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

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

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

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

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

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

'Fallen spirit, to be weak is to be miserable.'"

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

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

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

"But I read that I may think for myself."

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

"And is there never any nonsense in conversation?"

"What have you here?" continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance, "Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments—milk and water! Moore's Travels—hasty pudding! La Bruyere—nettle porridge! This is what you were at when I came in, was it not?" said she, taking up a book[8] in which she saw Belinda's mark: "Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor thing! who bored you with this task?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vastly polite!—But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d'ye say to that?"

"You know that best, madam!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Portman's blushes," said Mr. Vincent, "speak for her."

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

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

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

"No; it enslaves us," said Mr. Vincent.

"I hate slavery! Vive la liberte!" cried Mrs. Freke. "I'm a champion for the Rights of Woman."

"I am an advocate for their happiness," said Mr. Percival, "and for their delicacy, as I think it conduces to their happiness."

"I'm an enemy to their delicacy, as I am sure it conduces to their misery."

"You speak from experience?" said Mr. Percival.

"No, from observation. Your most delicate women are always the greatest hypocrites; and, in my opinion, no hypocrite can or ought to be happy."

"But you have not proved the hypocrisy," said Belinda. "Delicacy is not, I hope, an indisputable proof of it? If you mean false delicacy——"

"To cut the matter short at once," cried Mrs. Freke, "why, when a woman likes a man, does not she go and tell him so honestly?"

Belinda, surprised by this question from a woman, was too much abashed instantly to answer.

"Because she's a hypocrite. That is and must be the answer."

"No," said Mr. Percival; "because, if she be a woman of sense, she knows that by such a step she would disgust the object of her affection."

"Cunning!—cunning!—cunning!—the arms of the weakest."

"Prudence! prudence!—the arms of the strongest. Taking the best means to secure our own happiness without injuring that of others is the best proof of sense and strength of mind, whether in man or woman. Fortunately for society, the same conduct in ladies which best secures their happiness most increases ours."

Mrs. Freke beat the devil's tattoo for some moments, and then exclaimed, "You may say what you will, but the present system of society is radically wrong:—whatever is, is wrong."

"How would you improve the state of society?" asked Mr. Percival, calmly.

"I'm not tinker-general to the world," said she.

"I'm glad of it," said Mr. Percival; "for I have heard that tinkers often spoil more than they mend."

"But if you want to know," said Mrs. Freke, "what I would do to improve the world, I'll tell you: I'd have both sexes call things by their right names."

"This would doubtless be a great improvement," said Mr. Percival; "but you would not overturn society to attain it, would you? Should we find things much improved by tearing away what has been called the decent drapery of life?"

"Drapery, if you ask me my opinion," cried Mrs. Freke, "drapery, whether wet or dry, is the most confoundedly indecent thing in the world."

"That depends on public opinion, I allow," said Mr. Percival. "The Lacedaemonian ladies, who were veiled only by public opinion, were better covered from profane eyes than some English ladies are in wet drapery."

"I know nothing of the Lacedaemonian ladies: I took my leave of them when I was a schoolboy—girl, I should say. But pray, what o'clock is it by you? I've sat till I'm cramped all over," cried Mrs. Freke, getting up and stretching herself so violently that some part of her habiliments gave way. "Honi soit qui mal y pense!" said she, bursting into a horse laugh.

Without sharing in any degree that confusion which Belinda felt for her, she strode out of the room, saying, "Miss Portman, you understand these things better than I do; come and set me to rights."

When she was in Belinda's room, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and laughed immoderately.

"How I have trimmed Percival this morning!" said she.

"I am glad you think so," said Belinda; "for I really was afraid he had been too severe upon you."

"I only wish," continued Mrs. Freke, "I only wish his wife had been by. Why the devil did not she make her appearance? I suppose the prude was afraid of my demolishing and unrigging her."

"There seems to have been more danger of that for you than for any body else," said Belinda, as she assisted to set Mrs. Freke's rigging, as she called it, to rights.

"I do of all things delight in hauling good people's opinions out of their musty drawers, and seeing how they look when they're all pulled to pieces before their faces! Pray, are those Lady Anne's drawers or yours?" said Mrs. Freke, pointing to a chest of drawers.

"Mine."

"I'm sorry for it; for if they were hers, to punish her for shirking me, by the Lord, I'd have every rag she has in the world out in the middle of the floor in ten minutes! You don't know me—I'm a terrible person when provoked—stop at nothing!"

As Mrs. Freke saw no other chance left of gaining her point with Belinda, she tried what intimidating her would do.

"I stop at nothing," repeated she, fixing her eyes upon Miss Portman, to fascinate her by terror. "Friend or foe! peace or war! Take your choice. Come to the ball at Harrowgate, I win my bet, and I'm your sworn friend. Stay away, I lose my bet, and am your sworn enemy."

"It is not in my power, madam," said Belinda, calmly, "to comply with your request."

"Then you'll take the consequences," cried Mrs. Freke. She rushed past her, hurried down stairs, and called out, "Bid my blockhead bring my unicorn."

She, her unicorn, and her blockhead, were out of sight in a few minutes.

