prevent his partiality from becoming so glaring as to excite envy: envy is always to be dreaded by handsome young women, as being, sooner or later, infallibly followed by scandal. Of this, I fear, you have not been sufficiently aware, and you see the consequences—consequences which, to a female of genuine delicacy or of real good sense, must be extremely alarming. Men of contracted minds and cold tempers, who are absolutely incapable of feeling generous passion for our sex, are often unaccountably ambitious to gain the reputation of being well with any woman whose beauty, accomplishments, or connexions, may have brought her into fashion. Whatever affection may be pretended, this is frequently the ultimate and sole object of these selfish creatures. Whether or not the person I have in my eye deserves to be included in this class, I will not presume positively to determine; but you, who have personal opportunities of observation, may decide this point (if you have any curiosity on the subject) by observing whether he most affects to pay his devoirs to you in public or in private. If the latter be the case, it is the most dangerous; because a man even of the most contracted understanding has always sense or instinct enough to feel that the slightest taint in the reputation of the woman who is, or who is to be, his wife, would affect his own private peace, or his honour in the eyes of the world. A husband who has in a first marriage been, as it is said, in constant fear both of matrimonial subjugation and disgrace, would, in his choice of a second lady, be peculiarly nice, and probably tardy. Any degree of favour that might have been shown him, any report that may have been raised, and above all, any restraint he might feel himself under from implied engagement, or from the discovery or reputation of superior understanding and talents in the object beloved, would operate infallibly against her, to the confusion of all her plans, and the ruin at once of her reputation, her peace of mind, and her hopes of an establishment. Nay, supposing the best that could possibly happen—that, after playing with the utmost dexterity this desperate game, the pool were absolutely your own; yet, if there were any suspicions of unfair play buzzed about amongst the by-standers, you would not in the main be a gainer; for my dear, without character, what is even wealth, or all that wealth can bestow? I do not mean to trouble you with stale wise sayings, which young people hate; nor musty morality, which is seldom fit for use in the world, or which smells too much of books to be brought into good company. This is not my way of giving advice; but I only beg you to observe what actually passes before your eyes in the circle in which we live. Ladies of the best families, with rank and fortune, and beauty and fashion, and every thing in their favour, cannot (as yet in this country) dispense with the strictest observance of the rules of virtue and decorum. Some have fancied themselves raised so high above the vulgar as to be in no danger from the thunder and lightning of public opinion; but these ladies in the clouds have found themselves mistaken—they have been blasted, and have fallen nobody knows where! What is become of Lady ——, and the Countess of ——, and others I could mention, who were as high as envy could look? I remember seeing the Countess of ——, who was then the most beautiful creature my eyes ever beheld, and the most admired that ever was heard of, come into the Opera-house, and sit the whole night in her box without any woman’s speaking or courtesying to her, or taking any more notice of her than you would of a post, or a beggar-woman. Even a coronet cannot protect a woman, you see, from disgrace: if she falls, she and it, and all together, are trampled under foot. But why should I address all this to my dear niece? Whither have the terror and confusion I was thrown into by this strange report about you and Lord —— led me? And yet one cannot be too cautious—‘Ce n’est que le premier mot qui coute’—Scandal never stops after the first word, unless she be instantly gagged by a dexterous hand. Nothing shall be wanting on my part, but you alone are the person who can do any thing effectual Do not imagine that I would have you quit Lady——; that is the first idea, I know, that will come into your silly little head, but put it out directly. If you were upon this attack to quit the field of battle, you yield the victory to your enemies. To leave Lady——‘s house would be folly and madness. As long as she is your friend, or appears such, all is safe; but any coolness on her part would, in the present circumstances, be death to your reputation. And, even if you were to leave her on the best terms possible, the malicious world would say that you left her on the worst, and would assign as a reason the report alluded to. People who have not yet believed it would then conclude that it must be true; and thus by your cowardice you would furnish an incontrovertible argument against your innocence. I therefore desire that you will not, upon any account, think of coming home to me at present; indeed, I hope your own good sense would prevent you from wishing it, after the reasons that I have given. Far from quitting Lady —— from false delicacy, it is your business, from consideration for her peace, as well as your own, to redouble your attentions to her in private, and, above all things, to appear as much as possible with her in public. I am glad to hear her health is so far reestablished, that she can appear again in public; her spirits, as you may hint, will be the better for a little amusement. Luckily, you have it completely in your power to convince her and all the world of the correctness of your mind. I believe I certainly should have fainted, my dear, when I first heard this shocking report, if I had not just afterward received a letter from Sir Philip Baddely which revived me. His proposal at this crisis for you, my dear, is a charming thing. You have nothing to do but to encourage his addresses immediately,—the report dies away of itself, and all is just as your best friends wish. Such an establishment for you, my dear, is indeed beyond their most sanguine expectations. Sir Philip hints in his letter, that my influence might be wanting with you in his favour; but this surely cannot be. As I have told him, he has merely mistaken becoming female reserve for a want of sensibility on your part, which would be equally unnatural and absurd. Do you know, my dear, that Sir Philip Baddely has an estate of fifteen thousand a-year in Wiltshire? and his uncle Barton’s estate in Norfolk will, in due time, pay his debts. Then, as to family—look in the lists of baronets in your pocket-book; and surely, my love, an old baronetage in actual possession is worth something more than the reversion of a new coronet; supposing that such a thing could properly be thought of, which Heaven forbid! So I see no possible objection to Sir Philip, my dear Belinda! and I am sure you have too much candour and good sense to make any childish or romantic difficulties. Sir Philip is not, I know, a man of what you call genius. So much the better, my dear—those men of genius are dangerous husbands; they have so many oddities and eccentricities, there is no managing them, though they are mighty pleasant men in company to enliven conversation; for example, your favourite, Clarence Hervey. As it is well known he is not a marrying man, you never can have thought of him. You are not a girl to expose yourself to the ridicule, &c., of all your female acquaintance by romance and nonsense. I cannot conceive that a niece of mine could degrade herself by a mean prepossession for a man who has never made any declaration of his attachment to her, and who, I am sure, feels no such attachment. That you may not deceive yourself, it is fit I should tell you, what otherwise it might not be so proper to mention to a young lady, that he keeps and has kept a mistress for some years; and those who are most intimately in his confidence have assured me that, if ever he marries any body, he will marry this girl; which is not impossible, considering that she is, they say, the most beautiful young creature that ever was seen, and he a man of genius. If you have any sense or spirit, I have said enough. So adieu!—Let me hear, by return of the post, that every thing is going on as it should do. I am impatient to write to your sister Tollemache this good news. I always foretold that my Belinda would marry better than her sister, or any of her cousins, and take place of them all. Are not you obliged to me for sending you this winter to town to Lady ——? It was an admirable hit. Pray tell Lady Delacour, with my best compliments, that our aloe friend (her ladyship will understand me) cheated a gentleman of my acquaintance the other day, at casino, out of seventy guineas. He hates the sight of her odious red wig as much now as we always did. I knew, and told Lady D——, as she will do me the justice to remember, that Mrs.——cheated at play. What a contemptible character!—Pray, my dear, do not forget to tell Lady Delacour, that I have a charming anecdote for her, about another friend of ours, who has lately gone over to the enemy. Has her ladyship seen a manuscript that is handed about as a great secret, and said to be by ——, a parallel between our friend and the Chevalier d’Eon? It is done with infinite wit and humour, in the manner of Plutarch. I would send a copy, but am afraid my frank would be too heavy if I began upon another sheet. So once more adieu, my dear niece! Write to me without fail, and mention Sir Philip. I have written to him to give my approbation, &c.

“Yours sincerely,

“SELINA STANHOPE.”

“Mrs. Stanhope seems to have written you a volume instead of a letter, Miss Portman,” cried Lady Delacour, as Belinda turned over the sheets of her aunt’s long epistle. She did not attempt to read it regularly through: some passages here and there were sufficient to astonish and shock her extremely. “No bad news, I hope?” said Lady Delacour, again looking up from her writing at Belinda, who sat motionless, leaning her head upon her hand, as if deep in thought, Mrs. Stanhope’s unfolded letter hanging from her hand. In the midst of the variety of embarrassing, painful, and alarming feelings excited by this letter, she had sufficient strength of mind to adhere to her resolution of speaking the exact truth to Lady Delacour. When she was roused by her ladyship’s question, “No bad news, I hope, Miss Portman?” she instantly answered, with all the firmness she could command. “Yes. My aunt has been alarmed by a strange report which I heard myself for the first time this morning from Mr. Hervey. I am sure I am much obliged to him for having the courage to speak the truth to me.” Here she repeated what Mr. Hervey had said to her. Lady Delacour never raised her eyes whilst Belinda spoke, but went on scratching out some words in what she was writing. Through the mask of paint which she wore no change of colour could be visible; and as Belinda did not see the expression of her ladyship’s eyes, she could not in the least judge of what was passing in her mind.

