The sudden return of Lady Delacour relieved him from his embarrassment, and they conversed only on general subjects during the remainder of the evening; and he at last departed, secretly rejoicing that he was, as he fancied, under the necessity of postponing his explanation; he even thought of suppressing the history of his transaction with Mrs. Luttridge. He knew that his secret was safe with Clarence Hervey: Mrs. Luttridge would be silent for her own sake; and neither Lady Delacour nor Belinda had any connexion with her society.

A few days afterward, Mr. Vincent went to Gray, the jeweller, for some trinkets which he had bespoken. Lord Delacour was there, speaking about the diamond ring, which Gray had promised to dispose of for him. Whilst his lordship and Mr. Vincent were busy about their own affairs, Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort came into the shop. Sir Philip and Mr. Vincent had never before met. Lord Delacour, to prevent him from getting into a quarrel about a lady who was so little worth fighting for as Miss Annabella Luttridge, had positively refused to tell Mr. Vincent what he knew of the affair, or to let him know the name of the gentleman who was concerned in it.

The shopman addressed Mr. Vincent by his name, and immediately Sir Philip whispered to Rochfort, that Mr. Vincent was "the master of the black." Vincent, who unluckily overheard him, instantly asked Lord Delacour if that was the gentleman who had behaved so ill to his servant? Lord Delacour told him that it was now of no consequence to inquire. "If," said his lordship, "either of these gentlemen choose to accost you, I shall think you do rightly to retort; but for Heaven's sake do not begin the attack!"

Vincent's impetuosity was not to be restrained; he demanded from Sir Philip, whether he was the person who had beaten his servant? Sir Philip readily obliged him with an answer in the affirmative; and the consequence was the loss of a finger to the baronet, and a wound in the side to Mr. Vincent, which, though it did not endanger his life, yet confined him to his room for several days. The impatience of his mind increased his fever, and retarded his recovery.

When Belinda's first alarm for Mr. Vincent's safety was over, she anxiously questioned Lord Delacour as to the particulars of all that had passed between Mr. Vincent and Sir Philip, that she might judge of the manner in which her lover had conducted himself. Lord Delacour, who was a man of strict truth, was compelled to confess that Mr. Vincent had shown more spirit than temper, and more courage than prudence. Lady Delacour rejoiced to perceive that this account made Belinda uncommonly serious.

Mr. Vincent now thought himself sufficiently recovered to leave his room; his physicians, indeed, would have kept him prisoner a few days longer, but he was too impatient of restraint to listen to their counsels.

"Juba, tell the doctor, when he comes, that you could not keep me at home; and that is all that is necessary to be said."

He had now summoned courage to acknowledge to Belinda all that had happened, and was proceeding, with difficulty, down stairs, when he was suddenly struck by the sound of a voice which he little expected at this moment; a voice he had formerly been accustomed to hear with pleasure, but now it smote him to the heart:—it was the voice of Mr. Percival. For the first time in his life, he wished to deny himself to his friend. The recollection of the E O table, of Mrs. Luttridge, of Mr. Percival as his guardian, and of all the advice he had heard from him as his friend, rushed upon his mind at this instant; conscious and ashamed, he shrunk back, precipitately returned to his own room, and threw himself into a chair, breathless with agitation. He listened, expecting to hear Mr. Percival coming up stairs, and endeavoured to compose himself, that he might not betray, by his own agitation, all that he wished most anxiously to conceal. After waiting for some time, he rang the bell, to make inquiries. The waiter told him that a Mr. Percival had asked for him; but, having been told by his black that he was just gone out, the gentleman being, as he said, much hurried, had left a note; for an answer to which he would call at eight o'clock in the evening. Vincent was glad of this short reprieve. "Alas!" thought he, "how changed am I, when I fear to meet my best friend! To what has this one fatal propensity reduced me!"

He was little aware of the new difficulties that awaited him.

Mr. Percival's note was as follows:—

"My dear friend!

"Am not I a happy man, to find a friend in my ci-devant ward? But I have no time for sentiment; nor does it become the character, in which I am now writing to you—that of a DUN. You are so rich, and so prudent, that the word in capital letters cannot frighten you. Lady Anne's cousin, poor Mr. Carysfort, is dead. I am guardian to his boys; they are but ill provided for. I have fortunately obtained a partnership in a good house for the second son. Ten thousand pounds are wanting to establish him—we cannot raise the money amongst us, without dunning poor Mr. Vincent. Enclosed is your bond for the purchase-money of the little estate you bought from me last summer. I know that you have double the sum we want in ready money—so I make no ceremony. Let me have the ten thousand this evening, if you can, as I wish to leave town as soon as possible.

"Yours most sincerely,

"HENRY PERCIVAL."

Now Mr. Vincent had lost, and had actually paid to Mrs. Luttridge, the ready money which had been destined to discharge his debt to Mr. Percival: he expected fresh remittances from the West Indies in the course of a few weeks; but, in the mean time, he must raise this money immediately: this he could only do by having recourse to Jews—a desperate expedient. The Jew, to whom he applied, no sooner discovered that Mr. Vincent was under a necessity of having this sum before eight o'clock in the evening than he became exorbitant in his demands; and the more impatient this unfortunate young man became, the more difficulties he raised. At last, a bargain was concluded between them, in which Vincent knew that he was grossly imposed upon; but to this he submitted, for he had no alternative. The Jew promised to bring him ten thousand pounds at five o'clock in the evening, but it was half after seven before he made his appearance; and then he was so dilatory and circumspect, in reading over and signing the bonds, and in completing the formalities of the transaction, that before the money was actually in Vincent's possession, one of the waiters of the hotel knocked at the door to let him know that Mr. Percival was coming up stairs. Vincent hurried the Jew into an adjoining apartment, and bid him wait there, till he should come to finish the business. Though totally unsuspicious, Mr. Percival could not help being struck with the perturbation in which he found his young friend. Vincent immediately began to talk of the duel, and his friend was led to conclude that his anxiety arose from this affair. He endeavoured to put him at ease by changing the conversation. He spoke of the business which brought him to town, and of the young man whom he was going to place with a banker. "I hope," said he, observing that Vincent grew more embarrassed, "that my dunning you for this money is not really inconvenient."

"Not in the least—not in the least. I have the money ready—in a few moments—if you'll be so good as to wait here—I have the money ready in the next room."

At this instant a loud noise was heard—the raised voices of two people quarrelling. It was Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew. Mr. Vincent had sent Juba out of the way, on some errand, whilst he had been transacting his affairs with the Jew; but the black, having executed the commission on which he had been sent, returned, and went into his master's bedchamber, to read at his leisure a letter which he had just received from his wife. He did not at first see the Jew, and he was spelling out the words of his wife's letter.

"My dear Juba,

"I take this op-por-tu—"

—nity he would have said; but the Jew, who had held his breath in to avoid discovery, till he could hold it no longer, now drew it so loud, that Juba started, looked round, and saw the feet of a man, which appeared beneath the bottom of the window curtain. Where fears of supernatural appearances were out of the question, our negro was a man of courage; he had no doubt that the man who was concealed behind the curtain was a robber, but the idea of a robber did not unnerve him like that of an Obeah woman. With presence of mind worthy of a greater danger, Juba took down his master's pistol, which hung over the chimney-piece, and marching deliberately up to the enemy, he seized the Jew by the throat, exclaiming—

"You rob my massa?—You dead man, if you rob my massa."

Terrified at the sight of the pistol, the Jew instantly explained who he was, and producing his large purse, assured Juba that he was come to lend money, and not to take it from his master; but this appeared highly improbable to Juba, who believed his master to be the richest man in the world; besides, the Jew's language was scarcely intelligible to him, and he saw secret terror in Solomon's countenance. Solomon had an antipathy to the sight of a black, and he shrunk from the negro with strong signs of aversion. Juba would not relinquish his hold; each went on talking in his own angry gibberish as loud as he could, till at last the negro fairly dragged the Jew into the presence of his master and Mr. Percival.