Good may be drawn from evil. Mrs. Freke's conversation, though at the time it confounded Belinda, roused her, upon reflection, to examine by her reason the habits and principles which guided her conduct. She had a general feeling that they were right and necessary; but now, with the assistance of Lady Anne and Mr. Percival, she established in her own understanding the exact boundaries between right and wrong upon many subjects. She felt a species of satisfaction and security, from seeing the demonstration of those axioms of morality, in which she had previously acquiesced. Reasoning gradually became as agreeable to her as wit; nor was her taste for wit diminished, it was only refined by this process. She now compared and judged of the value of the different species of this brilliant talent.

Mrs. Freke's wit, thought she, is like a noisy squib, the momentary terror of passengers; Lady Delacour's like an elegant firework, which we crowd to see, and cannot forbear to applaud; but Lady Anne Percival's wit is like the refulgent moon, we

"Love the mild rays, and bless the useful light."

"Miss Portman," said Mr. Percival, "are not you afraid of making an enemy of Mrs. Freke, by declining her invitation to Harrowgate?"

"I think her friendship more to be dreaded than her enmity," replied Belinda.

"Then you are not to be terrified by an obeah-woman?" said Mr. Vincent.

"Not in the least, unless she were to come in the shape of a false friend," said Belinda.

"Till lately," said Mr. Vincent, "I was deceived in the character of Mrs. Freke. I thought her a dashing, free-spoken, free-hearted sort of eccentric person, who would make a staunch friend and a jolly companion. As a mistress, or a wife, no man of any taste could think of her. Compare that woman now with one of our Creole ladies."

"But why with a creole?" said Mr. Percival.

"For the sake of contrast, in the first place: our creole women are all softness, grace, delicacy——"

"And indolence," said Mr. Percival.

"Their indolence is but a slight, and, in my judgment, an amiable defect; it keeps them out of mischief, and it attaches them to domestic life. The activity of a Mrs. Freke would never excite their emulation; and so much the better."

"So much the better, no doubt," said Mr. Percival. "But is there no other species of activity that might excite their ambition with propriety? Without diminishing their grace, softness, or delicacy, might not they cultivate their minds? Do you think ignorance, as well as indolence, an amiable defect, essential to the female character?"

"Not essential. You do not, I hope, imagine that I am so much prejudiced in favour of my countrywomen, that I can neither see nor feel the superiority in some instances of European cultivation? I speak only in general."

"And in general," said Lady Anne Percival, "does Mr. Vincent wish to confine our sex to the bliss of ignorance?"

"If it be bliss," said Mr. Vincent, "what reason would they have for complaint?"

"If," said Belinda; "but that is a question which you have not yet decided."

"And how can we decide it?" said Mr. Vincent, "The taste and feelings of individuals must be the arbiters of their happiness."

"You leave reason quite out of the question, then," said Mr. Percival, "and refer the whole to taste and feeling? So that if the most ignorant person in the world assert that he is happier than you are, you are bound to believe him."

"Why should not I?" said Mr. Vincent.

"Because," said Mr. Percival, "though he can judge of his own pleasures, he cannot judge of yours; his are common to both, but yours are unknown to him. Would you, at this instant, change places with that ploughman yonder, who is whistling as he goes for want of thought? or, would you choose to go a step higher in the bliss of ignorance, and turn savage?"

Mr. Vincent laughed, and protested that he should be very unwilling to give up his title to civilized society; and that, instead of wishing to have less knowledge, he regretted that he had not more. "I am sensible," said he, "that I have many prejudices;—Miss Portman has made me ashamed of some of them."

There was a degree of candour in Mr. Vincent's manner and conversation, which interested every body in his favour; Belinda amongst the rest. She was perfectly at ease in Mr. Vincent's company, because she considered him as a person who wished for her friendship, without having any design to engage her affections. From several hints that dropped from him, from Mr. Percival, and from Lady Anne, she was persuaded that he was attached to some creole lady; and all that he said in favour of the elegant softness and delicacy of his countrywomen confirmed this opinion.

Miss Portman was not one of those young ladies who fancy that every gentleman who converses freely with them will inevitably fall a victim to the power of their charms, and will see in every man a lover, or nothing.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A DECLARATION.

"I've found it!—I've found it, mamma!" cried little Charles Percival, running eagerly into the room with a plant in his hand. "Will you send this in your letter to Helena Delacour, and tell her that is the thing that gold fishes are so fond of? And tell her that it is called lemna, and that it may be found in any ditch or pool."

"But how can she find ditches and pools in Grosvenor-square, my dear?"

"Oh, I forgot that. Then will you tell her, mamma, that I will send her a great quantity?"

"How, my dear?"

"I don't know, mamma, yet—but I will find out some way."

"Would it not be as well, my dear," said his mother, smiling, "to consider how you can perform your promises before you make them?"

"A gentleman," said Mr. Vincent, "never makes a promise that he cannot perform."

"I know that very well," said the boy, proudly: "Miss Portman, who is very good-natured, will, I am sure, be so good, when she goes back to Lady Delacour, as to carry food for the gold fishes to Helena—you see that I have found out a way to keep my promise."