“Mr. Hervey has acted like a man of honour and sense,” said Lady Delacour; “but it is a pity, for your sake, he did not speak sooner—before this report became so public—before it reached Bath, and your aunt. Though it could not surprise her much, she has such a perfect knowledge of the world, and ——”

Lady Delacour uttered these broken sentences in a voice of suppressed anger; cleared her throat several times, and at last, unable to speak, stopped short, and then began with much precipitation to put wafers into several notes that she had been writing. So it has reached Bath, thought she—the report is public! I never till now heard a hint of any such thing except from Sir Philip Baddely; but it has doubtless been the common talk of the town, and I am laughed at as a dupe and an idiot, as I am. And now, when the thing can he concealed no longer, she comes to me with that face of simplicity, and knowing my generous temper, throws herself on my mercy, and trusts that her speaking to me with this audacious plainness will convince me of her innocence. “You have acted in the most prudent manner possible, Miss Portman,” said her ladyship, as she went on sealing her notes, “by speaking at once to me of this strange, scandalous, absurd report. Do you act from your aunt Stanhope’s advice, or entirely from your own judgment and knowledge of my character?”

“From my own judgment and knowledge of your character, in which I hope—I am not—I cannot be mistaken,” said Belinda, looking at her with a mixture of doubt and astonishment.

“No—you calculated admirably—‘twas the best, the only thing you could do. Only,” said her ladyship, falling back in her chair with an hysteric laugh, “only the blunder of Champfort, and the entrance of my Lord Delacour, and the hammercloth with the orange and black fringe—forgive me, my dear; for the soul of me I can’t help laughing—it was rather unlucky; so awkward, such a contretemps! But you,” added she, wiping her eyes, as if recovering from laughter, “you have such admirable presence of mind, nothing disconcerts you! You are equal to all situations, and stand in no need of such long letters of advice from your aunt Stanhope,” pointing to the two folio sheets which lay at Belinda’s feet.

The rapid, unconnected manner in which Lady Delacour spoke, the hurry of her motions, the quick, suspicious, angry glances of her eye, her laugh, her unintelligible words, all conspired at this moment to give Belinda the idea that her intellects were suddenly disordered. She was so firmly persuaded of her ladyship’s utter indifference to Lord Delacour, that she never conceived the possibility of her being actuated by the passion of jealousy—by the jealousy of power—a species of jealousy which she had never felt, and could not comprehend. But she had sometimes seen Lady Delacour in starts of passion that seemed to border on insanity, and the idea of her losing all command of her reason now struck Belinda with irresistible force. She felt the necessity of preserving her own composure; and with all the calmness that she could assume, she took up her aunt Stanhope’s letter, and looked for the passage in which Mrs. Luttridge and Harriot Freke were mentioned. If I can turn the course of Lady Delacour’s mind, thought she, or catch her attention, perhaps she will recover herself. “Here is a message to you, my dear Lady Delacour,” cried she, “from my aunt Stanhope, about—about Mrs. Luttridge.”

Miss Portman’s hand trembled as she turned over the pages of the letter. “I am all attention,” said Lady Delacour, with a composed voice; “only take care, don’t make a mistake: I’m in no hurry; don’t read any thing Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to garble letters, almost as dangerous as to snatch them out of a friend’s hand, as I once did, you know—but you need not now be under the least alarm.”

Conscious that this letter was not fit for her ladyship to see, Belinda neither offered to show it to her, nor attempted any apology for her reserve and embarrassment, but hastily began to read the message relative to Mrs. Luttridge; her voice gaining confidence as she went on, as she observed that she had fixed Lady Delacour’s attention, who now sat listening to her, calm and motionless. But when Miss Portman came to the words, “Do not forget to tell Lady D ——, that I have a charming anecdote for her about another friend of hers, who lately went over to the enemy,” her ladyship exclaimed with great vehemence, “Friend!—Harriot Freke!—Yes, like all other friends—Harriot Freke!—What was she compared to? ‘Tis too much for me—too much!” and she put her hand to her head.

“Compose yourself, my dear friend,” said Belinda, in a calm, gentle tone; and she went toward her with an intention of soothing her by caresses; but, at her approach, Lady Delacour pushed the table on which she had been writing from her with violence, started up, flung back the veil which fell over her face as she rose, and darted upon Belinda a look, which fixed her to the spot where she stood. It said, “Come not a step nearer, at your peril!” Belinda’s blood ran cold—she had no longer any doubt that this was insanity. She shut the penknife which lay upon the table, and put it into her pocket.

“Cowardly creature!” cried Lady Delacour, and her countenance changed to the expression of ineffable contempt; “what is it you fear?”

“That you should injure yourself. Sit down—for Heaven’s sake listen to me, to your friend, to Belinda!”

“My friend! my Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour, and she turned from her, and walked away some steps in silence; then suddenly clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven with a fervent but wild expression of devotion, and exclaimed, “Great God of heaven, my punishment is just! the death of Lawless is avenged. May the present agony of my soul expiate my folly! Of guilt—deliberate guilt—of hypocrisy—treachery—I have not—oh, never may I have—to repent!”

She paused—her eyes involuntarily returned upon Belinda. “Oh, Belinda! You, whom I have so loved—so trusted!”

The tears rolled fast down her painted cheeks; she wiped them hastily away, and so roughly, that her face became a strange and ghastly spectacle. Unconscious of her disordered appearance, she rushed past Belinda, who vainly attempted to stop her, threw up the sash, and stretching herself far out of the window, gasped for breath. Miss Portman drew her back, and closed the window, saying, “The rouge is all off your face, my dear Lady Delacour; you are not fit to be seen. Sit down upon this sofa, and I will ring for Marriott, and get some fresh rouge. Look at your face in this glass—you see—”

“I see,” interrupted Lady Delacour, looking full at Belinda, “that she who I thought had the noblest of souls has the meanest! I see that she is incapable of feeling. Rouge! not fit to be seen!—At such a time as this, to talk to me in this manner! Oh, niece of Mrs. Stanhope!—dupe!—dupe that I am!” She flung herself upon the sofa, and struck her forehead with her hand violently several times. Belinda catching her arm, and holding it with all her force, cried in a tone of authority, “Command yourself, Lady Delacour, I conjure you, or you will go out of your senses; and if you do, your secret will be discovered by the whole world.”

“Hold me not—you have no right,” cried Lady Delacour, struggling to free her hand. “All-powerful as you are in this house, you have no longer any power over me! I am not going out of my senses! You cannot get me into Bedlam, all-powerful, all-artful as you are. You have done enough to drive me mad—but I am not mad. No wonder you cannot believe me—no wonder you are astonished at the strong expression of feelings that are foreign to your nature—no wonder that you mistake the writhings of the heart, the agony of a generous soul, for madness! Look not so terrified; I will do you no injury. Do not you hear that I can lower my voice?—do not you see that I can be calm? Could Mrs. Stanhope herself—could you, Miss Portman, speak in a softer, milder, more polite, more proper tone than I do now? Are you pleased, are you satisfied?”

“I am better satisfied—a little better satisfied,” said Belinda.

“That’s well; but still you tremble. There’s not the least occasion for apprehension—you see I can command myself, and smile upon you.”

“Oh, do not smile in that horrid manner!”

“Why not?—‘Horrid!—Don’t you love deceit?”

“I detest it from my soul.”

“Indeed!” said Lady Delacour, still speaking in the same low, soft, unnatural voice: “then why do you practise it, my love?”

“I never practised it for a moment—I am incapable of deceit. When you are really calm, when you can really command yourself, you will do me justice, Lady Delacour; but now it is my business, if I can, to bear with you.”

“You are goodness itself, and gentleness, and prudence personified. You know perfectly how to manage a friend, whom you fear you have driven just to the verge of madness. But tell me, good, gentle, prudent Miss Portman, why need you dread so much that I should go mad? You know, if I went mad, nobody would mind, nobody would believe whatever I say—I should be no evidence against you, and I should be out of your way sufficiently, shouldn’t I? And you would have all the power in your own hands, would not you? And would not this be almost as well as if I were dead and buried? No; your calculations are better than mine. The poor mad wife would still be in your way, would yet stand between you and the fond object of your secret soul—a coronet!”

As she pronounced the word coronet, she pointed to a coronet set in diamonds on her watch-case, which lay on the table. Then suddenly seizing the watch, she dashed it upon the marble hearth with all her force—“Vile bauble!” cried she; “must I lose my only friend for such a thing as you? Oh, Belinda! do you see that a coronet cannot confer happiness?”

“I have seen it long: I pity you from the bottom of my soul,” said Belinda, bursting into tears.

“Pity me not. I cannot endure your pity, treacherous woman!” cried Lady Delacour, and she stamped with a look of rage—“most perfidious of women!”

“Yes, call me perfidious, treacherous—stamp at me—say, do what you will; I can and will bear it all—all patiently; for I am innocent, and you are mistaken and unhappy,” said Belinda. “You will love me when you return to your senses; then how can I be angry with you?”

“Fondle me not,” said Lady Delacour, starting back from Belinda’s caresses: “do not degrade yourself to no purpose—I never more can be your dupe. Your protestations of innocence are wasted on me—I am not so blind as you imagine—dupe as you think me, I have seen much in silence. The whole world, you find, suspects you now. To save your reputation, you want my friendship—you want—”

“I want nothing from you, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda. “You have suspected me long in silence! then I have mistaken your character—I can love you no longer. Farewell for ever! Find another—a better friend.”

She walked away from Lady Delacour with proud indignation; but, before she reached the door, she recollected her promise to remain with this unfortunate woman.