It is impossible to describe Mr. Vincent's confusion, or Mr. Percival's astonishment. The Jew's explanation was perfectly intelligible to him; he saw at once all the truth. Vincent, overwhelmed with shame, stood the picture of despair, incapable of uttering a single syllable.

"There is no necessity to borrow this money on my account," said Mr. Percival, calmly; "and if there were, we could probably have it on more reasonable terms than this gentleman proposes."

"I care not on what terms I have it—I care not what becomes of me—I am undone!" cried Vincent.

Mr. Percival coolly dismissed the Jew, made a sign to Juba to leave the room, and then, addressing himself to Vincent, said, "I can borrow the money that I want elsewhere. Fear no reproaches from me—I foresaw all this—you have lost this sum at play: it is well that it was not your whole fortune. I have only one question to ask you, on which depends my esteem—have you informed Miss Portman of this affair?"

"I have not yet told her, but I was actually half down stairs in my way to tell her."

"Then, Mr. Vincent, you are still my friend. I know the difficulty of such an avowal—but it is necessary."

"Cannot you, dear Mr. Percival, save me the intolerable shame of confessing my own folly? Spare me this mortification! Be yourself the bearer of this intelligence, and the mediator in my favour."

"I will with pleasure," said Mr. Percival; "I will go this instant: but I cannot say that I have any hope of persuading Belinda to believe in your being irrevocably reclaimed from the charms of play."

"Indeed, my excellent friend, she may rely upon me: I feel such horror at the past, such heartfelt resolution against all future temptation, that you may pledge yourself for my total reformation."

Mr. Percival promised that he would exert all his influence, except by pledging his own honour; to this he could not consent. "If I have any good news for you, I will return as soon as possible; but I will not be the bearer of any painful intelligence," said he; and he departed, leaving Mr. Vincent in a state of anxiety, which, to his temper, was a punishment sufficient for almost any imprudence he could have committed.

Mr. Percival returned no more that night. The next morning Mr. Vincent received the following letter from Belinda. He guessed his fate: he had scarcely power to read the words.

"I promised you that, whenever my own mind should be decided, I would not hold yours in suspense; yet at this moment I find it difficult to keep my word.

"Instead of lamenting, as you have often done, that my esteem for your many excellent qualities never rose beyond the bounds of friendship, we have now reason to rejoice at this, since it will save us much useless pain. It spares me the difficulty of conquering a passion that might be fatal to my happiness; and it will diminish the regret which you may feel at our separation. I am now obliged to say, that circumstances have made me certain we could not add to our mutual felicity by any nearer connexion.

"The hope of enjoying domestic happiness with a person whose manners, temper, and tastes suited my own, inclined me to listen to your addresses. But this happiness I could never enjoy with one who has any propensity to the love of play.

"For my own sake, as well as for yours, I rejoice that your fortune has not been materially injured; as this relieves me from the fear that my present conduct should be imputed to interested motives. Indeed, such is the generosity of your own temper, that in any situation I should scarcely have reason to apprehend from you such a suspicion.

"The absolute impossibility of my forming at present a connexion with another, will prevent you from imagining that I am secretly influenced by sentiments different from those which I avow; nor can any weak doubts on this subject expose me to my own reproaches.

"You perceive, sir, that I am not willing utterly to lose your esteem, even when I renounce, in the most unequivocal manner, all claim upon your affections. If any thing should appear to you harsh in this letter, I beg you to impute it to the real cause—my desire to spare you all painful suspense, by convincing you at once that my determination is irrevocable. With sincere wishes for your happiness, I bid you farewell.

"BELINDA PORTMAN."

A few hours after Mr. Vincent had read this letter he threw himself into a post-chaise, and set out for Germany. He saw that all hopes of being united to Belinda were over, and he hurried as far from her as possible. Her letter rather soothed than irritated his temper; her praises of his generosity were highly gratifying, and they had so powerful an effect upon his mind, that he was determined to prove that they were deserved. His conscience reproached him with not having made sufficiently honourable mention of Clarence Hervey's conduct, on the night when he was on the point of destroying himself. Before he left London he wrote a full account of this whole transaction, to be given to Miss Portman after his departure.

Belinda was deeply touched by this proof of his generosity. His letter—his farewell letter—she could not read without great emotion. It was written with true feeling, but in a manly style, without one word of vain lamentation.

"What a pity," thought Belinda, "that with so many good and great qualities, I should be forced to bid him adieu for ever!"

Though she strongly felt the pain of this separation, yet she could not recede from her decision: nothing could tempt her to connect herself with a man who had the fatal taste for play. Even Mr. Percival, much as he loved his ward, much as he wished for his union with Belinda, dared not pledge his honour for Mr. Vincent on this point.

Lady Anne Percival, in a very kind and sensible letter, expressed the highest approbation of Belinda's conduct; and the most sincere hope that Belinda would still continue to think of her with affection and esteem, though she had been so rash in her advice, and though her friendship had been apparently so selfish.



CHAPTER XXX.

NEWS.

"Do not expect that I should pretend to be sorry for Mr. Vincent," said Lady Delacour. "Let him be as generous and as penitent as he pleases, I am heartily glad that he is on his way to Germany. I dare say he will find in the upper or lower circles of the empire some heroine in the Kotzebue taste, who will alternately make him miserable till he is happy, and happy till he is miserable. He is one of those men who require great emotions: fine lovers these make for stage effect—but the worst husbands in the world!

"I hope, Belinda, you give me credit, for having judged better of Mr. Vincent than Lady Anne Percival did?"

"For having judged worse of him, you mean? Lady Anne always judges as well as possible of every body."

"I will allow you to play upon words in a friend's defence, but do not be alarmed for the reputation of Lady Anne's judgment. If it will be any satisfaction to you, I can with thorough sincerity assure you that I never liked her so well in my life as since I have detected her in a mistake. It saves her, in my imagination, from the odium of being a perfect character."

"And there was something so handsome in her manner of writing to me, when she found out her error," said Belinda.

"Very true, and my friend Mr. Percival behaved handsomely. Where friendships clash, it is not every man who has clearness of head sufficient to know his duty to his neighbour. Mr. Percival said no more than just the thing he ought, for his ward. You have reason to be obliged to him: and as we are returning thanks to all persons concerned in our deliverance from this imminent danger, Juba, the dog, and Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew, ought to come in for their share; for without that wrestling match of theirs, the truth might never have been dragged to light, and Mr. Vincent would have been in due course of time your lord and master. But the danger is over; you need not look so terrified: do not be like the man who dropped down dead with terror, when he was shown by daylight the broken bridge which he had galloped over in the dark."

Lady Delacour was in such high spirits that, without regard to connexion, she ran on from one subject to another.

"You have proved to me, my dear," said she, "that you are not a girl to marry, because the day was fixed, or because things had gone so far. I give you infinite credit for your civil courage, as Dr. X—— calls it: military courage, as he said to me yesterday—military courage, that seeks the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth, may be had for sixpence a day. But civil courage, such as enabled the Princess Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, to go straight up the hill to her object, though the magical multitude of advising and abusive voices continually called to her to turn back, is one of the rarest qualities in man or woman, and not to be had for love, money, or admiration."

"You place admiration not only above money, but above love, in your climax, I perceive," said Belinda, smiling.

"I will give you leave to be as philosophically sarcastic as you please, my dear, if you will only smile, and if you will not look as pale as Seneca's Paulina, whose story we heard—from whom?"

"From Mr. Hervey, I believe."

"His name was ready upon your lips; I hope he was not far from your thoughts?"

"No one could be farther from my thoughts," said Belinda.

"Well, very likely—I believe it, because you say it; and because it is impossible."

"Rally me as much as you please, my dear Lady Delacour, I assure you that I speak the simple truth."

"I cannot suspect you of affectation, my dear. Therefore honestly tell me, if Clarence Hervey were at your feet this instant, would you spurn him from you?"