"No, I'm afraid not," said Belinda; "for I am not going back to Lady Delacour's."

"Then I am very glad of it!" said the boy, dropping the weed, and clapping his hands joyfully; "for then I hope you will always stay here, don't you, mamma?—don't you, Mr. Vincent? Oh, you do, I am sure, for I heard you say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so red?"

His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question, and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where he found the food for the gold fishes.

Belinda, to Mr. Vincent's great relief, seemed not to take any notice of the child's question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was intently copying Westall's sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family, and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour's name, to many painful and some pleasing recollections. "What a charming woman, and what a charming family!" said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the drawing; "and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods and goddesses, that ever were drawn!"

"Yes," said Belinda, "and how much more interesting this picture is to us, from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real, not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her, are what they seem to be—the pride and pleasure of her life!"

"There cannot," exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, "be a more delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not feel what you can paint so well?"

"Is it possible, sir," said Belinda, "that you should suspect me of such wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of feeling?"

"You misunderstand—you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy, all affectation. But I imagined—I feared—"

As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda's eye was caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her ladyship and Miss Portman—she sighed from the recollection of Clarence Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.

"What a contrast!" said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. "What a contrast! Compare their pictures—compare their characters—compare—"

"Excuse me," interrupted Belinda; "Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne Percival."

"I have been more fortunate, I have seen one—one equally worthy of esteem—admiration—love."

Mr. Vincent's voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda, prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, "You are indeed very fortunate—peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies——"

"West-Indian ladies!" interrupted Mr. Vincent. "Surely, Miss Portman cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian lady!" Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. "Charming Miss Portman," continued he, "I have learnt to admire European beauty, European excellence! I have acquired new ideas of the female character—ideas— feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely miserable."

Miss Portman had been too often called "charming" to be much startled or delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but there was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent's manner, that she could no longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident confusion. Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover came into her mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and dreaded that he should read her thoughts. "Exquisitely miserable!" said she, in a tone of raillery: "I should not suppose, from what I have seen of Mr. Vincent, that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable."

"Then you do not know my character—you do not know my heart: it is in your power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold, hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion," cried he, seizing her hand.

At this instant one of the children came in with some flowers to Belinda; and, glad of the interruption, she hastily put up her drawings and left the room, observing that she should scarcely have time to dress before dinner. However, as soon as she found herself alone, she forgot how late it was; and though she sat down before the glass to dress, she made no progress in the business, but continued for some time motionless, endeavouring to recollect and to understand all that had passed. The result of her reflections was the conviction that her partiality for Clarence Hervey was greater than she ever had till this moment suspected. "I have told my aunt Stanhope," thought she, "that the idea of Mr. Hervey had no influence in my refusal of Sir Philip Baddely; I have said that my affections are entirely at my own command: then why do I feel this alarm at the discovery of Mr. Vincent's views? Why do I compare him with one whom I thought I had forgotten?—And yet how are we to judge of character? How can we form any estimate of what is amiable, of what will make us happy or miserable, but by comparison? Am I to blame for perceiving superiority? Am I to blame if one person be more agreeable, or seem to be more agreeable, than another? Am I to blame if I cannot love Mr. Vincent?"

Before Belinda had answered these questions to her satisfaction, the dinner-bell rang. There happened to dine this day at Mr. Percival's a gentleman who had just arrived from Lisbon, and the conversation turned upon the sailors' practice of stilling the waves over the bar of Lisbon by throwing oil upon the water. Charles Percival's curiosity was excited by this conversation, and he wished to see the experiment. In the evening his father indulged his wishes. The children were delighted at the sight, and little Charles insisted upon Belinda's following him to a particular spot, where he was well convinced that she could see better than any where else in the world. "Take care," cried Lady Anne, "or you will lead your friend into the river, Charles." The boy paused, and soon afterwards asked his father several questions about swimming and drowning, and bringing people to life after they had been drowned. "Don't you remember, papa," said he, "that Mr. Hervey, who was almost drowned in the Serpentine river in London?"—Belinda coloured at hearing unexpectedly the name of the person of whom she was at that instant thinking, and the child continued—"I liked that Mr. Hervey very much—I liked him from the first day I saw him. What a number of entertaining things he told us at dinner! We used to call him the good-natured gentleman: I like him very much—I wish he was here this minute. Did you ever see him, Miss Portman? Oh, yes, you must have seen him; for it was he who carried Helena's gold fishes to her mother, and he used often to be at Lady Delacour's—was not he?"

"Yes, my dear, often."

"And did not you like him very much?"—This simple question threw Belinda into inexpressible confusion: but fortunately the crimson on her face was seen only by Lady Anne Percival. To Belinda's great satisfaction, Mr. Vincent forbore this evening any attempt to renew the conversation of the morning; he endeavoured to mix, with his usual animation and gaiety, in the family society; and her embarrassment was much lessened when she heard the next day, at breakfast, that he was gone to Harrowgate. Lady Anne Percival took notice that she was this morning unusually sprightly.

After breakfast, as they were passing through the hall to take a walk in the park, one of the little boys stopped to look at a musical instrument which hung up against the wall.