Is a dying woman, in the paroxysm of insane passion, a fit object of indignation? thought Belinda, and she stopped short. “No, Lady Delacour,” cried she, “I will not yield to my humour—I will not listen to my pride. A few words said in the heat of passion shall not make me forget myself or you. You have given me your confidence; I am grateful for it. I cannot, will not desert you: my promise is sacred.”

“Your promise!” said Lady Delacour, contemptuously. “I absolve you from your promise. Unless you find it convenient to yourself to remember it, pray let it be forgotten; and if I must die—”

At this instant the door opened suddenly, and little Helena came in singing—

    “‘Merrily, merrily shall we live now,
    Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’ 

What comes next, Miss Portman?”

Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face, and rushed out of the room.

“What is the matter?—Is mamma ill?”

“Yes, my dear,” said Belinda. But at this instant she heard the sound of Lord Delacour’s voice upon the stairs; she broke from the little girl, and with the greatest precipitation retreated to her own room.

She had not been alone above an hour before Marriott knocked at the door.

“Miss Portman, you don’t know how late it is. Lady Singleton and the Miss Singletons are come. But, merciful heaven!” exclaimed Marriott, as she entered the room, “what is all this packing up? What is this trunk?”

“I am going to Oakly-park with Lady Anne Percival,” said Belinda, calmly.

“I thought there was something wrong; my mind misgave me all the time I was dressing my lady,—she was in such a flutter, and never spoke to me. I’d lay my life this is, some way or other, Mr. Champfort’s doings. But, good dear Miss Portman, can you leave my poor lady when she wants you so much; and I’ll take upon me to say, ma’am, loves you so much at the bottom of her heart? Dear me, how your face is flushed! Pray let me pack up these things, if it must be. But I do hope, if it be possible, that you should stay. However, I’ve no business to speak. I beg pardon for being so impertinent: I hope you won’t take it ill,—it is only from regard to my poor lady I ventured to speak.”

“Your regard to your lady deserves the highest approbation, Marriott,” said Belinda. “It is impossible that I should stay with her any longer. When I am gone, good Marriott, and when her health and strength decline, your fidelity and your services will be absolutely necessary to your mistress; and from what I have seen of the goodness of your heart, I am convinced that the more she is in want of you, the more respectful will be your attention.”

Marriott answered only by her tears, and went on packing up in a great hurry.

Nothing could equal Lady Delacour’s astonishment when she learnt from Marriott that Miss Portman was actually preparing to leave the house. After a moment’s reflection, however, she persuaded herself that this was only a new artifice to work upon her affections; that Belinda did not mean to leave her; but that she would venture all lengths, in hopes of being at the last moment pressed to stay. Under this persuasion, Lady Delacour resolved to disappoint her expectations: she determined to meet her with that polite coldness which would best become her own dignity, and which, without infringing the laws of hospitality, would effectually point out to the world that Lady Delacour was no dupe, and that Miss Portman was an unwelcome inmate in her house.

The power of assuming gaiety when her heart was a prey to the most poignant feelings, she had completely acquired by long practice. With the promptitude of an actress, she could instantly appear upon the stage, and support a character totally foreign to her own. The loud knocks at the door, which announced the arrival of company, were signals that operated punctually upon her associations; and to this species of conventional necessity her most violent passions submitted with magical celerity. Fresh rouged, and beautifully dressed, she was performing her part to a brilliant audience in her drawing-room when Belinda entered. Belinda beheld her with much astonishment, but more pity.

“Miss Portman,” said her ladyship, turning carelessly towards her, “where do you buy your rouge?—Lady Singleton, would you rather at this moment be mistress of the philosopher’s stone, or have a patent for rouge that will come and go like Miss Portman’s?—Apropos! have you read St. Leon?” Her ladyship was running on to a fresh train of ideas, when a footman announced the arrival of Lady Anne Percival’s carriage; and Miss Portman rose to depart.

“You dine with Lady Anne, Miss Portman, I understand?—My compliments to her ladyship, and my duty to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and her macaw. Au revoir! Though you talk of running away from me to Oakly-park, I am sure you will do no such cruel thing. I am, with all due humility, so confident of the irresistible attractions of this house, that I defy Oakly-park and all its charms. So, Miss Portman, instead of adieu, I shall only say, au revoir!”

“Adieu, Lady Delacour!” said Belinda, with a look and tone which struck her ladyship to the heart. All her suspicions, all her pride, all her affected gaiety vanished; her presence of mind forsook her, and for some moments she stood motionless and powerless. Then recollecting herself, she flew after Miss Portman, abruptly stopped her at the head of the stairs, and exclaimed, “My dearest Belinda, are you gone?—My best, my only friend!—Say you are not gone for ever!—Say you will return!”

“Adieu!” repeated Belinda. It was all she could say; she broke from Lady Delacour, and hurried out of the house with the strongest feeling of compassion for this unhappy woman, but with an unaltered sense of the propriety and necessity of her own firmness.

There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda, that was peculiarly agreeable to her agitated and harassed mind.

“You see, Lady Anne,” said Belinda, “that I come to you at last, after having so often refused your kind invitations.”

“So you surrender yourself at discretion, just when I was going to raise the siege in despair,” said Lady Anne: “now I may make my own terms; and the only terms I shall impose are, that you will stay at Oakly-park with us, as long as we can make it agreeable to you, and no longer. Whether those who cease to please, or those who cease to be pleased, are most to blame,6 it may sometimes be difficult to determine; so difficult, that when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps had better part than venture upon the discussion.”

Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something disagreeable had passed between Lady Delacour and Belinda; but she was not troubled with the disease of idle curiosity, and her example prevailed upon Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who dined with her, to refrain from all questions and comments.

The prejudice which this lady had conceived against our heroine, as being a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s, had lately been vanquished by the favourable representations of her conduct which she had heard from her nephew, and by the kindness that Belinda had shown to little Helena.

“Madam,” said Mrs. Delacour, addressing herself to Miss Portman with some formality, but much dignity, “permit me, as one of my Lord Delacour’s nearest relations now living, to return you my thanks for having, as my nephew informs me, exerted your influence over Lady Delacour for the happiness of his family. My little Helena, I am sure, feels her obligations towards you, and I rejoice that I have had an opportunity of expressing, in person, my sense of what our family owes to Miss Portman. As to the rest, her own heart will reward her. The praise of the world is but an inferior consideration. However, it deserves to be mentioned, as an instance of the world’s candour, and for the singularity of the case, that every body agrees in speaking well even of so handsome a young lady as Miss Portman.”

“She must have had extraordinary prudence,” said Lady Anne; “and the world does justly to reward it with extraordinary esteem.”

Belinda, with equal pleasure and surprise, observed that all this was said sincerely, and that the report, which she had feared was public, had never reached Mrs. Delacour or Lady Anne Percival.

In fact, it was known and believed only by those who had been prejudiced by the malice or folly of Sir Philip Baddely. Piqued by the manner in which his addresses had been received by Belinda, he readily listened to the comfortable words of his valet de chambre, who assured him that he had it from the best possible authority (Lord Delacour’s own gentleman, Mr. Champfort), that his lordship was deeply taken with Miss Portman—that the young lady managed every thing in the house—that she had been very prudent, to be sure, and had refused large presents—but that there was no doubt of her becoming Lady Delacour, if ever his lordship should be at liberty. Sir Philip was the person who mentioned this to Clarence Hervey, and Sir Philip was the person who hinted it to Mrs. Stanhope, in the very letter which he wrote to implore her influence in favour of his own proposal. This manoeuvring lady represented this report as being universally known and believed, in hopes of frightening her niece into an immediate match with the baronet. In the whole extent of Mrs. Stanhope’s politic imagination, she had never foreseen the possibility of her niece’s speaking the simple truth to Lady Delacour, and she had never guarded against this danger. She never thought of Belinda’s mentioning this report to her ladyship, because she would never have dealt so openly, had she been in the place of her niece. Thus her art and falsehood operated against her own views, and produced consequences diametrically opposite to her expectations. It was her exaggerations that made Lady Delacour believe, when Belinda repeated what she had said, that this report was universally known and credited; her own suspicions were by these means again awakened, and her jealousy and rage were raised to such a pitch, that, no longer mistress of herself, she insulted her friend and guest. Miss Portman was then obliged to do the very thing that Mrs. Stanhope most dreaded—to leave Lady Delacour’s house and all its advantages. As to Sir Philip Baddely, Belinda never thought of him from the moment she read her aunt’s letter, till after she had left her ladyship; her mind was firmly decided upon this subject; yet she could not help fearing that her aunt would not understand her reasons, or approve her conduct. She wrote to Mrs. Stanhope in the most kind and respectful manner; assured her that there had been no foundation whatever for the report which had produced so much uneasiness; that Lord Delacour had always treated her with politeness and good-nature, but that such thoughts or views as had been attributed to him, she was convinced had never entered his lordship’s mind; that hearing of the publicity of this report had, however, much affected Lady D——. “I have, therefore,” said Belinda, “thought it prudent to quit her ladyship, and to accept of an invitation from Lady Anne Percival to Oakly-park. I hope, my dear aunt, that you will not be displeased by my leaving town without seeing Sir Philip Baddely again. Our meeting could indeed answer no purpose, as it is entirely out of my power to return his partiality. Of his character, temper, and manners, I know enough to be convinced, that our union could tend only to make us both miserable. After what I have seen, nothing can ever tempt me to marry from any of the common views of interest or ambition.”