"Spurn him! no—I would neither spurn him, nor motion him from me; but without using any of the terms in the heroine's dictionary——"

"You would refuse him?" interrupted Lady Delacour, with a look of indignation—"you would refuse him?"

"I did not say so, I believe."

"You would accept him?"

"I did not say so, I am sure."

"Oh, you would tell him that you were not accustomed to him?"

"Not exactly in those words, perhaps."

"Well, we shall not quarrel about words," said Lady Delacour; "I only beg you to remember your own principles; and if ever you are put to the trial, be consistent. The first thing in a philosopher is to be consistent."

"Fortunately, for the credit of my philosophy, there is no immediate danger of its being put to the test."

"Unfortunately, you surely mean; unless you are afraid that it might not stand the test. But I was going, when I spoke of consistency, to remind you that all your own and Mr. Percival's arguments about first loves may now, with equal propriety, be turned against you."

"How against me?"

"They are evidently as applicable to second as to first loves, I think."

"Perhaps they are," said Belinda; "but I really and truly am not inclined to think of love at present; particularly as there is no necessity that I should."

Belinda took up a book, and Lady Delacour for one half hour abstained from any farther raillery. But longer than half an hour she could not be silent on the subject uppermost in her thoughts.

"If Clarence Hervey," cried she, "were not the most honourable of blockheads, he might be the most happy of men. This Virginia!—oh, how I hate her!—I am sure poor Clarence cannot love her."

"Because you hate her—or because you hate her without having ever seen her?" said Belinda.

"Oh, I know what she must be," replied Lady Delacour: "a soft, sighing, dying damsel, who puts bullfinches into her bosom. Smile, smile, my dear; you cannot help it; in spite of all your generosity, I know you must think as I do, and wish as I do, that she were at the bottom of the Black Sea this instant."

Lady Delacour stood for some minutes musing, and then exclaimed, "I will move heaven and earth to break off this absurd match."

"Good Heavens! my dear Lady Delacour, what do you mean?"

"Mean! my dear—I mean what I say, which very few people do: no wonder I should surprise you."

"I conjure you," cried Belinda, "if you have the least regard for my honour and happiness—"

"I have not the least, but the greatest; and depend upon it, my dear, I will do nothing that shall injure that dignity of mind and delicacy of character, which I admire and love, as much as Clarence Hervey did, and does. Trust to me: not Lady Anne Percival herself can be more delicate in her notions of propriety than I am for my friends, and, since my reformation, I hope I may add, for myself. Fear nothing." As she finished these words, she rang for her carriage. "I don't ask you to go out with me, my dear Belinda; I give you leave to sit in this armchair till I come back again, with your feet upon the fender, a book in your hand, and this little table beside you, like Lady S.'s picture of Comfort."

Lady Delacour spent the rest of the morning abroad; and when she returned home, she gave no account of what she had been doing, or of what or whom she had seen. This was so unusual, that Belinda could not avoid taking notice of it. Notwithstanding her ladyship's eulogium upon her own delicate sense of propriety, Miss Portman could not confide, with perfect resignation, in her prudence.

"Your ladyship reproached me once," said she, in a playful tone, "for my provoking want of curiosity: you have completely cured me of this defect, for never was woman more curious than I am, at this instant, to know the secret scheme that you have in agitation."

"Have patience a little longer, and the mystery will be unravelled. In the mean time, trust that every thing I do is for the best. However, as you have behaved pretty well, I will give you one leading hint, when you have explained to me what you meant by saying that your heart is not at present inclined to love. Pray, have you quarrelled with love for ever?"

"No; but I can exist without it."

"Have you a heart?"

"I hope so."

"And it can exist without love? I now understand what was once said to me by a foolish lordling:—' Of what use is the sun to the dial?'" [10]

Company came in, and relieved Belinda from any further raillery. Lady Boucher and Mrs. Margaret Delacour were, amongst a large party, to dine at Lady Delacour's. At dinner, the dowager seized the first auspicious moment of silence to announce a piece of intelligence, which she flattered herself would fix the eyes of all the world upon her.

"So Mr. Clarence Hervey is married at last!"

"Married!" cried Lady Delacour: she had sufficient presence of mind not to look directly at Belinda; but she fixed the dowager's eyes, by repeating, "Married! Are you sure of it?"

"Positive—positive! He was privately married yesterday at his aunt, Lady Almeria's apartments, at Windsor, to Miss Hartley. I told you it was to be, and now it is over; and a very extraordinary match Mr. Hervey has made of it, after all. Think of his going at last, and marrying a girl who has been his mistress for years! Nobody will visit her, to be sure. Lady Almeria is excessively distressed; she did all she could to prevail on her brother, the bishop, to marry his nephew, but he very properly refused, giving it as a reason, that the girl's character was too well known."

"I thought the bishop was at Spa," interposed a gentleman, whilst the dowager drew breath.

"O dear, no, sir; you have been misinformed," resumed she. "The bishop has been returned from Spa this great while, and he has refused to see his nephew, to my certain knowledge. After all, I cannot but pity poor Clarence for being driven into this match. Mr. Hartley has a prodigious fine fortune, to be sure, and he hurried things forward at an amazing rate, to patch up his daughter's reputation. He said, as I am credibly informed, yesterday morning, that if Clarence did not marry the girl before night, he would carry her and her fortune off the next day to the West Indies. Now the fortune was certainly an object."

"My dear Lady Boucher," interrupted Lord Delacour, "you must be misinformed in that particular: fortune is no object to Clarence Hervey; he is too generous a fellow to marry for fortune. What do you think—what do you say, Lady Delacour?"

"I say, and think, and feel, as you do, my lord," said Lady Delacour.

"You say, and think, and feel the same as my lord.—Very extraordinary indeed!" said the dowager. "Then if it were not for the sake of the fortune, pray why did Mr. Hervey marry at all? Can any body guess?"

"I should guess because he was in love," said Lord Delacour "for I remember that was the reason I married myself."

"My dear good lord—but when I tell you the girl had been his mistress, till he was tired of her—"

"My Lady Boucher," said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who had hitherto listened in silence, "my Lady Boucher, you have been misinformed; Miss Hartley never was Clarence Hervey's mistress."

"I'm mighty glad you think so, Mrs. Delacour; but I assure you nobody else is so charitable. Those who live in the world hear a great deal more than those who live out of the world. I can promise you, nobody will visit the bride, and that is the thing by which we are to judge."

Then the dowager and the rest of the company continued to descant upon the folly of the match. Those who wished to pay their court to Lady Delacour were the loudest in their astonishment at his throwing himself away in this manner. Her ladyship smiled, and kept them in play by her address, on purpose to withdraw all eyes from Miss Portman, whilst, from time to time, she stole a glance at Belinda, to observe how she was affected by what passed: she was provoked by Belinda's self-possession. At last, when it had been settled that all the Herveys were odd, but that this match of Clarence's was the oddest of all the odd things that any of the family had done for many generations, Mrs. Delacour calmly said, "Are you sure, Lady Boucher, that Mr. Hervey is married?"

"Positive! as I said before, positive! Madam, my woman had it from Lady Newland's Swiss, who had it from Lady Singleton's Frenchwoman, who had it from Longueville, the hairdresser, who had it from Lady Almeria's own woman, who was present at the ceremony, and must know if any body does."

"The report has come to us zigzag as quick as lightning, yet it does not flash conviction upon me," said Lady Delacour.

"Nor upon me," said Mrs. Delacour, "for this simple reason. I have seen Miss Hartley within these two hours, and I had it from herself that she is not married."

"Not married!" cried the dowager with terror.

"I rather think not; she is now with her father, at my house at dinner, I believe, and Clarence Hervey is at Lady Almeria's, at Windsor: her ladyship is confined by a fit of the gout, and sent for her nephew yesterday. If people who live out of the world hear less, they sometimes hear more correctly than those who live in it."