"What is this, mamma?—It is not a guitar, is it?"

"No, my dear, it is called a banjore; it is an African instrument, of which the negroes are particularly fond. Mr. Vincent mentioned it the other day to Miss Portman, and I believe she expressed some curiosity to see one. Juba went to work immediately to make a banjore, I find. Poor fellow! I dare say that he was very sorry to go to Harrowgate, and to leave his African guitar half finished; especially as it was intended for an offering to Miss Portman. He is the most grateful, affectionate creature I ever saw."

"But why, mamma," said Charles Percival, "is Mr. Vincent gone away? I am sorry he is gone; I hope he will soon come back. In the mean time, I must run and water my carnations."

"His sorrow for his friend Mr. Vincent's departure does not seem to affect his spirits much," said Lady Anne. "People who expect sentiment from children of six years old will be disappointed, and will probably teach them affectation. Surely it is much better to let their natural affections have time to expand. If we tear the rosebud open we spoil the flower." Belinda smiled at this parable of the rosebud, which, she said, might be applied to men and women, as well as to children.

"And yet, upon reflection," said Lady Anne, "the heart has nothing in common with a rosebud. Nonsensical allusions pass off very prettily in conversation. I mean, when we converse with partial friends: but we should reason ill, and conduct ourselves worse, if we were to trust implicitly to poetical analogies. Our affections," continued Lady Anne, "arise from circumstances totally independent of our will."

"That is the very thing I meant to say," interrupted Belinda, eagerly.

"They are excited by the agreeable or useful qualities that we discover in things or in persons."

"Undoubtedly," said Belinda.

"Or by those which our fancies discover," said Lady Anne.

Belinda was silent; but, after a pause, she said, "That it was certainly very dangerous, especially for women, to trust to fancy in bestowing their affections." "And yet," said Lady Anne, "it is a danger to which they are much exposed in society. Men have it in their power to assume the appearance of every thing that is amiable and estimable, and women have scarcely any opportunities of detecting the counterfeit."

"Without Ithuriel's spear, how can they distinguish the good from the evil?" said Belinda. "This is a common-place complaint, I know; the ready excuse that we silly young women plead, when we make mistakes for which our friends reproach us, and for which we too often reproach ourselves."

"The complaint is common-place precisely because it is general and just," replied Lady Anne. "In the slight and frivolous intercourse, which fashionable belles usually have with those fashionable beaux who call themselves their lovers, it is surprising that they can discover any thing of each other's real character. Indeed they seldom do; and this probably is the cause why there are so many unsuitable and unhappy marriages. A woman who has an opportunity of seeing her lover in private society, in domestic life, has infinite advantages; for if she has any sense, and he has any sincerity, the real character of both may perhaps be developed."

"True," said Belinda (who now suspected that Lady Anne alluded to Mr. Vincent); "and in such a situation a woman would readily be able to decide whether the man who addressed her would suit her taste or not; so she would be inexcusable if, either from vanity or coquetry, she disguised her real sentiments."

"And will Miss Portman, who cannot, by any one to whom she is known, be suspected of vanity or coquetry, permit me to speak to her with the freedom of a friend?"

Belinda, touched by the kindness of Lady Anne's manner, pressed her hand, and exclaimed, "Yes, dear Lady Anne, speak to me with freedom—you cannot do me a greater favour. No thought of my mind, no secret feeling of my heart, shall be concealed from you."

"Do not imagine that I wish to encroach upon the generous openness of your temper," said Lady Anne; "tell me when I go too far, and I will be silent. One who, like Miss Portman, has lived in the world, has seen a variety of characters, and probably has had a variety of admirers, must have formed some determinate idea of the sort of companion that would make her happy, if she were to marry—unless," said Lady Anne, "she has formed a resolution against marriage."

"I have formed no such resolution," said Belinda. "Indeed, since I have seen the happiness which you and Mr. Percival enjoy in your own family, I have been much more disposed to think that a union—that a union such as yours, would increase my happiness. At the same time, my aversion to the idea of marrying from interest, or convenience, or from any motives but esteem and love, is increased almost to horror. O Lady Anne! there is nothing that I would not do to please the friends to whom I am under obligations, except sacrificing my peace of mind, or my integrity, the happiness of my life, by—"

Lady Anne, in a gentle tone, assured her, that she was the last person in the world who would press her to any union which would make her unhappy. "You perceive that Mr. Vincent has spoken to me of what passed between you yesterday. You perceive that I am his friend, but do not forget that I am also yours. If you fear undue influence from any of your relations in favour of Mr. Vincent's large fortune, &c. let his proposal remain a secret between ourselves, till you can decide, from farther acquaintance with him, whether it will be in your power to return his affection."

"I fear, my dear Lady Anne," cried Belinda, "that it is not in my power to return his affection."

"And may I ask your objections?"

"Is it not a sufficient objection, that I am persuaded I cannot love him?"