On this subject Belinda, though she declared her own sentiments with firm sincerity, touched as slightly as she could, because she anxiously wished to avoid all appearance of braving the opinions of an aunt to whom she was under obligations. She was tempted to pass over in silence all that part of Mrs. Stanhope’s letter which related to Clarence Hervey; but upon reflection, she determined to conquer her repugnance to speak of him, and to make perfect sincerity the steady rule of her conduct. She therefore acknowledged to her aunt, that of all the persons she had hitherto seen, this gentleman was the most agreeable to her; but at the same time she assured her, that the refusal of Sir Philip Baddely was totally independent of all thoughts of Mr. Hervey—that, before she had received her aunt’s letter, circumstances had convinced her that Mr. Hervey was attached to another woman. She concluded by saying, that she had neither romantic hopes nor wishes, and that her affections were at her own command.

Belinda received the following angry answer from Mrs. Stanhope:—

“Henceforward, Belinda, you may manage your own affairs as you think proper; I shall never more interfere with my advice. Refuse whom you please—go where you please—get what friends, and what admirers, and what establishment you can—I have nothing more to do with it—I will never more undertake the management of young people. There’s your sister Tollemache has made a pretty return for all my kindness! she is going to be parted from her husband, and basely throws all the blame upon me. But ‘tis the same with all of you. There’s your cousin Joddrell refused me a hundred guineas last week, though the piano-forte and harp I bought for her before she was married stood me in double that sum, and are now useless lumber on my hands; and she never could have had Joddrell without them, as she knows as well as I do. As for Mrs. Levit, she never writes to me, and takes no manner of notice of me. But this is no matter, for her notice can be of no consequence now to any body. Levit has run out every thing he had in the world!—All his fine estates advertised in to-day’s paper—an execution in the House, I’m told. I expect that she will have the assurance to come to me in her distress: but she shall find my doors shut, I promise her. Your cousin Valleton’s match has, through her own folly, turned out like all the rest. She, her husband, and all his relations are at daggers-drawing; and Valleton will die soon, and won’t leave her a farthing in his will, I foresee, and all the fine Valleton estate goes to God knows whom!

“If she had taken my advice after marriage as before, it would have been all her own at this instant. But the passions run away with people, and they forget every thing—common sense, gratitude, and all—as you do, Belinda. Clarence Hervey will never think of you, and I give you up!—Now manage for yourself as you please, and as you can! I’ll have nothing more to do with the affairs of young ladies who will take no advice.

“SELINA STANHOPE.

“P. S. If you return directly to Lady Delacour’s, and marry Sir Philip Baddely, I will forgive the past.”

The regret which Belinda felt at having grievously offended her aunt was somewhat alleviated by the reflection that she had acted with integrity and prudence. Thrown off her guard by anger, Mrs. Stanhope had inadvertently furnished her niece with the best possible reasons against following her advice with regard to Sir Philip Baddely, by stating that her sister and cousins, who had married with mercenary views, had made themselves miserable, and had shown their aunt neither gratitude nor respect.

The tranquillity of Belinda’s mind was gradually restored by the society that she enjoyed at Oakly-park. She found herself in the midst of a large and cheerful family, with whose domestic happiness she could not forbear to sympathize. There was an affectionate confidence, an unconstrained gaiety in this house, which forcibly struck her, from its contrast with what she had seen at Lady Delacour’s. She perceived that between Mr. Percival and Lady Anne there was a union of interests, occupations, taste, and affection. She was at first astonished by the openness with which they talked of their affairs in her presence; that there were no family secrets, nor any of those petty mysteries which arise from a discordance of temper or struggle for power. In conversation, every person expressed without constraint their wishes and opinions; and wherever these differed, reason and the general good were the standards to which they appealed. The elder and younger part of the family were not separated from each other; even the youngest child in the house seemed to form part of the society, to have some share and interest in the general occupations or amusements The children were treated neither as slaves nor as playthings, but as reasonable creatures; and the ease with which they were managed, and with which they managed themselves, surprised Belinda; for she heard none of that continual lecturing which goes forward in some houses, to the great fatigue and misery of all the parties concerned, and of all the spectators. Without force or any factitious excitements, the taste for knowledge, and the habits of application, were induced by example, and confirmed by sympathy. Mr. Percival was a man of science and literature, and his daily pursuits and general conversation were in the happiest manner instructive and interesting to his family. His knowledge of the world, and his natural gaiety of disposition, rendered his conversation not only useful, but in the highest degree amusing. From the merest trifles he could lead to some scientific fact, some happy literary allusion, or philosophical investigation.

Lady Anne Percival had, without any pedantry or ostentation, much accurate knowledge, and a taste for literature, which made her the chosen companion of her husband’s understanding, as well as of his heart. He was not obliged to reserve his conversation for friends of his own sex, nor was he forced to seclude himself in the pursuit of any branch of knowledge; the partner of his warmest affections was also the partner of his most serious occupations; and her sympathy and approbation, and the daily sense of her success in the education of their children, inspired him with a degree of happy social energy, unknown to the selfish solitary votaries of avarice and ambition.

In this large and happy family there was a variety of pursuits. One of the boys was fond of chemistry, another of gardening; one of the daughters had a talent for painting, another for music; and all their acquirements and accomplishments contributed to increase their mutual happiness, for there was no envy or jealousy amongst them.

Those who unfortunately have never enjoyed domestic happiness, such as we have just described, will perhaps suppose the picture to be visionary and romantic; there are others—it is hoped many others—who will feel that it is drawn from truth and real life. Tastes that have been vitiated by the stimulus of dissipation might, perhaps, think these simple pleasures insipid.

Every body must ultimately judge of what makes them happy, from the comparison of their own feelings in different situations. Belinda was convinced by this comparison, that domestic life was that which could alone make her really and permanently happy. She missed none of the pleasures, none of the gay company, to which she had been accustomed at Lady Delacour’s. She was conscious, at the end of each day, that it had been agreeably spent; yet there were no extraordinary exertions made to entertain her; every thing seemed in its natural course, and so did her mind. Where there was so much happiness, no want of what is called pleasure was ever experienced. She had not been at Oakly-park a week before she forgot that it was within a few miles of Harrowgate, and she never once recollected her vicinity to this fashionable water-drinking place for a month afterwards.

“Impossible!” some young ladies will exclaim. We hope others will feel that it was perfectly natural. But to deal fairly with our readers, we must not omit to mention a certain Mr. Vincent, who came to Oakly-park during the first week of Belinda’s visit, and who stayed there during the whole succeeding month of felicity. Mr. Vincent was a creole; he was about two-and-twenty: his person and manners were striking and engaging; he was tall, and remarkably handsome; he had large dark eyes, an aquiline nose, fine hair, and a manly sunburnt complexion; his countenance was open and friendly, and when he spoke upon any interesting subject, it lighted up, and became full of fire and animation. He used much gesture in conversation; he had not the common manners of young men who are, or who aim at being thought, fashionable, but he was perfectly at ease in company, and all that was uncommon about him appeared foreign. He had a frank, ardent temper, incapable of art or dissimulation, and so unsuspicious of all mankind, that he could scarcely believe falsehood existed in the world, even after he had himself been its dupe. He was in extreme astonishment at the detection of any species of baseness in a gentleman; for he considered honour and generosity as belonging indefeasibly, if not exclusively, to the privileged orders. His notions of virtue were certainly aristocratic in the extreme, but his ambition was to entertain such only as would best support and dignify an aristocracy. His pride was magnanimous, not insolent; and his social prejudices were such as, in some degree, to supply the place of the power and habit of reasoning, in which he was totally deficient. One principle of philosophy he practically possessed in perfection; he enjoyed the present, undisturbed by any unavailing regret for the past, or troublesome solicitude about the future. All the goods of life he tasted with epicurean zest; all the evils he bore with stoical indifference. The mere pleasure of existence seemed to keep him in perpetual good humour with himself and others; and his never-failing flow of animal spirits exhilarated even the most phlegmatic. To persons of a cold and reserved temper he sometimes appeared rather too much of an egotist: for he talked with fluent enthusiasm of the excellent qualities and beauties of whatever he loved, whether it were his dog, his horse, or his country: but this was not the egotism of vanity; it was the overflowing of an affectionate heart, confident of obtaining sympathy from his fellow-creatures, because conscious of feeling it for all that existed.

He was as grateful as he was generous; and though high-spirited and impatient of restraint, he would submit with affectionate gentleness to the voice of a friend, or listen with deference to the counsel of those in whose superior judgment he had confidence. Gratitude, respect, and affection, all conspired to give Mr. Percival the strongest power over his soul. Mr. Percival had been a guardian and a father to him. His own father, an opulent merchant, on his death-bed requested that his son, who was then about eighteen, might be immediately sent to England for the advantages of a European education. Mr. Percival, who had a regard for the father, arising from circumstances which it is not here necessary to explain, accepted the charge of young Vincent, and managed so well, that his ward when he arrived at the age of twenty-one did not feel relieved from any restraint. On the contrary, his attachment to his guardian increased from that period, when the laws gave him full command over his fortune and his actions. Mr. Vincent had been at Harrowgate for some time before Mr. Percival came into the country; but as soon as he heard of Mr. Percival’s arrival, he left half finished a game of billiards, of which, by-the-bye, he was extremely fond, to pay his respects at Oakly-park. At the first sight of Belinda, he did not seem much struck with her appearance; perhaps, from his thinking that there was too little languor in her eyes, and too much colour in her cheeks; he confessed that she was graceful, but her motions were not quite slow enough to please him.