"Pray when does Mr. Hervey return from Windsor?" said the incorrigible dowager.

"To-morrow, madam," said Mrs. Delacour. "As your ladyship is going to several parties this evening, I think it but charitable to set you right in these particulars, and I hope you will he so charitable as to contradict the report of Miss Hartley's having been Clarence's mistress."

"Why, as to that, if the young lady is not married, we must presume there are good reasons for it," said the dowager. "Pray, on which side was the match broken off?"

"On neither side," answered Mrs. Delacour.

"The thing goes on then; and what day is the marriage to take place?" said Lady Boucher.

"On Monday—or Tuesday—or Wednesday—or Thursday—or Friday—or Saturday—-or Sunday, I believe," replied Mrs. Delacour, who had the prudent art of giving answers effectually baffling to the curiosity of gossips.

The dowager consoled herself in her utmost need with a full plate of brandy peaches, and spoke not a word more during the second course. When the ladies retired after the dessert, she again commenced hostilities: she dared not come to open war with Mrs. Delacour; but in a bye-battle, in a corner, she carried every thing before her; and she triumphantly whispered, "We shall see, ma'am, that it will turn out, as I told you, that Miss Rachel, or Virginia, or whatever he pleases to call her, has been what I said; and, as I said, nobody will visit her, not a soul: fifty people I can count who have declared to me they've made up their minds; and my own's made up, I candidly confess; and Lady Delacour, I am sure by her silence and looks, is of my way of thinking, and has no opinion of the young lady: as to Miss Portman, she is, poor thing, of course, so wrapped up in her own affairs, no wonder she says nothing. That was a sad business of Mr. Vincent's! I am surprised to see her look even so well as she does after it. Mr. Percival, I am told," said the well-informed dowager, lowering her voice so much that the lovers of scandal were obliged to close their heads round her—"Mr. Percival, I am informed, refused his consent to his ward (who is not of age) on account of an anonymous letter, and it is supposed Mr. Vincent desired it for an excuse to get off handsomely. Fighting that duel about her with Sir Philip Baddely settled his love—so he is gone to Germany, and she is left to wear the willow, which, you see, becomes her as well as everything else. Did she eat any dinner, ma'am? you sat next her."

"Yes; more than I did, I am sure."

"Very extraordinary! Then perhaps Sir Philip Baddely's on again—Lord bless me, what a match would that be for her! Why, Mrs. Stanhope might then, indeed, deserve to be called the match-maker general. The seventh of her nieces this. But look, there's Mrs. Delacour leading Miss Portman off into the trictrac cabinet, with a face full of business—her hand in hers—Lord, I did not know they were on that footing! I wonder what's going forward. Suppose old Hartley was to propose for Miss Portman—there would be a denouement! and cut his daughter off with a shilling! Nothing's impossible, you know. Did he ever see Miss Portman? I must go and find out, positively."

In the mean time, Mrs. Delacour, unconscious of the curiosity she had excited, was speaking to Belinda in the trictrac cabinet.

"My dear Miss Portman," said she, "you have a great deal of good-nature, else I should not venture to apply to you on the present occasion. Will you oblige me, and serve a friend of mine—a gentleman who, as I once imagined, was an admirer of yours?"

"I will do any thing in my power to oblige any friend of yours, madam," said Belinda; "but of whom are you speaking?"

"Of Mr. Hervey, my dear young lady."

"Tell me how I can serve him as a friend," said Belinda, colouring deeply.

"That you shall know immediately," said Mrs. Delacour, rummaging and rustling for a considerable time amongst a heap of letters, which she had pulled out of the largest pockets that ever woman wore, even in the last century.

"Oh, here it is," continued she, opening and looking into them. "May I trouble you just to look over this letter? It is from poor Mr. Hartley; he is, as you will see, excessively fond of his daughter, whom he has so fortunately discovered after his long search: he is dreadfully nervous, and has been terribly annoyed by these idle gossiping stories. You find, by what Lady Boucher said at dinner, that they have settled it amongst them that Virginia is not a fit person to be visited; that she has been Clarence's mistress instead of his pupil. Mr. Hartley, you see by this letter, is almost out of his senses with the apprehension that his daughter's reputation is ruined. I sent my carriage to Twickenham, the moment I received this letter, for the poor girl and her gouvernante. They came to me this morning; but what can I do? I am only one old woman against a confederacy of veteran gossips; but if I could gain you and Lady Delacour for my allies, I should fear no adversaries. Virginia is to stay with me for some days; and Lady Delacour, I see, has a great mind to come to see her; but she does not like to come without you, and she says that she does not like to ask you to accompany her. I don't understand her delicacy about the matter—I have none; believing, as I do, that there is no foundation whatever for these malicious reports, which, entre nous, originated, I fancy, with Mrs. Marriott. Now, will you oblige me? If you and Lady Delacour will come and see Virginia to-morrow, all the world would follow your example the next day. It's often cowardice that makes people ill-natured: have you the courage, my good Miss Portman, to be the first to do a benevolent action? I do assure you," continued Mrs. Delacour with great earnestness, "I do assure you I would as soon put my hand into that fire, this moment, as ask you to do any thing that I thought improper. But forgive me for pressing this point; I am anxious to have your suffrage in her favour: Miss Belinda Portman's character for prudence and propriety stands so high, and is fixed so firmly, that she may venture to let us cling to it; and I am as well convinced of the poor girl's innocence as I am of yours; and when you see her, you will be of my opinion."

"I assure you, Mrs. Delacour," said Belinda, "that you have wasted a great deal of eloquence upon this occasion, for—"

"I am sorry for it," interrupted Mrs. Delacour, rising from her seat, with a look of some displeasure. "I meant not to distress or offend you, Miss Portman, by my eloquence: I am only concerned that I should have so far mistaken your character as to expose myself to this refusal."

"I have given no refusal," said Belinda, mildly: "you did not let me finish my sentence."

"I beg pardon; that is a foolish old trick of mine."

"Mrs. Delacour, I was going to say, has wasted a great deal of eloquence: for I am entirely of her opinion, and I shall, with the greatest readiness, comply with her request."

"You are a charming, generous girl, and I am a passionate old fool—thank you a thousand times."

"You are not at all obliged to me," said Belinda. "When I first heard this story, I believed it, as Lady Boucher now does—but I have had reason to alter my opinion, and perhaps the same means of information would have changed hers; once convinced, it is impossible to relapse into suspicion."

"Impossible to you: the most truly virtuous women are always the least suspicious and uncharitable in their opinion of their own sex. Lady Anne Percival inspired me with this belief, and Miss Portman confirms it. I admire your courage in daring to come forward in the defence of innocence. I am very rude, alas! for praising you so much."

"I have not a right to your admiration," said Belinda; "for I must honestly confess to you that I should not have this courage if there were any danger in the case. I do not think that in doubtful cases it is the business of a young woman to hazard her own reputation by an attempt to preserve another's: I do not imagine, at least, that I am of sufficient consequence in the world for this purpose; therefore I should never attempt it. It is the duty of such women as Mrs. Delacour, whose reputation is beyond the power of scandal, to come forward in the defence of injured innocence; but this would not be courage in Belinda Portman, it would be presumption and temerity."

"Well, if you will not let me admire your courage, or your generosity, or your prudence," said Mrs. Delacour laughing, "you must positively let me admire you altogether, and love you too, for I cannot help it. Farewell."

After the company was gone, Lady Delacour was much surprised by the earnestness with which Belinda pressed the request that they might the next morning pay a visit to Virginia.

"My dear," said Lady Delacour, "to tell you the truth, I am full of curiosity, and excessively anxious to go. I hesitated merely on your account: I fancied that you would not like the visit, and that if I went without you, it might be taken notice of; but I am delighted to find that you will come with me: I can only say that you have more generosity than I should have in the same situation."

