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

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

"Nothing—I have never seen him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A matrimonial attachment?" said Lady Delacour.

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

"Many years! then she is not young?"

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

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

"And do you know this peerless damsel's name?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

THE MACAW.

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

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

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

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

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

"Never, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can't be in earnest, Miss Portman!" exclaimed the astonished baronet.

"Perfectly in earnest, Sir Philip."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell him I'll see him immediately—show him into the parlour, and give him a newspaper to read."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ours!" said Belinda.

"Well, yours, then," said Lady Delacour.

"Mine!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But it cannot be Champfort's fault that I have ears."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Scarcely a month," said Marriott, sobbing.

"And how long have you lived with your lady?"

"Six years!—And to part with her after all!—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Due to me! Lord bless me, ma'am, am I to go?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The children were soon eagerly engaged looking at the birds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The very thing I wished!" cried Helena.

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



CHAPTER XIII.

SORTES VIRGILIANAE.

When Belinda got home, Lady Delacour was busy in the library looking over a collection of French plays with the ci-devant Count de N——; a gentleman who possessed such singular talents for reading dramatic compositions, that many people declared that they would rather hear him read a play than see it performed at the theatre. Even those who were not judges of his merit, and who had little taste for literature, crowded to hear him, because it was the fashion. Lady Delacour engaged him for a reading party at her house, and he was consulting with her what play would be most amusing to his audience. "My dear Belinda! I am glad you are come to give us your opinion," said her ladyship; "no one has a better taste: but first I should ask you what you have done at your bird-fancier's; I hope you have brought home some horned cock[5], or some monstrously beautiful creature for Marriott. If it has not a voice like the macaw I shall be satisfied; but even if it be the bird of paradise, I question whether Marriott will like it as well as its screaming predecessor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Male or female?" said Lady Delacour.

"Female."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Helena!" cried Lady Delacour.

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

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

"No, only———"

"Only what, my dear?"

"Only—I was afraid—you might not like me."

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

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

"Lady Anne is very good—very obliging—very considerate."

"She is very good-natured," said Helena.

"You love this Lady Anne Percival, I perceive."

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

"As if she were—What? finish your sentence."

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

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

"No, ma'am."

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

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

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

'Content to dwell in decencies for ever.'

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

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

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

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

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

"Facts, I should think," said Belinda.

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

"Lady Anne Percival gave them to me, ma'am."

"And how came her ladyship to give them to you, ma'am?"

"She gave them to me," said Helena, hesitating.

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

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

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

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

"Us all?"

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Delacour screamed, and pushed her daughter away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Margaret Delacour's carriage, my lady, for Miss Delacour," said a footman to her ladyship.

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

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

"Naturally, mamma."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he inquire for me?—Did he ask how I did?"

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

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



CHAPTER XIV.

THE EXHIBITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There is no suspicion in her mind," said Belinda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For Heaven's sake, my dear," cried Lady Delacour, "let me hear no more about Lord Delacour's feelings."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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