"No; for you may be mistaken in that persuasion. Remember what we said a little while ago, about fancy and spontaneous affections. Does Mr. Vincent appear to you defective in any of the qualities which you think essential to happiness? Mr. Percival has known him from the time he was a man, and can answer for his integrity and his good temper. Are not these the first points you would consider? They ought to be, I am sure, and I believe they are. Of his understanding I shall say nothing, because you have had full opportunities of judging of it from his conversation."

"Mr. Vincent appears to have a good understanding," said Belinda.

"Then to what do you object?—Is there any thing disgusting to you in his person or manners?"

"He is very handsome, he is well bred, and his manners are unaffected," said Belinda; "but—do not accuse me of caprice—altogether he does not suit my taste; and I cannot think it sufficient not to feel disgust for a husband—though I believe this is the fashionable doctrine."

"It is not mine, I assure you," said Lady Anne. "I am not one of those who think it 'safest to begin with a little aversion;' but since you acknowledge that Mr. Vincent possesses the essential good qualities that entitle him to your esteem, I am satisfied. We gradually acquire knowledge of the good qualities of those who endeavour to please us; and if they are really amiable, their persons become agreeable to us by degrees, when we become accustomed to them."

"Accustomed!" said Belinda, smiling: "one does grow accustomed even to disagreeable things certainly; but at this rate, my dear Lady Anne, I do not doubt but one might grow accustomed to Caliban."

"My belief in the reconciling power of custom does not go quite so far," said Lady Anne. "It does not extend to Caliban, or even to the hero of La Belle et La Bete; but I do believe, that, in a mind so well regulated as yours, esteem may certainly in time be improved into love. I will tell Mr. Vincent so, my dear."

"No, my dear Lady Anne! no; you must not—indeed you must not. You have too good an opinion of me—my mind is not so well regulated—I am much weaker, much sillier, than you imagine—than you can conceive," said Belinda.

Lady Anne soothed her with the most affectionate expressions, and concluded with saying, "Mr. Vincent has promised not to return from Harrowgate, to torment you with his addresses, if you be absolutely determined against him. He is of too generous, and perhaps too proud a temper, to persecute you with vain solicitations; and however Mr. Percival and I may wish that he could obtain such a wife, we shall have the common, or uncommon, sense and good-nature to allow our friends to be happy their own way."

"You are very good—too good. But am I then to be the cause of banishing Mr. Vincent from all his friends—from Oakly-park?"

"Will he not do what is most prudent, to avoid the charming Miss Portman," said Lady Anne, smiling, "if he must not love her? This was at least the advice I gave him, when he consulted us yesterday evening. But I will not sign his writ of banishment lightly. Nothing but the assurance that the heart is engaged can be a sufficient cause for despair; nothing else could, in my eyes, justify you, my dear Belinda, from the charge of caprice."

"I can give you no such assurance, I hope—I believe," said Belinda, in great confusion; "and yet I would not for the world deceive you: you have a right to my sincerity." She paused; and Lady Anne said with a smile, "Perhaps I can spare you the trouble of telling me in words what a blush told me, or at least made me suspect, yesterday evening, when we were standing by the river side, when little Charles asked you—"

"Yes, I remember—I saw you look at me."

"Undesignedly, believe me."

"Undesignedly, I am sure; but I was afraid you would think—"

"The truth."

"No; but more than the truth. The truth you shall hear; and the rest I will leave to your judgment and to your kindness."

Belinda gave a full account of her acquaintance with Clarence Hervey; of the variations in his manner towards her; of his excellent conduct with respect to Lady Delacour (of this, by-the-by, she spoke at large). But she was more concise when she touched upon the state of her own heart; and her voice almost failed when she came to the history of the lock of beautiful hair, the Windsor incognita, and the picture of Virginia. She concluded by expressing her conviction of the propriety of forgetting a man, who was in all probability attached to another, and she declared it to be her resolution to banish him from her thoughts. Lady Anne said, "that nothing could be more prudent or praiseworthy than forming such a resolution—except keeping it." Lady Anne had a high opinion of Mr. Hervey; but she had no doubt, from Belinda's account, and from her own observations on Mr. Hervey, and from slight circumstances which had accidentally come to Mr. Percival's knowledge, that he was, as Belinda suspected, attached to another person. She wished, therefore, to confirm Miss Portman in this belief, and to turn her thoughts towards one who, beside being deserving of her esteem and love, felt for her the most sincere affection. She did not, however, press the subject farther at this time, but contented herself with requesting that Belinda would take three days (the usual time given for deliberation in fairy tales) before she should decide against Mr. Vincent.

The next day they went to look at a porter's lodge, which Mr. Percival had just built; it was inhabited by an old man and woman, who had for many years been industrious tenants, but who, in their old age, had been reduced to poverty, not by imprudence, but by misfortune. Lady Anne was pleased to see them comfortably settled in their new habitation; and whilst she and Belinda were talking to the old couple, their grand-daughter, a pretty looking girl of about eighteen, came in with a basket of eggs in her hand. "Well, Lucy," said Lady Anne, "have you overcome your dislike to James Jackson?" The girl reddened, smiled, and looked at her grand-mother, who answered for her in an arch tone, "Oh, yes, my lady! We are not afraid of Jackson now; we are grown very great friends. This pretty cane chair for my good man was his handiwork, and these baskets he made for me. Indeed, he's a most industrious, ingenious, good-natured youth; and our Lucy takes no offence at his courting her now, my lady, I can assure you. That necklace, which is never off her neck now, he turned for her, my lady; it is a present of his. So I tell him he need not be discouraged, though so be she did not take to him at the first; for she's a good girl, and a sensible girl—I say it, though she's my own; and the eyes are used to a face after a time, and then it's nothing. They say, fancy's all in all in love: now in my judgment, fancy's little or nothing with girls that have sense. But I beg pardon for prating at this rate, more especially when I am so old as to have forgot all the little I ever knew about such things."