The next morning they went together to Mrs. Delacour's. In their way thither, Belinda, to divert her own thoughts, and to rouse Lady Delacour from the profound and unnatural silence into which she had fallen, petitioned her to finish the history of Sir Philip Baddely, the dog, Miss Annabella Luttridge, and her billet-doux.

"For some of my high crimes and misdemeanours, you vowed that you would not tell me the remainder of the story till the whole week had elapsed; now will you satisfy my curiosity? You recollect that you left off just where you said that you were come to the best part of the story."

"Was I? did I?—Very true, we shall have time enough to finish it by-and-by, my dear," said Lady Delacour; "at present my poor head is running upon something else, and I have left off being an accomplished actress, or I could talk of one subject and think of another as well as the best of you.—Stop the carriage, my dear; I am afraid they have forgot my orders."

"Did you carry what I desired this morning to Mrs. Delacour?" said her ladyship to one of the footmen.

"I did, my lady."

"And did you say from me, that it was not to be opened till I came?'

"Yes, my lady."

"Where did you leave it?"

"In Mrs. Delacour's dressing-room, my lady:—she desired me to take it up there, and she locked the door, and said no one should go in till you came."

"Very well—go on. Belinda, my dear, I hope that I have worked up your curiosity to the highest pitch."



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DENOUEMENT.

Curiosity was not, at this instant, the strongest passion in Belinda's mind. When the carriage stopped at Mrs. Delacour's door, her heart almost ceased to beat; but she summoned resolution to go through, with firmness and dignity, the task she had undertaken.

Clarence Hervey was not in the room when they entered, nor was Virginia: Mrs. Ormond said that she had been extremely feverish during the night, and that she had advised her not to get up till late in the day. But Mrs. Delacour immediately went for her, and in a few minutes she made her appearance.

Belinda and Lady Delacour exchanged a glance of surprise and admiration. There was a grace and simplicity in her manner, joined to an air of naivete, that made an irresistible impression in her favour. Lady Delacour, however, after the first surprise was over, seemed to relapse into her former opinion; and the piercing looks which her ladyship from time to time cast upon Virginia as she spoke, produced their effect. She was abashed and silent. Belinda endeavoured to engage her in conversation, and to her she talked with ease and even with freedom. Virginia examined Miss Portman's countenance with a species of artless curiosity and interest, that was not restrained by factitious politeness. This examination was not peculiarly agreeable to Belinda, yet it was made with so much apparent simplicity, that she could not be displeased.

On the first pause in the conversation, Mrs. Delacour said, "Pray, my dear Lady Delacour, what is this wonderful present that you sent to me this morning, which you desired that no one should see till you came?"

"I cannot satisfy your curiosity yet," replied Lady Delacour. "I must wait till Clarence Hervey comes, for the present is intended for him."

An air of solemn mystery in her ladyship's manner, as she pronounced these words, excited general attention. There was a dead silence, which lasted several minutes: some feeble attempts were then made by each of the company to start a fresh subject of conversation; but it would not do—all relapsed into the silence of expectation. At last Clarence Hervey arrived. Belinda rejoiced that the universal curiosity which Lady Delacour had inspired prevented any one's observing the sudden change in Mr. Hervey's countenance when he beheld her.

"A pretty set of curious children you are!" cried Lady Delacour, laughing. "Do you know, Clarence, that they are all dying with impatience to see un gage d'amitie that I have brought for you; and the reason that they are so curious is simply because I had the address to say, in a solemn voice, 'I cannot satisfy your curiosity till Clarence Hervey arrives.' Now follow me, my friends; and if you be disappointed, lay the blame, not on me, but on your own imaginations."

She led the way to Mrs. Delacour's dressing-room, and all the company followed.

"Now, what do you expect to see?" said she, putting the key into the door.

After waiting some moments for a reply, but in vain, she threw open the door, and they saw, hung before the wall opposite to them, a green curtain.

"I thought, my dear Clarence," resumed Lady Delacour, "that no present could be more agreeable to you than a companion for your Virginia. Does this figure," continued she, drawing back the curtain, "does this figure give you the idea of Paul?"

"Paul!" said Clarence; "it is a naval officer in full uniform: what can your ladyship mean?"

"Virginia perhaps will know what I mean, if you will only stand out of her way, and let her see the picture."

At these words Clarence made way for Virginia: she turned her eyes upon the picture, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless upon the floor.

"Take it coolly," said Lady Delacour, "and she will come to her senses presently. Young ladies must shriek and faint upon certain occasions; but men (looking at Clarence Hervey) need not always be dupes. This is only a scene; consider it as such, and admire the actress as I do."

"Actress! Oh, she is no actress!" cried Mrs. Ormond.

Clarence Hervey raised her from the ground, and Belinda sprinkled water over her face.

"She's dead!—she's dead! Oh, my sweet child! she's dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, trembling so violently, that she could not sustain Virginia.

"She is no actress, indeed," said Clarence Hervey: "her pulse is gone!"

Lady Delacour looked at Virginia's pale lips, touched her cold hands, and with a look of horror cried out, "Good Heavens! what have I done? What shall we do with her?"

"Give her air—give her air, air, air!" cried Belinda.

"You keep the air from her, Mrs. Ormond," said Mrs. Delacour. "Let us leave her to Miss Portman; she has more presence of mind than any of us." And as she spoke she forced Mrs. Ormond away with her out of the room.

"If Mr. Hartley should come, keep him with you, Mrs. Delacour," said Clarence Hervey. "Is her pulse quite gone?"

"No; it beats stronger and stronger," said Belinda.

"Her colour is returning," said Lady Delacour. "There! raise her a little, dear Belinda; she is coming to herself."

"Had not you better draw the curtain again before that picture," said Miss Portman, "lest she should see it the moment she opens her eyes?"

Virginia came slowly to her recollection, saw Lady Delacour drawing the curtain before the picture, then fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey, without uttering a word.

"Are you better now?" said he, in a gentle tone.

"Oh, do not speak—do not look so kindly!" cried Virginia. "I am well—quite well—better than I deserve to be;" and she pressed Belinda's hand, as if to thank her for assisting and supporting her.

"We may safely leave her now," whispered Belinda to Lady Delacour; "we are strangers, and our presence only distresses her."

They withdrew. But the moment Virginia found herself alone with Mr. Hervey, she was seized with a universal tremor; she tried to speak, but could not articulate. At last she burst into a flood of tears; and when this had in some measure relieved her, she threw herself upon her knees, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, as she looked up to heaven—

"Oh, if I knew what I ought to do!—if I knew what I ought to say!"

"Shall I tell you, Virginia? And will you believe me?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"You ought to say—the truth, whatever it may be."

"But you will think me the most ungrateful of human beings?"

"How often must I assure you, Virginia, that I make no claim upon your gratitude? Speak to me—I conjure you, as you value your happiness and mine—speak to me without disguise! What is all this mystery? Why should you fear to let me know what passes in your heart? Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture?"

"Oh, forgive me! forgive me!" cried Virginia: she would have sunk at his feet, if he had not prevented her.

"I will—I can forgive any thing but deceit. Do not look at me with so much terror, Virginia—I have not deserved it: my wish is to make you happy. I would sacrifice even my own happiness to secure yours; but do not mislead me, or you ruin us both. Cannot you give me a distinct answer to this simple question—Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture?"

"Because—but you will call me 'perfidious, ungrateful Virginia!'—because I have seen that figure—he has knelt to me—he has kissed my hand—and I———"

Clarence Hervey withdrew his arms, which had supported her, and placing her upon a sofa, left her, whilst he walked up and down the room for some minutes in silence.

"And why, Virginia," said he, stopping short, "was it necessary to conceal all this from me? Why was it necessary to persuade me that I was beloved? Why was it necessary that my happiness should be the sacrifice?"

"It shall not!—it shall not! Your happiness shall not be the sacrifice. Heaven is my witness, that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. Forgive me that shriek! I could not help fainting, indeed! But I will be yours—I ought to be yours; and I am not perfidious—I am not ungrateful: do not look upon me as you did in my dream!"