It is somewhat singular that Lady Delacour’s faithful friend, Harriot Freke, should be the cause of Mr. Vincent’s first fixing his favourable attention on Miss Portman.

He had a black servant of the name of Juba, who was extremely attached to him: he had known Juba from a boy, and had brought him over with him when he first came to England, because the poor fellow begged so earnestly to go with young massa. Juba had lived with him ever since, and accompanied him wherever he went. Whilst he was at Harrowgate, Mr. Vincent lodged in the same house with Mrs. Freke. Some dispute arose between their servants, about the right to a coach-house, which each party claimed as exclusively their own. The master of the house was appealed to by Juba, who sturdily maintained his massa’s right; he established it, and rolled his massa’s curricle into the coach-house in triumph. Mrs. Freke, who heard and saw the whole transaction from her window, said, or swore, that she would make Juba repent of what she called his insolence. The threat was loud enough to reach his ears, and he looked up in astonishment to hear such a voice from a woman; but an instant afterwards he began to sing very gaily, as he jumped into the curricle to turn the cushions, and then danced himself up and down by the springs, as if rejoicing in his victory. A second and a third time Mrs. Freke repeated her threat, confirming it by an oath, and then violently shut down the window and disappeared. Mr. Vincent, to whom Juba, with much simplicity, expressed his aversion of the man-woman who lived in the house with them, laughed at the odd manner in which the black imitated her voice and gesture, but thought no more of the matter. Some time afterward, however, Juba’s spirits forsook him; he was never heard to sing or to whistle, he scarcely ever spoke even to his master, who was much surprised by this sudden change from gaiety and loquacity to melancholy taciturnity. Nothing could draw from the poor fellow any explanation of the cause of this alteration in his humour; and though he seemed excessively grateful for the concern which his master showed about his health, no kindness or amusement could restore him to his wonted cheerfulness. Mr. Vincent knew that he was passionately fond of music; and having heard him once express a wish for a tambourine, he gave him one: but Juba never played upon it, and his spirits seemed every day to grow worse and worse. This melancholy lasted during the whole time that he remained at Harrowgate, but from the first day of his arrival at Oakly-park he began to mend: after he had been there a week, he was heard to sing, and whistle, and talk as he used to do, and his master congratulated him upon his recovery. One evening his master asked him to go back to Harrowgate for his tambourine, as little Charles Percival wished to hear him play upon it. This simple request had a wonderful effect upon poor Juba; he began to tremble from head to foot, his eyes became fixed, and he stood motionless; after some time, he suddenly clasped his hands, fell upon his knees, and exclaimed:

“Oh, massa, Juba die! If Juba go back, Juba die!” and he wiped away the drops that stood upon his forehead. “But me will go, if massa bid—me will die!”

Mr. Vincent began to imagine that the poor fellow was out of his senses. He assured him, with the greatest kindness, that he would almost as soon hazard his own life as that of such a faithful, affectionate servant; but he pressed him to explain what possible danger he dreaded from returning to Harrowgate. Juba was silent, as if afraid to speak—“Don’t fear to speak to me,” said Mr. Vincent; “I will defend you: if anybody have injured you, or if you dread that any body will injure you, trust to me; I will protect you.”

“Ah, massa, you no can! Me die, if me go back! Me no can say word more;” and he put his finger upon his lips, and shook his head. Mr. Vincent knew that Juba was excessively superstitious; and convinced, that, if his mind were not already deranged, it would certainly become so, were any secret terror thus to prey upon his imagination, he assumed a very grave countenance, and assured him, that he should be extremely displeased if he persisted in this foolish and obstinate silence. Overcome by this, Juba burst into tears, and answered:

“Den me will tell all.”

This conversation passed before Miss Portman and Charles Percival, who were walking in the park with Mr. Vincent, at the time he met Juba and asked him to go for the tambourine. When he came to the words, “Me will tell all,” he made a sign that he wished to tell it to his master alone. Belinda and the little boy walked on, to leave him at liberty to speak; and then, though with a sort of reluctant horror, he told that the figure of an old woman, all in flames, had appeared to him in his bedchamber at Harrowgate every night, and that he was sure she was one of the obeah-women of his own country, who had pursued him to Europe to revenge his having once, when he was a child, trampled upon an egg-shell that contained some of her poisons. The extreme absurdity of this story made Mr. Vincent burst out a laughing; but his humanity the next instant made him serious; for the poor victim of superstitious terror, after having revealed what, according to the belief of his country, it is death to mention, fell senseless on the ground. When he came to himself, he calmly said, that he knew he must now die, for that the obeah-women never forgave those that talked of them or their secrets; and, with a deep groan, he added, that he wished he might die before night, that he might not see her again. It was in vain to attempt to reason him out of the idea that he had actually seen this apparition: his account of it was, that it first appeared to him in the coach-house one night, when he went thither in the dark—that he never afterwards went to the coach-house in the dark—but that the same figure of an old woman, all in flames, appeared at the foot of his bed every night whilst he stayed at Harrowgate; and that he was then persuaded she would never let him escape from her power till she had killed him. That since he had left Harrowgate, however, she had not tormented him, for he had never seen her, and he was in hopes that she had forgiven him; but that now he was sure of her vengeance for having spoken of her.

Mr. Vincent knew the astonishing power which the belief in this species of sorcery7 has over the minds of the Jamaica negroes; they pine and actually die away from the moment they fancy themselves under the malignant influence of these witches. He almost gave poor Juba over for lost. The first person that he happened to meet after his conversation was Belinda, to whom he eagerly related it, because he had observed, that she had listened with much attention and sympathy to the beginning of the poor fellow’s story. The moment that she heard of the flaming apparition, she recollected having seen a head drawn in phosphorus, which one of the children had exhibited for her amusement, and it occurred to her that, perhaps, some imprudent or ill-natured person might have terrified the ignorant negro by similar means. When she mentioned this to Mr. Vincent, he recollected the threat that had been thrown out by Mrs. Freke, the day that Juba had taken possession of the disputed coach-house; and from the character of this lady, Belinda judged that she would be likely to play such a trick, and to call it, as usual, fun or frolic. Miss Portman suggested that one of the children should show him the phosphorus, and should draw some ludicrous figure with it in his presence. This was done, and it had the effect that she expected. Juba, familiarized by degrees with the object of his secret horror, and convinced that no obeah-woman was exercising over him her sorceries, recovered his health and spirits. His gratitude to Miss Portman, who was the immediate cause of his cure, was as simple and touching as it was lively and sincere. This was the circumstance which first turned Mr. Vincent’s attention towards Belinda. Upon examining the room in which the negro used to sleep at Harrowgate, the strong smell of phosphorus was perceived, and part of the paper was burnt on the very spot where he had always seen the figure, so that he was now perfectly convinced that this trick had been purposely played to frighten him, in revenge for his having kept possession of the coach-house.

Mrs. Freke, when she found herself detected, gloried in the jest, and told the story as a good joke wherever she went—triumphing in the notion, that it was she who had driven both master and man from Harrowgate.

The exploit was, however, by no means agreeable in its consequences to her friend Mrs. Luttridge, who was now at Harrowgate. For reasons of her own, she was very anxious to fix Mr. Vincent in her society, and she was much provoked by Mrs. Freke’s conduct. The ladies came to high words upon the occasion, and an irreparable breach would have ensued had not Mrs. Freke, in the midst of her rage, recollected Mrs. Luttridge’s electioneering interest: and suddenly changing her tone, she declared that “she was really sorry to have driven Mr. Vincent from Harrowgate; that her only intention was to get rid of his black; she would lay any wager, that, with Mrs. Luttridge’s assistance, they could soon get the gentleman back again;” and she proposed, as a certain method of fixing Mr. Vincent in Mrs. Luttridge’s society, to invite Belinda to Harrowgate.

“You may be sure,” said Mrs. Freke, “that she must by this time be cursedly tired of her visit to those stupid good people at Oakly-park, and never woman wanted an excuse to do any thing she liked: so trust to her own ingenuity to make some decent apology to the Percivals for running away from them. As to Vincent, you may be sure Belinda Portman is his only inducement for staying with that precious family-party; and if we have her we have him. Now we can be sure of her, for she has just quarrelled with our dear Lady Delacour. I had the whole story from my maid, who had it from Champfort. Lady Delacour and she are at daggers-drawing, and it will be delicious to her to hear her ladyship handsomely abused. We are the declared enemies of her enemy, so we must be her friends. Nothing unites folk so quickly and so solidly, as hatred of some common foe.”

This argument could not fail to convince Mrs. Luttridge, and the next day Mrs. Freke commenced her operations. She drove in her unicorn to Oakly-park to pay Miss Portman a visit. She had no acquaintance either with Mr. Percival or Lady Anne, and she had always treated Belinda, when she met her in town, rather cavalierly, as an humble companion of Lady Delacour. But it cost Mrs. Freke nothing to change her tone: she was one of those ladies who can remember or forget people, be perfectly familiar or strangely rude, just as it suits the convenience, fashion, or humour of the minute.

Belinda was alone, and reading, when Mrs. Freke dashed into the room.

