"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."



CHAPTER VIII.

A FAMILY PARTY.

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 Abbe 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 mere?" 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!"



CHAPTER IX.

ADVICE.

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 eclat; for that an abbe, 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 lam, 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 be 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 lay, 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."



CHAPTER X.

THE MYSTERIOUS BOUDOIR.

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-a-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-a-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 he 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.'"



CHAPTER XI.

DIFFICULTIES.

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 of[4] 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.