"Do not talk to me of dreams, my dear Virginia; this is no time for trifling; I ask no sacrifice from you—I ask nothing but truth."

"Truth! Mrs. Ormond knows all the truth: I have concealed nothing from her."

"But she has concealed every thing from me," cried Clarence; and, with a sudden impulse of indignation, he was going to summon her, but when his hand was upon the lock of the door he paused, returned to Virginia, and said, "Let me hear the truth from your lips: it is all I shall ever ask from you. How—when—where did you see this man?"

"What man?" said Virginia, looking up, with the simple expression of innocence in her countenance.

Clarence pointed to the picture.

"At the village in the New Forest, at Mrs. Smith's house," said Virginia, "one evening when I walked with her from my grandmother's cottage."

"And your grandmother knew of this?"

"Yes," said Virginia, blushing, "and she was very much displeased."

"And Mrs. Ormond knew of this?" pursued Clarence.

"Yes; but she told me that you would not be displeased at it."

Mr. Hervey made another hasty step toward the door, but restraining his impetuous temper, he again stopped, and leaning ever the back of a chair, opposite to Virginia, waited in silence for her to proceed. He waited in vain.

"I do not mean to distress you, Miss Hartley," said he.

She burst into tears. "I knew, I knew," cried she, "that you would be displeased; I told Mrs. Ormond so. I knew you would never forgive me."

"In that you were mistaken," said Clarence, mildly; "I forgive you without difficulty, as I hope you may forgive yourself: nor can it be my wish to extort from you any mortifying confessions. But, perhaps, it may yet be in my power to serve you, if you will trust to me. I will myself speak to your father. I will do every thing to secure to you the object of your affections, if you will, in this last moment of our connexion, treat me with sincerity, and suffer me to be your friend."

Virginia sobbed so violently for some time, that she could not speak: at last she said, "You are—you are the most generous of men! You have always been my best friend! I am the most ungrateful of human beings! But I am sure I never wished, I never intended, to deceive you. Mrs. Ormond told me—"

"Do not speak of her at present, or perhaps I may lose my temper," interrupted Clarence in an altered voice: "only tell me—I conjure you, tell me—in one word, who is this man I and where is he to be found?"

"I do not know. I do not understand you," said Virginia.

"You do not know! You will not trust me. Then I must leave you to—to Mr. Hartley."

"Do not leave me—oh, do not leave me in anger!" cried Virginia, clinging to him. "Not trust you!—I!—not trust you! Oh, what can you mean? I have no confessions to make! Mrs. Ormond knows every thought of my mind, and so shall you, if you will only hear me. I do not know who this man is, I assure you; nor where he is to be found."

"And yet you love him? Can you love a man whom you do not know, Virginia?"

"I only love his figure, I believe," said Virginia.

"His figure!"

"Indeed I am quite bewildered," said Virginia, looking round wildly; "I know not what I feel."

"If you permitted this man to kneel to you, to kiss your hand, surely you must know that you love him, Virginia?"

"But that was only in a dream; and Mrs. Ormond said——"

"Only a dream! But you met him at Mrs. Smith's, in the New Forest?"

"That was only a picture."

"Only a picture!—but you have seen the original?"

"Never—never in my life; and I wish to Heaven I had never, never seen the fatal picture! the image haunts me day and night. When I read of heroes in the day, that figure rises to my view, instead of yours. When I go to sleep at night, I see it, instead of yours, in my dreams; it speaks to me, it kneels to me. I long ago told Mrs. Ormond this, but she laughed at me. I told her of that frightful dream. I saw you weltering in your blood; I tried to save you, but could not. I heard you say, 'Perfidious, ungrateful Virginia! you are the cause of my death!' Oh, it was the most dreadful night I ever passed! Still this figure, this picture, was before me; and he was the knight of the white plumes; and it was he who stabbed you; but when I wished him to be victorious, I did not know that he was fighting against you. So Mrs. Ormond told me that I need not blame myself; and she said that you were not so foolish as to be jealous of a picture; but I knew you would be displeased—I knew you would think me ungrateful—I knew you would never forgive me."

Whilst Virginia rapidly uttered all this, Clarence marked the wild animation of her eyes, the sudden changes of her countenance; he recollected her father's insanity; every feeling of his mind gave way to terror and pity; he approached her with all the calmness that he could assume, took both her hands, and holding them in his, said, in a soothing voice—

"My dear Virginia, you are not ungrateful. I do not think you so. I am not displeased with you. You have done nothing to displease me. Compose yourself, dear Virginia."

"I am quite composed, now you again call me dear Virginia. Only I am afraid, as I always told Mrs. Ormond, that I do not love you enough; but she said that I did, and that my fear was the strongest proof of my affection."

Virginia now spoke in so consistent a manner that Clarence could not doubt that she was in the clear possession of her understanding. She repeated to him all that she had said to Mrs. Ormond; and he began to hope that, without any intention to deceive, Mrs. Ormond's ignorance of the human heart led her into a belief that Virginia was in love with him; whilst, in fact, her imagination, exalted by solitude and romance, embodied and became enamoured of a phantom.

"I always told Mrs. Ormond that she was mistaken," said Clarence. "I never believed that you loved me, Virginia, till—(he paused and carefully examined her countenance)—till you yourself gave me reason to think so. Was it only a principle of gratitude, then, that dictated your answer to my letter?"

She looked irresolute: and at last, in a low voice, said, "If I could see, if I could speak to Mrs. Ormond———"

"She cannot tell what are the secret feelings of your heart, Virginia. Consult no Mrs. Ormond. Consult no human creature but yourself."

"But Mrs. Ormond told me that you loved me, and that you had educated me to be your wife."

Mr. Hervey made an involuntary exclamation against Mrs. Ormond's folly.

"How, then, can you be happy," continued Virginia, "if I am so ungrateful as to say I do not love you? That I do not love you!—Oh! that I cannot say; for I do love you better than any one living except my father, and with the same sort of affection that I feel for him. You ask me to tell you the secret feelings of my heart: the only secret feeling of which I am conscious is—a wish not to marry, unless I could see in reality such a person as——But that I knew was only a picture, a dream; and I thought that I ought at least to sacrifice my foolish imaginations to you, who have done so much for me. I knew that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse you; and besides, my father told me that you would not accept of my fortune without my hand, so I consented to marry you: forgive me, if these were wrong motives—I thought them right. Only tell me what I can do to make you happy, as I am sure I wish to do; to that wish I would sacrifice every other feeling."

"Sacrifice nothing, dear Virginia. We may both be happy without making any sacrifice of our feelings," cried Clarence. And, transported at regaining his own freedom, Virginia's simplicity never appeared to him so charming as at this moment. "Dearest Virginia, forgive me for suspecting you for one instant of any thing unhandsome. Mrs. Ormond, with the very best intentions possible, has led us both to the brink of misery. But I find you such as I always thought you, ingenuous, affectionate, innocent."

"And you are not angry with me?" interrupted Virginia, with joyful eagerness; "and you will not think me ungrateful? And you will not be unhappy? And Mrs. Ormond was mistaken? And you do not wish that I should love you, that I should be your wife, I mean? Oh, don't deceive me, for I cannot help believing whatever you say."

Clarence Hervey, to give her a convincing proof that Mrs. Ormond had misled her as to his sentiments, immediately avowed his passion for Belinda.

"You have relieved me from all doubt, all fear, all anxiety," said Virginia, with the sweetest expression of innocent affection in her countenance. "May you be as happy as you deserve to be! May Belinda—is not that her name?—May Belinda—"

At this moment Lady Delacour half opened the door, exclaiming—"Human patience can wait no longer!"

"Will you trust me to explain for you, dear Virginia?" said Clarence.

"Most willingly," said Virginia, retiring as Lady Delacour advanced. "Pray leave me here alone, whilst you, who are used to talk before strangers, speak for me."