“How do, dear creature?” cried she, stepping up to her, and shaking hands with her boisterously—“How do?—Glad to see you, faith!—Been long here?—Tremendously hot to-day!”

She flung herself upon the sofa beside Belinda, threw her hat upon the table, and then continued speaking.

“And how d’ye go on here, poor child?—Gad! I’m glad you’re alone—expected to find you encompassed by a whole host of the righteous. Give me credit for my courage in coming to deliver you out of their hands. Luttridge and I had such compassion upon you, when we heard you were close prisoner here! I swore to set the distressed damsel free, in spite of all the dragons in Christendom; so let me carry you off in triumph in my unicorn, and leave these good people to stare when they come home from their sober walk, and find you gone. There’s nothing I like so much as to make good people stare—I hope you’re of my way o’ thinking—-you don’t look as if you were, though; but I never mind young ladies’ looks—always give the lie to their thoughts. Now we talk o’ looks—never saw you look so well in my life—as handsome as an angel! And so much the better for me. Do you know, I’ve a bet of twenty guineas on your head—on your face, I mean. There’s a young bride at Harrowgate, Lady H——, they’re all mad about her; the men swear she’s the handsomest woman in England, and I swear I know one ten times as handsome. They’ve dared me to make good my word, and I’ve pledged myself to produce my beauty at the next ball, and to pit her against their belle for any money. Most votes carry it. I’m willing to double my bet since I’ve seen you again. Come, had not we best be off? Now don’t refuse me and make speeches—you know that’s all nonsense—I’ll take all the blame upon myself.”

Belinda, who had not been suffered to utter a word whilst Mrs. Freke ran on in this strange manner, looked in unfeigned astonishment; but when she found herself seized and dragged towards the door, she drew back with a degree of gentle firmness that astonished Mrs. Freke. With a smiling countenance, but a steady tone, she said, “that she was sorry Mrs. Freke’s knight-errantry should not be exerted in a better cause, for that she was neither a prisoner, nor a distressed damsel.”

“And will you make me lose my bet?” cried Mrs. Freke “Oh, at all events, you must come to the ball!—I’m down for it. But I’ll not press it now, because you’re frightened out of your poor little wits, I see, at the bare thoughts of doing any thing considered out of rule by these good people. Well, well! it shall be managed for you—leave that to me: I’m used to managing for cowards. Pray tell me—you and Lady Delacour are off, I understand?—Give ye joy!—She and I were once great friends; that is to say, I had over her ‘that power which strong minds have over weak ones,’ but she was too weak for me—one of those people that have neither courage to be good, nor to be bad.”

“The courage to be bad,” said Belinda, “I believe, indeed, she does not possess.”

Mrs. Freke stared. “Why, I heard you had quarrelled with her!”

“If I had,” said Belinda, “I hope that I should still do justice to her merits. It is said that people are apt to suffer more by their friends than their enemies. I hope that will never be the case with Lady Delacour, as I confess that I have been one of her friends.”

“‘Gad, I like your spirit—you don’t want courage, I see, to fight even for your enemies. You are just the kind of girl I admire. I see you have been prejudiced against me by Lady Delacour; but whatever stories she may have trumped up, the truth of the matter is this, there’s no living with her, she’s so jealous—so ridiculously jealous—of that lord of hers, for whom all the time she has the impudence to pretend not to care more than I do for the sole of my boot,” said Mrs. Freke, striking it, with her whip; “but she hasn’t the courage to give him tit for tat: now this is what I call weakness. Pray, how do she and Clarence Hervey go on together?—Are they out o’ the hornbook of platonics yet?”

“Mr. Hervey was not in town when I left it,” said Belinda.

“Was not he?—Ho! ho!—He’s off then!—Ay, so I prophesied; she’s not the thing for him: he has some strength of mind—some soul—above vulgar prejudices; so must a woman be to hold him. He was caught at first by her grace and beauty, and that sort of stuff; but I knew it could not last—knew she’d dilly dally with Clary, till he would turn upon his heel and leave her there.”

“I fancy that you are entirely mistaken both with respect to Mr. Hervey and Lady Delacour,” Belinda very seriously began to say. But Mrs. Freke interrupted her, and ran on; “No! no! no! I’m not mistaken; Clarence has found her out. She’s a very woman—that he could forgive her, and so could I; but she’s a mere woman—and that he can’t forgive—no more can I.”

There was a kind of drollery about Mrs. Freke, which, with some people, made the odd things she said pass for wit. Humour she really possessed; and when she chose it, she could be diverting to those who like buffoonery in women. She had set her heart upon winning Belinda over to her party. She began by flattery of her beauty; but as she saw that this had no effect, she next tried what could be done by insinuating that she had a high opinion of her understanding, by talking to her as an esprit fort.

“For my part,” said she, “I own I should like a strong devil better than a weak angel.”

“You forget,” said Belinda, “that it is not Milton, but Satan, who says,

    ‘Fallen spirit, to be weak is to be miserable.’”
 

“You read, I see!—I did not know you were a reading girl. So was I once; but I never read now. Books only spoil the originality of genius: very well for those who can’t think for themselves—but when one has made up one’s opinion, there is no use in reading.”

“But to make them up,” replied Belinda, “may it not be useful?”

“Of no use upon earth to minds of a certain class. You, who can think for yourself, should never read.”

“But I read that I may think for myself.”

“Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of trash—nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world.”

“And is there never any nonsense in conversation?”

“What have you here?” continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance, “Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments—milk and water! Moore’s Travels—hasty pudding! La Bruyère—nettle porridge! This is what you were at when I came in, was it not?” said she, taking up a book8 in which she saw Belinda’s mark: “Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor thing! who bored you with this task?”

“Mr. Percival recommended it to me, as one of the best essays in the English language.”

“The devil! they seem to have put you in a course of the bitters—a course of the woods might do your business better. Do you ever hunt?—Let me take you out with me some morning—you’d be quite an angel on horseback; or let me drive you out some day in my unicorn.”

Belinda declined this invitation, and Mrs. Freke strode away to the window to conceal her mortification, threw up the sash, and called out to her groom, “Walk those horses about, blockhead!”

Mr. Percival and Mr. Vincent at this instant came into the room.

“Hail, fellow! well met!” cried Mrs. Freke, stretching out her hand to Mr. Vincent.

It has been remarked, that an antipathy subsists between creatures, who, without being the same, have yet a strong external resemblance. Mr. Percival saw this instinct rising in Mr. Vincent, and smiled.

“Hail, fellow! well met! I say. Shake hands and be friends, man! Though I’m not in the habit of making apologies, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I beg your pardon for frightening your poor devil of a black.”

Then turning towards Mr. Percival, she measured him with her eye, as a person whom she longed to attack. She thought, that if Belinda’s opinion of the understanding of these Percivals could be lowered, she should rise in her esteem: accordingly, she determined to draw Mr. Percival into an argument.

“I’ve been talking treason, I believe, to Miss Portman,” cried she; “for I’ve been opposing some of your opinions, Mr. Percival.”

“If you opposed them all, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “I should not think it treason.”

“Vastly polite!—But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d’ye say to that?”

“You know that best, madam!”

“Then I’ll go a step farther; for I’m determined you shall contradict me: I think all virtue is hypocrisy.”

“I need not contradict you, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “for the terms which you make use of contradict themselves.”

“It is my system,” pursued Mrs. Freke, “that shame is always the cause of the vices of women.”

“It is sometimes the effect,” said Mr. Percival; “and, as cause and effect are reciprocal, perhaps you may, in some instances, be right.”

“Oh! I hate qualifying arguers—plump assertion or plump denial for me: you sha’n’t get off so. I say shame is the cause of all women’s vices.”

“False shame, I suppose you mean?” said Mr. Percival.

“Mere play upon words! All shame is false shame—we should be a great deal better without it. What say you, Miss Portman?—Silent, hey? Silence that speaks.”

“Miss Portman’s blushes,” said Mr. Vincent, “speak for her.”

“Against her,” said Mrs. Freke: “women blush because they understand.”

“And you would have them understand without blushing?” said Mr. Percival. “I grant you that nothing can be more different than innocence and ignorance. Female delicacy—”

“This is just the way you men spoil women,” cried Mrs. Freke, “by talking to them of the delicacy of their sex, and such stuff. This delicacy enslaves the pretty delicate dears.”

“No; it enslaves us,” said Mr. Vincent.

“I hate slavery! Vive la liberté!” cried Mrs. Freke. “I’m a champion for the Rights of Woman.”

“I am an advocate for their happiness,” said Mr. Percival, “and for their delicacy, as I think it conduces to their happiness.”

“I’m an enemy to their delicacy, as I am sure it conduces to their misery.”

“You speak from experience?” said Mr. Percival.

“No, from observation. Your most delicate women are always the greatest hypocrites; and, in my opinion, no hypocrite can or ought to be happy.”

“But you have not proved the hypocrisy,” said Belinda. “Delicacy is not, I hope, an indisputable proof of it? If you mean false delicacy——”

“To cut the matter short at once,” cried Mrs. Freke, “why, when a woman likes a man, does not she go and tell him so honestly?”

Belinda, surprised by this question from a woman, was too much abashed instantly to answer.

“Because she’s a hypocrite. That is and must be the answer.”

“No,” said Mr. Percival; “because, if she be a woman of sense, she knows that by such a step she would disgust the object of her affection.”