"But you have the best right in the world to speak about such things, and your grand-daughter has the best reason in the world to listen to you," said Lady Anne, "because, in spite of all the crosses of fortune, you have been an excellent and happy wife, at least ever since I can remember."

"And ever since I can remember, that's more; no offence to your ladyship," said the old man, striking his crutch against the ground. "Ever since I can remember, she has made me the happiest man in the whole world, in the whole parish, as every body knows, and I best of all!" cried he, with a degree of enthusiasm that lighted up his aged countenance, and animated his feeble voice.

"And yet," said the honest dame, "if I had followed my fancy, and taken up with my first love, it would not ha' been with he, Lucy. I had a sort of a fancy (since my lady's so good as to let me speak), I had a sort of a fancy for an idle young man; but he, very luckily for me, took it into his head to fall in love with another young woman, and then I had leisure enough left me to think of your grandfather, who was not so much to my taste like at first. But when I found out his goodness and cleverness, and joined to all, his great tenderness for me, I thought better of it, Lucy (as who knows but you may do, though there shall not be a word said on my part to press you, for poor Jackson?); and my thinking better is the cause why I have been so happy ever since, and am so still in my old age. Ah, Lucy! dear, what a many years that same old age lasts, after all! But young folks, for the most part, never think what's to come after thirty or forty at farthest. But I don't say this for you, Lucy; for you are a good girl, and a sensible girl, though my own grand-daughter, as I said before, and therefore won't be run away with by fancy, which is soon past and gone: but make a prudent choice, that you won't never have cause to repent of. But I'll not say a word more; I'll leave it all to yourself and James Jackson."

"You do right," said Lady Anne: "good morning to you! Farewell, Lucy! That's a pretty necklace, and is very becoming to you—fare ye well!"

She hurried out of the cottage with Belinda, apprehensive that the talkative old dame might weaken the effect of her good sense and experience by a farther profusion of words.

"One would think," said Belinda, with an ingenuous smile, "that this lesson upon the dangers of fancy was intended for me: at any rate, I may turn it to my own advantage!"

"Happy those who can turn all the experience of others to their own advantage!" said Lady Anne: "this would be a more valuable privilege than the power of turning every thing that is touched to gold."

They walked on in silence for a few minutes; and then Miss Portman, pursuing the train of her own thoughts, and unconscious that she had not explained them to Lady Anne, abruptly exclaimed, "But if I should be entangled, so as not to be able to retract!—and if it should not be in my power to love him at last, he will think me a coquette, a jilt, perhaps: he will have reason to complain of me, if I waste his time, and trifle with his affections. Then is it not better that I should avoid, by a decided refusal, all possibility of injury to Mr. Vincent, and of blame to myself?"

"There is no danger of Mr. Vincent's misunderstanding or misrepresenting you. The risk that he runs is by his voluntary choice; and I am sure that if, after farther acquaintance with him, you find it impossible to return his affection, he will not consider himself as ill-used by your refusal."

"But after a certain time—after the world suspects that two people are engaged to each other, it is scarcely possible for the woman to recede: when they come within a certain distance, they are pressed to unite, by the irresistible force of external circumstances. A woman is too often reduced to this dilemma: either she must marry a man she does not love, or she must be blamed by the world—either she must sacrifice a portion of her reputation, or the whole of her happiness."

"The world is indeed often too curious, and too rash in these affairs," said Lady Anne. "A young woman is not in this respect allowed sufficient time for freedom of deliberation. She sees, as Mr. Percival once said, 'the drawn sword of tyrant custom suspended over her head by a single hair.'"

"And yet, notwithstanding you are so well aware of the danger, your ladyship would expose me to it?" said Belinda.

"Yes; for I think the chance of happiness, in this instance, overbalances the risk," said Lady Anne. "As we cannot alter the common law of custom, and as we cannot render the world less gossiping, or less censorious, we must not expect always to avoid censure; all we can do is, never to deserve it—and it would be absurd to enslave ourselves to the opinion of the idle and ignorant. To a certain point, respect for the opinion of the world is prudence; beyond that point, it is weakness. You should also consider that the world at Oakly-park and in London are two different worlds. In London if you and Mr. Vincent were seen often in each other's company, it would be immediately buzzed about that Miss Portman and Mr. Vincent were going to be married; and if the match did not take place, a thousand foolish stories might be told to account for its being broken off. But here you are not surrounded by busy eyes and busy tongues. The butchers, bakers, ploughmen, and spinsters, who compose our world, have all affairs of their own to mind. Besides, their comments can have no very extensive circulation; they are used to see Mr. Vincent continually here; and his staying with us the remainder of the autumn will not appear to them any thing wonderful or portentous."