"Dare you venture, Clarence," said her ladyship, as she closed the door, "to leave her alone with that picture? You are no lover, if you be not jealous."

"I am not jealous," said Clarence, "yet I am a lover—a passionate lover."

"A passionate lover!" cried Lady Delacour, stopping short as they were crossing the antechamber:—"then I have done nothing but mischief. In love with Virginia? I will not—cannot believe it."

"In love with Belinda!—Cannot you, will not you believe it?"

"My dear Clarence, I never doubted it for an instant. But are you at liberty to own it to any body but me?"

"I am at liberty to declare it to all the world."

"You transport me with joy! I will not keep you from her a second. But stay—I am sorry to tell you, that, as she informed me this morning, her heart is not at present inclined to love. And here is Mrs. Margaret Delacour, poor wretch, in this room, dying with curiosity. Curiosity is as ardent as love, and has as good a claim to compassion."

As he entered the room, where there were only Mrs. Margaret Delacour and Belinda, Clarence Hervey's first glance, rapid as it was, explained his heart.

Belinda put her arm within Lady Delacour's, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. Lady Delacour pressed her hand, and was perfectly silent.

"And what is Miss Portman to believe," cried Mrs. Margaret Delacour, "when she has seen you on the very eve of marriage with another lady?"

"The strongest merit I can plead with such a woman as Miss Portman is, that I was ready to sacrifice my own happiness to a sense of duty. Now that I am at liberty——"

"Now that you are at liberty," interrupted Lady Delacour, "you are in a vast hurry to offer your whole soul to a lady, who has for months seen all your merits with perfect insensibility, and who has been, notwithstanding all my operations, stone blind to your love."

"The struggles of my passion cannot totally have escaped Belinda's penetration," said Clarence; "but I like her a thousand times the better for not having trusted merely to appearances. That love is most to be valued which cannot be easily won. In my opinion there is a prodigious difference between a warm imagination and a warm heart."

"Well," said Lady Delacour, "we have all of us seen Pamela maritata—let us now see Belinda in love, if that be possible. If! forgive me this last stroke, my dear—in spite of all my raillery, I do believe that the prudent Belinda is more capable of feeling real permanent passion than any of the dear sentimental young ladies, whose motto is

'All for love, or the world well lost.'"

"That is just my opinion," said Mrs. Margaret Delacour.

"But pray, what is become of Mr. Hartley?" looking round: "I do not see him."

"No: for I have hid him," said Lady Delacour: "he shall be forthcoming presently."

"Dear Mr. Clarence Hervey, what have you done with my Virginia?" said Mrs. Ormond, coming into the room.

"Dear Mrs. Ormond, what have you done with her?" replied Clarence. "By your mistaken kindness, by insisting upon doing us both good against our wills, you were very near making us both miserable for life. But I blame nobody; I have no right to blame any one so much as myself. All this has arisen from my own presumption and imprudence. Nothing could be more absurd than my scheme of educating a woman in solitude to make her fit for society. I might have foreseen what must happen, that Virginia would consider me as her tutor, her father, not as her lover, or her husband; that with the most affectionate of hearts, she could for me feel nothing but gratitude."

"Nothing but gratitude!" repeated Mrs. Ormond, with a degree of amazement in her countenance, which made every body present smile: "I am sure I thought she was dying for love of you."

"My dear Belinda," whispered Lady Delacour, "if I might judge of the colour of this cheek, which has been for some moments permanent crimson, I should guess that you were beginning to find out of what use the sun is to the dial."

"You will not let me hear what Mr. Hervey is saying," replied Belinda; "I am very curious."

"Curiosity is a stronger passion than love, as I told him just now," said Lady Delacour.

In spite of all his explanations, Mrs. Ormond could not be made to comprehend Virginia's feelings. She continually repeated, "But it is impossible for Virginia, or for any body, to be in love with a picture."

"It is not said that she is in love with a picture," replied Mrs. Delacour, "though even for that I could find you a precedent."

"My Lady Delacour," said Mrs. Ormond, "will you explain to us how that picture came into your possession, and how it came here, and, in short, all that is to be known about it?"

"Ay, explain! explain! my dear Lady Delacour," cried Mrs. Delacour: "I am afraid I am grown almost as curious as my Lady Boucher. Explain! explain!"

"Most willingly," said Lady Delacour. "To Marriott's ruling passion for birds you are all of you indebted for this discovery. Some time ago, whilst we were at Twickenham, as Marriott was waiting at a stationer's, to bid her last adieus to a bullfinch, a gentleman came into the shop where she and Bobby (as she calls this bird) were coquetting, and the gentleman was struck even more than Marriott with the bullfinch. He went almost distracted on hearing a particular tune, which this bird sang. I suspected, from the symptoms, that the gentleman must be, or must have been, in love with the bullfinch's mistress. Now the bullfinch was traced home to the ci-devant Virginia St. Pierre, the present Miss Hartley. I had my reasons for being curious about her loves and lovers, and as soon as I learned the story from Marriott, I determined, if possible, to find out who this stranger, with the strange passion for bullfinches, might be. I questioned and cross-questioned all those people at the stationer's who were present when he fell into ecstasies; and, from the shopman, who had been bribed to secrecy, I learned that our gentleman returned to the stationer's the day after he met Marriott, and watched till he obtained a sight of Virginia, as she came to her window. Now it was believed by the girl of this shop, who had lived for some time with Mrs. Ormond—Forgive me, Mr. Hervey, for what I am going to say—forgive me, Mrs. Ormond—scandal, like death, is common to all—It was believed that Virginia was Mr. Hervey's mistress. My stranger no sooner learned this than he swore that he would think of her no more; and after bestowing a variety of seamen's' execrations upon the villain who had seduced this heavenly creature, he departed from Twickenham, and was no more seen or heard of. My inquiries after him were indefatigable, but for some time unsuccessful: and so they might have continued, and we might have been all making one another unhappy at this moment, if it had not been for Mr. Vincent's great dog Juba—Miss Annabella Luttridge's billet-doux—Sir Philip Baddely's insolence—my Lord Delacour's belief in a quack balsam—and Captain Sunderland's humanity."

"Captain Sunderland! who is Captain Sunderland? we never heard of him before," cried Mrs. Ormond.

"You shall hear of him just as I did, if you please," said Lady Delacour, "and if Belinda will submit to hear me tell the same story twice."

Here her ladyship repeated the history of the battle of the dogs; and of Sir Philip Baddely's knocking down Juba, the man, for struggling in defence of Juba, the dog.

"Now the gentleman who assisted my Lord Delacour in bringing the disabled negro across the square to our house, was Captain Sunderland. My lord summoned Marriott to produce Lady Boucher's infallible balsam, that it might be tried upon Juba's sprained ankle. Whilst my lord was intent upon the balsam, Marriott was intent upon Captain Sunderland. She recollected that she had met him somewhere before, and the moment he spoke, she knew him to be the gentleman who had fallen into ecstasies in the shop at Twickenham, about the bullfinch. Marriott hastened to me with the news; I hastened to my lord, made him introduce Captain Sunderland to me, and I never rested till he had told me all that I wanted to know. Some years ago, just before he went to sea, he paid a visit to his mother, who then lodged with a widow Smith, in the New Forest. Whilst he was there, he heard of the young beauty who lived in the Forest, with a grandmother, who was not a little particular; and who would not permit any body to see her.

"My captain's curiosity was excited; one day, unseen by the duenna, he obtained a distinct view of Virginia, watering her roses and tending her bees. Struck with her uncommon beauty, he approached carefully to the thicket in which the cottage was enclosed, and found a lair, where he concealed himself, day after day, and contemplated at leisure the budding charms of the fair wood-nymph. In short, he became so enamoured, that he was determined to gain admittance at the cottage, and declare his passion: but to his honour be it told, that when the history of the poor girl's mother, and the situation and fears of the old lady, who was her only friend, were known to him, in consideration of the extreme youth of the ward, and the extreme age of her guardian, he determined to defer his addresses till his return from the West Indies, whither he was shortly to sail, and where he had hopes of making a fortune, that might put him in a situation to render the object of his affections independent. He left a bullfinch with Mrs. Smith, who gave it to Virginia, without telling to whom it had belonged, lest her grandmother might be displeased.