“Cunning!—cunning!—cunning!—the arms of the weakest.”

“Prudence! prudence!—the arms of the strongest. Taking the best means to secure our own happiness without injuring that of others is the best proof of sense and strength of mind, whether in man or woman. Fortunately for society, the same conduct in ladies which best secures their happiness most increases ours.”

Mrs. Freke beat the devil’s tattoo for some moments, and then exclaimed, “You may say what you will, but the present system of society is radically wrong:—whatever is, is wrong.”

“How would you improve the state of society?” asked Mr. Percival, calmly.

“I’m not tinker-general to the world,” said she.

“I’m glad of it,” said Mr. Percival; “for I have heard that tinkers often spoil more than they mend.”

“But if you want to know,” said Mrs. Freke, “what I would do to improve the world, I’ll tell you: I’d have both sexes call things by their right names.”

“This would doubtless be a great improvement,” said Mr. Percival; “but you would not overturn society to attain it, would you? Should we find things much improved by tearing away what has been called the decent drapery of life?”

“Drapery, if you ask me my opinion,” cried Mrs. Freke, “drapery, whether wet or dry, is the most confoundedly indecent thing in the world.”

“That depends on public opinion, I allow,” said Mr. Percival. “The Lacedaemonian ladies, who were veiled only by public opinion, were better covered from profane eyes than some English ladies are in wet drapery.”

“I know nothing of the Lacedaemonian ladies: I took my leave of them when I was a schoolboy—girl, I should say. But pray, what o’clock is it by you? I’ve sat till I’m cramped all over,” cried Mrs. Freke, getting up and stretching herself so violently that some part of her habiliments gave way. “Honi soit qui mal y pense!” said she, bursting into a horse laugh.

Without sharing in any degree that confusion which Belinda felt for her, she strode out of the room, saying, “Miss Portman, you understand these things better than I do; come and set me to rights.”

When she was in Belinda’s room, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and laughed immoderately.

“How I have trimmed Percival this morning!” said she.

“I am glad you think so,” said Belinda; “for I really was afraid he had been too severe upon you.”

“I only wish,” continued Mrs. Freke, “I only wish his wife had been by. Why the devil did not she make her appearance? I suppose the prude was afraid of my demolishing and unrigging her.”

“There seems to have been more danger of that for you than for any body else,” said Belinda, as she assisted to set Mrs. Freke’s rigging, as she called it, to rights.

“I do of all things delight in hauling good people’s opinions out of their musty drawers, and seeing how they look when they’re all pulled to pieces before their faces! Pray, are those Lady Anne’s drawers or yours?” said Mrs. Freke, pointing to a chest of drawers.

“Mine.”

“I’m sorry for it; for if they were hers, to punish her for shirking me, by the Lord, I’d have every rag she has in the world out in the middle of the floor in ten minutes! You don’t know me—I’m a terrible person when provoked—stop at nothing!”

As Mrs. Freke saw no other chance left of gaining her point with Belinda, she tried what intimidating her would do.

“I stop at nothing,” repeated she, fixing her eyes upon Miss Portman, to fascinate her by terror. “Friend or foe! peace or war! Take your choice. Come to the ball at Harrowgate, I win my bet, and I’m your sworn friend. Stay away, I lose my bet, and am your sworn enemy.”

“It is not in my power, madam,” said Belinda, calmly, “to comply with your request.”

“Then you’ll take the consequences,” cried Mrs. Freke. She rushed past her, hurried down stairs, and called out, “Bid my blockhead bring my unicorn.”

She, her unicorn, and her blockhead, were out of sight in a few minutes.

Good may be drawn from evil. Mrs. Freke’s conversation, though at the time it confounded Belinda, roused her, upon reflection, to examine by her reason the habits and principles which guided her conduct. She had a general feeling that they were right and necessary; but now, with the assistance of Lady Anne and Mr. Percival, she established in her own understanding the exact boundaries between right and wrong upon many subjects. She felt a species of satisfaction and security, from seeing the demonstration of those axioms of morality, in which she had previously acquiesced. Reasoning gradually became as agreeable to her as wit; nor was her taste for wit diminished, it was only refined by this process. She now compared and judged of the value of the different species of this brilliant talent.

Mrs. Freke’s wit, thought she, is like a noisy squib, the momentary terror of passengers; Lady Delacour’s like an elegant firework, which we crowd to see, and cannot forbear to applaud; but Lady Anne Percival’s wit is like the refulgent moon, we

    “Love the mild rays, and bless the useful light.”
 

“Miss Portman,” said Mr. Percival, “are not you afraid of making an enemy of Mrs. Freke, by declining her invitation to Harrowgate?”

“I think her friendship more to be dreaded than her enmity,” replied Belinda.

“Then you are not to be terrified by an obeah-woman?” said Mr. Vincent.

“Not in the least, unless she were to come in the shape of a false friend,” said Belinda.

“Till lately,” said Mr. Vincent, “I was deceived in the character of Mrs. Freke. I thought her a dashing, free-spoken, free-hearted sort of eccentric person, who would make a staunch friend and a jolly companion. As a mistress, or a wife, no man of any taste could think of her. Compare that woman now with one of our Creole ladies.”

“But why with a creole?” said Mr. Percival.

“For the sake of contrast, in the first place: our creole women are all softness, grace, delicacy——”

“And indolence,” said Mr. Percival.

“Their indolence is but a slight, and, in my judgment, an amiable defect; it keeps them out of mischief, and it attaches them to domestic life. The activity of a Mrs. Freke would never excite their emulation; and so much the better.”

“So much the better, no doubt,” said Mr. Percival. “But is there no other species of activity that might excite their ambition with propriety? Without diminishing their grace, softness, or delicacy, might not they cultivate their minds? Do you think ignorance, as well as indolence, an amiable defect, essential to the female character?”

“Not essential. You do not, I hope, imagine that I am so much prejudiced in favour of my countrywomen, that I can neither see nor feel the superiority in some instances of European cultivation? I speak only in general.”

“And in general,” said Lady Anne Percival, “does Mr. Vincent wish to confine our sex to the bliss of ignorance?”

“If it be bliss,” said Mr. Vincent, “what reason would they have for complaint?”

“If,” said Belinda; “but that is a question which you have not yet decided.”

“And how can we decide it?” said Mr. Vincent, “The taste and feelings of individuals must be the arbiters of their happiness.”

“You leave reason quite out of the question, then,” said Mr. Percival, “and refer the whole to taste and feeling? So that if the most ignorant person in the world assert that he is happier than you are, you are bound to believe him.”

“Why should not I?” said Mr. Vincent.

“Because,” said Mr. Percival, “though he can judge of his own pleasures, he cannot judge of yours; his are common to both, but yours are unknown to him. Would you, at this instant, change places with that ploughman yonder, who is whistling as he goes for want of thought? or, would you choose to go a step higher in the bliss of ignorance, and turn savage?”

Mr. Vincent laughed, and protested that he should be very unwilling to give up his title to civilized society; and that, instead of wishing to have less knowledge, he regretted that he had not more. “I am sensible,” said he, “that I have many prejudices;—Miss Portman has made me ashamed of some of them.”

There was a degree of candour in Mr. Vincent’s manner and conversation, which interested every body in his favour; Belinda amongst the rest. She was perfectly at ease in Mr. Vincent’s company, because she considered him as a person who wished for her friendship, without having any design to engage her affections. From several hints that dropped from him, from Mr. Percival, and from Lady Anne, she was persuaded that he was attached to some creole lady; and all that he said in favour of the elegant softness and delicacy of his countrywomen confirmed this opinion.

Miss Portman was not one of those young ladies who fancy that every gentleman who converses freely with them will inevitably fall a victim to the power of their charms, and will see in every man a lover, or nothing.

“I’ve found it!—I’ve found it, mamma!” cried little Charles Percival, running eagerly into the room with a plant in his hand. “Will you send this in your letter to Helena Delacour, and tell her that is the thing that gold fishes are so fond of? And tell her that it is called lemna, and that it may be found in any ditch or pool.”

“But how can she find ditches and pools in Grosvenor-square, my dear?”

“Oh, I forgot that. Then will you tell her, mamma, that I will send her a great quantity?”

“How, my dear?”

“I don’t know, mamma, yet—but I will find out some way.”

“Would it not be as well, my dear,” said his mother, smiling, “to consider how you can perform your promises before you make them?”

“A gentleman,” said Mr. Vincent, “never makes a promise that he cannot perform.”

“I know that very well,” said the boy, proudly: “Miss Portman, who is very good-natured, will, I am sure, be so good, when she goes back to Lady Delacour, as to carry food for the gold fishes to Helena—you see that I have found out a way to keep my promise.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Belinda; “for I am not going back to Lady Delacour’s.”

“Then I am very glad of it!” said the boy, dropping the weed, and clapping his hands joyfully; “for then I hope you will always stay here, don’t you, mamma?—don’t you, Mr. Vincent? Oh, you do, I am sure, for I heard you say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so red?”

His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question, and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where he found the food for the gold fishes.

Belinda, to Mr. Vincent’s great relief, seemed not to take any notice of the child’s question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was intently copying Westall’s sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family, and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour’s name, to many painful and some pleasing recollections. “What a charming woman, and what a charming family!” said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the drawing; “and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods and goddesses, that ever were drawn!”