Their conversation was interrupted. Mr. Vincent returned to Oakly-park—but upon the express condition that he should not make his attachment public by any particular attentions, and that he should draw no conclusions in his favour from Belinda's consenting to converse with him freely upon every common subject. To this treaty of amity Lady Anne Percival was guarantee.



CHAPTER XIX.

A WEDDING.

Belinda and Mr. Vincent could never agree in their definition of the-word flattery; so that there were continual complaints on the one hand of a breach of treaty, and, on the other, solemn protestations of the most scrupulous adherence to his compact. However this might be, it is certain that the gentleman gained so much, either by truth or fiction, that, in the course of some weeks, he got the lady as far as "gratitude and esteem."

One evening, Belinda was playing with little Charles Percival at spillikins. Mr. Vincent, who found pleasure in every thing that amused Belinda, and Mr. Percival, who took an interest in every thing which entertained his children, were looking on at this simple game.

"Mr. Percival," said Belinda, "condescending to look at a game of jack-straws!"

"Yes," said Lady Anne; "for he is of Dryden's opinion, that, if a straw can be made the instrument of happiness, he is a wise man who does not despise it."

"Ah! Miss Portman, take care!" cried Charles, who was anxious that she should win, though he was playing against her. "Take care! don't touch that knave."

"I would lay a hundred guineas upon the steadiness of Miss Portman's hand," cried Mr. Vincent.

"I'll lay you sixpence, though," cried Charles, eagerly, "that she'll stir the king, if she touches that knave—I'll lay you a shilling."

"Done! done!" cried Mr. Vincent.

"Done! done!" cried the boy, stretching out his hand, but his father caught it.

"Softly! softly, Charles!—No betting, if you please, my dear. Done and done sometimes ends in—undone."

"It was my fault—it was I who was in the wrong," cried Vincent immediately.

"I am sure you are in the right, now," said Mr. Percival; "and, what is better than my saying so, Miss Portman thinks so, as her smile tells me."

"You moved, Miss Portman!" cried Charles:—"Oh, indeed! the king's head stirred, the very instant papa spoke. I knew it was impossible that you could get that knave clear off without shaking the king. Now, papa, only look how they were balanced."

"I grant you," said Mr. Vincent, "I should have made an imprudent bet. So it is well I made none; for now I see the chances were ten to one, twenty to one, a hundred to one against me."

"It does not appear to me to be a matter of chance," said Mr. Percival. "This is a game of address, not chance, and that is the reason I like it."

"Oh, papa! Oh, Miss Portman! look how nicely these are balanced. There! my breath has set them in motion. Look, they shake, shake, shake, like the great rocking-stones at Brimham Crags."

"That is comparing small things to great, indeed!" said Mr. Percival.

"By-the-by," cried Mr. Vincent, "Miss Portman has never seen those wonderful rocking-stones—suppose we were to ride to see them to-morrow?"

The proposal was warmly seconded by the children, and agreed to by every one. It was settled, that after they had seen Brimham Crags they should spend the remainder of the day at Lord C——'s beautiful place in the neighbourhood.

The next morning was neither too hot nor too cold, and they set out on their little party of pleasure; the children went with their mother, to their great delight, in the sociable; and Mr. Vincent, to his great delight, rode with Belinda. When they came within sight of the Crags, Mr. Percival, who was riding with them, exclaimed—"What is that yonder, on the top of one of the great rocking-stones?"

"It looks like a statue," said Vincent. "It has been put up since we were here last."

"I fancy it has got up of itself," said Belinda, "for it seems to be getting down of itself. I think I saw it stoop. Oh! I see now, it is a man who has got up there, and he seems to have a gun in his hand, has not he? He is going through his manual exercise for his diversion—for the diversion of the spectators below, I perceive—there is a party of people looking at him."

"Him!" said Mr. Percival.

"I protest it is a woman!" said Vincent.

"No, surely," said Belinda: "it cannot be a woman!"

"Not unless it be Mrs. Freke," replied Mr. Percival.

In fact it was Mrs. Freke, who had been out shooting with a party of gentlemen, and who had scrambled upon this rocking-stone, on the summit of which she went through the manual exercise at the word of command from her officer. As they rode nearer to the scene of action, Belinda heard the shrill screams of a female voice, and they descried amongst the gentlemen a slight figure in a riding habit.

"Miss Moreton, I suppose," said Mr. Vincent.

"Poor girl! what are they doing with her?" cried Belinda.

"They seem to be forcing her up to the top of that place, where she has no mind to go. Look how Mrs. Freke drags her up by the arm!"

As they drew nearer, they heard Mrs. Freke laughing loud as she rocked this frightened girl upon the top of the stone.

"We had better keep out of the way, I think," said Belinda: "for perhaps, as she has vowed vengeance against me, she might take a fancy to setting me upon that pinnacle of glory."

"She dare not," cried Vincent, his eyes flashing with anger: "you may trust to us to defend you."