"I really thought that all this showed too nice a moral sense for a young dashing lieutenant in the navy, and I was persuaded that my gentleman was only keeping his mistress's secret like a man of honour. With this belief, I regretted that Clarence Hervey should throw himself away upon a girl who was unworthy of him."

"I hope," interrupted Clarence, "you are perfectly convinced of your mistake."

"Perfectly! perfectly!—I am convinced that Virginia is only half mad. But let me go on with my story. I was determined to discover whether she had any remains of affection for this captain. It was in vain he assured me that she had never seen him. I prevailed upon him to let me go on my own way. I inquired whether he had ever had his picture drawn. Yes, he had for his mother, just when he first went out to sea. It had been left at the widow Smith's. I begged him to procure it for me. He told me it was impossible. I told him I trampled on impossibilities. In short, he got the picture for me, as you see. 'Now,' thought I, 'if he speaks the truth, Virginia will see this picture without emotion, and it will only seem to be a present for Clarence. But if she had ever seen him before, or had any secret to conceal, she will betray herself on the sudden appearance of this picture.' Things have turned out contrary to all my expectations, and yet better.———And now, Clarence, I must beg you will prevail on Miss Hartley to appear; I can go on no farther without her."

Lady Delacour took Virginia by the hand, the moment she entered the room.

"Will you trust yourself with me, Miss Hartley?" said she. "I have made you faint once to-day by the sight of a picture; will you promise me not to faint again, when I produce the original?"

"The original!" said Virginia. "I will trust myself with you, for I am sure you cannot mean to laugh at me, though, perhaps, I deserve to be laughed at."

Lady Delacour threw open the door of another apartment. Mr. Hartley appeared, and with him Captain Sunderland.

"My dear daughter," said Mr. Hartley, "give me leave to introduce to you a friend, to whom I owe more obligations than to any man living, except to Mr. Hervey. This gentleman was stationed some years ago at Jamaica, and in a rebellion of the negroes on my plantation he saved my life. Fortune has accidentally thrown my benefactor in my way. To show my sense of my obligations is out of my power."

Virginia's surprise was extreme; her vivid dreams, the fond wishes of her waking fancy, were at once accomplished. For the first moment she gazed as on an animated picture, and all the ideas of love and romance associated with this image rushed upon her mind.

But when the realities by which he was surrounded dispelled the illusion, she suddenly withdrew her eyes, and blushed deeply, with such timid and graceful modesty as charmed every body present.

Captain Sunderland pressed forward; but was stopped by Lady Delacour.

"Avaunt, thou real lover!" cried she: "none but the shadow of a man can hope to approach the visionary maid. In vain has Marraton forced his way through the bushes and briars, in vain has he braved the apparition of the lion; there is yet a phantom barrier apparently impassable between him and his Yaratilda, for he is in the world of shadows. Now, mark me, Marraton: hurry not this delicate spirit, or perchance you frighten and lose her for ever; but have patience, and gradually and gracefully she will venture into your world of realities—only give her time."

"Time! O yes, give me time," cried Virginia, shrinking back.

"My dear Miss Hartley," continued Lady Delacour, "in plain prose, to prevent all difficulties and embarrassments, I must inform you, that Captain Sunderland will not insist upon prompt payment of your father's debt of gratitude: he has but one quarter of an hour to spend with us—he is actually under sailing orders; so that you will have time to compose your mind before his return. Clarence, I advise you to accompany Captain Sunderland on this cruise; don't you, Belinda?

"And now, my good friends," continued Lady Delacour, "shall I finish the novel for you?"

"If your ladyship pleases; nobody can do it better," said Clarence Hervey.

"But I hope you will remember, dear Lady Delacour," said Belinda, "that there is nothing in which novelists are so apt to err as in hurrying things toward the conclusion: in not allowing time enough for that change of feeling, which change of situation cannot instantly produce."

"That's right, my dear Belinda; true to your principles to the last gasp. Fear nothing—you shall have time enough to become accustomed to Clarence. Would you choose that I should draw out the story to five volumes more? With your advice and assistance, I can with the greatest ease, my dear. A declaration of love, you know, is only the beginning of things; there may be blushes, and sighs, and doubts, and fears, and misunderstandings, and jealousies without end or common sense, to fill up the necessary space, and to gain the necessary time; but if I might conclude the business in two lines, I should say,

'Ye gods, annihilate both space and time, And make four lovers happy.'"

"Oh, that would be cutting matters too short," said Mrs. Margaret Delacour. "I am of the old school; and though I could dispense with the description of Miss Harriot Byron's worked chairs and fine china, yet I own I like to hear something of the preparation for a marriage, as well as of the mere wedding. I like to hear how people become happy in a rational manner, better than to be told in the huddled style of an old fairy tale—and so they were all married, and they lived very happily all the rest of their days."

"We are not in much danger of hearing such an account of modern marriages," said Lady Delacour. "But how shall I please you all?—Some people cry, 'Tell me every thing;' others say, that,

'Le secret d'ennuyer est celui de tout dire.'"

"Something must be left to the imagination. Positively I will not describe wedding-dresses, or a procession to church. I have no objection to saying that the happy couples were united by the worthy Mr. Moreton; that Mr. Percival gave Belinda away; and that immediately after the ceremony, he took the whole party down with him to Oakly-park. Will this do?—Or, we may conclude, if you like it better, with a characteristic letter of congratulation from Mrs. Stanhope to her dearest niece, Belinda, acknowledging that she was wrong to quarrel with her for refusing Sir Philip Baddely, and giving her infinite credit for that admirable management of Clarence Hervey, which she hopes will continue through life."

"Well, I have no objection to ending with a letter," said Mrs. Delacour; "for last speeches are always tiresome."

"Yes," said her ladyship; "it is so difficult, as the Critic says, to get lovers off upon their knees. Now I think of it, let me place you all in proper attitudes for stage effect. What signifies being happy, unless we appear so?—Captain Sunderland—kneeling with Virginia, if you please, sir, at her father's feet: you in the act of giving them your blessing, Mr. Hartley. Mrs. Ormond clasps her hands with joy—nothing can be better than that, madam—I give you infinite credit for the attitude. Clarence, you have a right to Belinda's hand, and may kiss it too: nay, Miss Portman, it is the rule of the stage. Now, where's my Lord Delacour? he should be embracing me, to show that we are reconciled. Ha! here he comes—Enter Lord Delacour, with little Helena in his hand—very well! a good start of surprise, my love—stand still, pray; you cannot be better than you are: Helena, my love, do not let go your father's hand. There! quite pretty and natural! Now, Lady Delacour, to show that she is reformed, comes forward to address the audience with a moral—a moral! Yes,

"Our tale contains a moral; and, no doubt, You all have wit enough to find it out.'"

(Written in 1800. Published in 1801.)

THE END.



FOOTNOTES:

[1] This declaration was taken from the lips of a celebrated character.

[2] The manners, if not the morals, of gentlemen, have improved since the first publication of this work. Swearing has gone out of fashion. But Sir Philip Baddely's oaths are retained, as marks in a portrait of the times held up to the public, touched by ridicule, the best reprobation.

[3] The bloody hand is the heraldic designation of the baronet.

[4] "Would Chloe know if you're alive or dead, She bids her footman put it in her head."

[5] See Adventures of a Guinea, vol. i. chap. xvi.

[6] Marmontel.

[7] See Edwards's History of the West Indies, vol. ii.

[8] Miscellaneous Pieces by Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Aikin.

[9] we spare the reader the medical journal of Lady Delacour's health for some months. Her recover was gradual and complete.

[10] A fact.

THE END