“Yes,” said Belinda, “and how much more interesting this picture is to us, from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real, not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her, are what they seem to be—the pride and pleasure of her life!”

“There cannot,” exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, “be a more delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not feel what you can paint so well?”

“Is it possible, sir,” said Belinda, “that you should suspect me of such wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of feeling?”

“You misunderstand—you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy, all affectation. But I imagined—I feared—”

As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda’s eye was caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her ladyship and Miss Portman—she sighed from the recollection of Clarence Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.

“What a contrast!” said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. “What a contrast! Compare their pictures—compare their characters—compare—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Belinda; “Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne Percival.”

“I have been more fortunate, I have seen one—one equally worthy of esteem—admiration—love.”

Mr. Vincent’s voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda, prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, “You are indeed very fortunate—peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies——”

“West-Indian ladies!” interrupted Mr. Vincent. “Surely, Miss Portman cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian lady!” Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. “Charming Miss Portman,” continued he, “I have learnt to admire European beauty, European excellence! I have acquired new ideas of the female character—ideas—feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely miserable.”

Miss Portman had been too often called “charming” to be much startled or delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but there was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent’s manner, that she could no longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident confusion. Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover came into her mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and dreaded that he should read her thoughts. “Exquisitely miserable!” said she, in a tone of raillery: “I should not suppose, from what I have seen of Mr. Vincent, that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable.”

“Then you do not know my character—you do not know my heart: it is in your power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold, hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion,” cried he, seizing her hand.

At this instant one of the children came in with some flowers to Belinda; and, glad of the interruption, she hastily put up her drawings and left the room, observing that she should scarcely have time to dress before dinner. However, as soon as she found herself alone, she forgot how late it was; and though she sat down before the glass to dress, she made no progress in the business, but continued for some time motionless, endeavouring to recollect and to understand all that had passed. The result of her reflections was the conviction that her partiality for Clarence Hervey was greater than she ever had till this moment suspected. “I have told my aunt Stanhope,” thought she, “that the idea of Mr. Hervey had no influence in my refusal of Sir Philip Baddely; I have said that my affections are entirely at my own command: then why do I feel this alarm at the discovery of Mr. Vincent’s views? Why do I compare him with one whom I thought I had forgotten?—And yet how are we to judge of character? How can we form any estimate of what is amiable, of what will make us happy or miserable, but by comparison? Am I to blame for perceiving superiority? Am I to blame if one person be more agreeable, or seem to be more agreeable, than another? Am I to blame if I cannot love Mr. Vincent?”

Before Belinda had answered these questions to her satisfaction, the dinner-bell rang. There happened to dine this day at Mr. Percival’s a gentleman who had just arrived from Lisbon, and the conversation turned upon the sailors’ practice of stilling the waves over the bar of Lisbon by throwing oil upon the water. Charles Percival’s curiosity was excited by this conversation, and he wished to see the experiment. In the evening his father indulged his wishes. The children were delighted at the sight, and little Charles insisted upon Belinda’s following him to a particular spot, where he was well convinced that she could see better than any where else in the world. “Take care,” cried Lady Anne, “or you will lead your friend into the river, Charles.” The boy paused, and soon afterwards asked his father several questions about swimming and drowning, and bringing people to life after they had been drowned. “Don’t you remember, papa,” said he, “that Mr. Hervey, who was almost drowned in the Serpentine river in London?”—Belinda coloured at hearing unexpectedly the name of the person of whom she was at that instant thinking, and the child continued—“I liked that Mr. Hervey very much—I liked him from the first day I saw him. What a number of entertaining things he told us at dinner! We used to call him the good-natured gentleman: I like him very much—I wish he was here this minute. Did you ever see him, Miss Portman? Oh, yes, you must have seen him; for it was he who carried Helena’s gold fishes to her mother, and he used often to be at Lady Delacour’s—was not he?”

“Yes, my dear, often.”

“And did not you like him very much?”—This simple question threw Belinda into inexpressible confusion: but fortunately the crimson on her face was seen only by Lady Anne Percival. To Belinda’s great satisfaction, Mr. Vincent forbore this evening any attempt to renew the conversation of the morning; he endeavoured to mix, with his usual animation and gaiety, in the family society; and her embarrassment was much lessened when she heard the next day, at breakfast, that he was gone to Harrowgate. Lady Anne Percival took notice that she was this morning unusually sprightly.

After breakfast, as they were passing through the hall to take a walk in the park, one of the little boys stopped to look at a musical instrument which hung up against the wall.

“What is this, mamma?—It is not a guitar, is it?”

“No, my dear, it is called a banjore; it is an African instrument, of which the negroes are particularly fond. Mr. Vincent mentioned it the other day to Miss Portman, and I believe she expressed some curiosity to see one. Juba went to work immediately to make a banjore, I find. Poor fellow! I dare say that he was very sorry to go to Harrowgate, and to leave his African guitar half finished; especially as it was intended for an offering to Miss Portman. He is the most grateful, affectionate creature I ever saw.”

“But why, mamma,” said Charles Percival, “is Mr. Vincent gone away? I am sorry he is gone; I hope he will soon come back. In the mean time, I must run and water my carnations.”

“His sorrow for his friend Mr. Vincent’s departure does not seem to affect his spirits much,” said Lady Anne. “People who expect sentiment from children of six years old will be disappointed, and will probably teach them affectation. Surely it is much better to let their natural affections have time to expand. If we tear the rosebud open we spoil the flower.” Belinda smiled at this parable of the rosebud, which, she said, might be applied to men and women, as well as to children.

“And yet, upon reflection,” said Lady Anne, “the heart has nothing in common with a rosebud. Nonsensical allusions pass off very prettily in conversation. I mean, when we converse with partial friends: but we should reason ill, and conduct ourselves worse, if we were to trust implicitly to poetical analogies. Our affections,” continued Lady Anne, “arise from circumstances totally independent of our will.”

“That is the very thing I meant to say,” interrupted Belinda, eagerly.

“They are excited by the agreeable or useful qualities that we discover in things or in persons.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Belinda.

“Or by those which our fancies discover,” said Lady Anne.

Belinda was silent; but, after a pause, she said, “That it was certainly very dangerous, especially for women, to trust to fancy in bestowing their affections.” “And yet,” said Lady Anne, “it is a danger to which they are much exposed in society. Men have it in their power to assume the appearance of every thing that is amiable and estimable, and women have scarcely any opportunities of detecting the counterfeit.”

“Without Ithuriel’s spear, how can they distinguish the good from the evil?” said Belinda. “This is a common-place complaint, I know; the ready excuse that we silly young women plead, when we make mistakes for which our friends reproach us, and for which we too often reproach ourselves.”

“The complaint is common-place precisely because it is general and just,” replied Lady Anne. “In the slight and frivolous intercourse, which fashionable belles usually have with those fashionable beaux who call themselves their lovers, it is surprising that they can discover any thing of each other’s real character. Indeed they seldom do; and this probably is the cause why there are so many unsuitable and unhappy marriages. A woman who has an opportunity of seeing her lover in private society, in domestic life, has infinite advantages; for if she has any sense, and he has any sincerity, the real character of both may perhaps be developed.”

“True,” said Belinda (who now suspected that Lady Anne alluded to Mr. Vincent); “and in such a situation a woman would readily be able to decide whether the man who addressed her would suit her taste or not; so she would be inexcusable if, either from vanity or coquetry, she disguised her real sentiments.”

“And will Miss Portman, who cannot, by any one to whom she is known, be suspected of vanity or coquetry, permit me to speak to her with the freedom of a friend?”

Belinda, touched by the kindness of Lady Anne’s manner, pressed her hand, and exclaimed, “Yes, dear Lady Anne, speak to me with freedom—you cannot do me a greater favour. No thought of my mind, no secret feeling of my heart, shall be concealed from you.”

“Do not imagine that I wish to encroach upon the generous openness of your temper,” said Lady Anne; “tell me when I go too far, and I will be silent. One who, like Miss Portman, has lived in the world, has seen a variety of characters, and probably has had a variety of admirers, must have formed some determinate idea of the sort of companion that would make her happy, if she were to marry—unless,” said Lady Anne, “she has formed a resolution against marriage.”

“I have formed no such resolution,” said Belinda. “Indeed, since I have seen the happiness which you and Mr. Percival enjoy in your own family, I have been much more disposed to think that a union—that a union such as yours, would increase my happiness. At the same time, my aversion to the idea of marrying from interest, or convenience, or from any motives but esteem and love, is increased almost to horror. O Lady Anne! there is nothing that I would not do to please the friends to whom I am under obligations, except sacrificing my peace of mind, or my integrity, the happiness of my life, by—”

Lady Anne, in a gentle tone, assured her, that she was the last person in the world who would press her to any union which would make her unhappy. “You perceive that Mr. Vincent has spoken to me of what passed between you yesterday. You perceive that I am his friend, but do not forget that I am also yours. If you fear undue influence from any of your relations in favour of Mr. Vincent’s large fortune, &c. let his proposal remain a secret between ourselves, till you can decide, from farther acquaintance with him, whether it will be in your power to return his affection.”

“I fear, my dear Lady Anne,” cried Belinda, “that it is not in my power to return his affection.”

“And may I ask your objections?”

“Is it not a sufficient objection, that I am persuaded I cannot love him?”