"Certainly!—But I will not run into danger on purpose to give you the pleasure of defending me," said Belinda; and as she spoke, she turned her horse another way.

"You won't turn back, Miss Portman?" cried Vincent eagerly, laying his hand on her bridle.—"Good Heavens, ma'am! we can't run away!—We came here to look at these rocking-stones!—We have not half seen them. Lady Anne and the children will be here immediately. You would not deprive them of the pleasure of seeing these things!"

"I doubt whether they would have much pleasure in seeing some of these things! and as to the rest, if I disappoint the children now, Mr. Percival will, perhaps, have the goodness to bring them some other day."

"Certainly," said Mr. Percival: "Miss Portman shows her usual prudence."

"The children are so good tempered, that I am sure they will forgive me," continued Belinda; "and Mr. Vincent will be ashamed not to follow their example, though he seems to be rather angry with me at present for obliging him to turn back—out of the path of danger."

"You must not be surprised at that," said Mr. Percival, laughing; "for Mr. Vincent is a lover and a hero. You know it is a ruled case, in all romances, that when a lover and his mistress go out riding together, some adventure must befal them. The horse must run away with the lady, and the gentleman must catch her in his arms just as her neck is about to be broken. If the horse has been too well trained for the heroine's purpose, 'some footpad, bandit fierce, or mountaineer,' some jealous rival must make his appearance quite unexpectedly at the turn of a road, and the lady must be carried off—robes flying—hair streaming—like Buerger's Leonora. Then her lover must come to her rescue just in the proper moment. But if the damsel cannot conveniently be run away with, she must, as the last resource, tumble into a river to make herself interesting, and the hero must be at least half drowned in dragging her out, that she may be under eternal obligations to him, and at last be forced to marry him out of pure gratitude."

"Gratitude!" interrupted Mr. Vincent: "he is no hero, to my mind, who would be content with gratitude, instead of love."

"You need not alarm yourself: Miss Portman does not seem inclined to put you to the trial, you see," said Mr. Percival, smiling. "Now it is really to be regretted, that she deprived you of an opportunity of fighting some of the gentlemen in Mrs. Freke's train, or of delivering her from the perilous height of one of those rocking-stones. It would have been a new incident in a novel."

"How that poor girl screamed!" said Belinda. "Was her terror real or affected?"

"Partly real, partly affected, I fancy," said Mr. Percival.

"I pity her," said Mr. Vincent; "for Mrs. Freke leads her a weary life."

"She is certainly to be pitied, but also to be blamed," said Mr. Percival. "You do not know her history. Miss Moreton ran away from her friends to live with this Mrs. Freke, who has led her into all kinds of mischief and absurdity. The girl is weak and vain, and believes that every thing becomes her which Mrs. Freke assures her is becoming. At one time she was persuaded to go to a public ball with her arms as bare as Juno's, and her feet as naked as Mad. Tallien's. At another time Miss Moreton (who unfortunately has never heard the Greek proverb, that half is better than the whole,) was persuaded by Mrs. Freke to lay aside, her half boots, and to equip herself in men's whole boots; and thus she rode about the country, to the amazement of all the world. These are trifles; but women who love to set the world at defiance in trifles seldom respect its opinion in matters of consequence. Miss Moreton's whole boots in the morning, and her bare feet in the evening, were talked of by every body, till she gave them more to talk of about her attachment to a young officer. Mrs. Freke, whose philosophy is professedly latitudinarian in morals, laughed at the girl's prejudice in favour of the ceremony of marriage. So did the officer; for Miss Moreton had no fortune. It is suspected that the young lady did not feel the difficulty, which philosophers are sometimes said to find in suiting their practice to their theory. The unenlightened world reprobated the theory much, and the practice more. I am inclined, in spite of scandal, to think the poor girl was only imprudent: at all events, she repents her folly too late. She has now no friend upon earth but Mrs. Freke, who is, in fact, her worst enemy, and who tyrannizes over her without mercy. Imagine what it is to be the butt of a buffoon!"

"What a lesson to young ladies in the choice of female friends!" said Belinda. "But had Miss Moreton no relations, who could interfere to get her out of Mrs. Freke's hands?"

"Her father and mother were old, and, what is more contemptible, old-fashioned: she would not listen to their advice; she ran away from them. Some of her relations were, I believe, willing that she should stay with Mrs. Freke, because she was a dashing, fashionable woman, and they thought it might be what is called an advantage to her. She had one relation, indeed, who was quite of a different opinion, who saw the danger of her situation, and remonstrated in the strongest manner—but to no purpose. This was a cousin of Miss Moreton's, a respectable clergyman. Mrs. Freke was so much incensed by his insolent interference, as she was pleased to call it, that she made an effigy of Mr. Moreton dressed in his canonicals, and hung the figure up as a scarecrow in a garden close by the high road. He was so much beloved and respected for his benevolence and unaffected piety, that Mrs. Freke totally failed in her design of making him ridiculous; her scarecrow was torn to pieces by his parishioners; and though, in the true spirit of charity, he did all he could to moderate their indignation against his enemy, the lady became such an object of detestation, that she was followed with hisses and groans whenever she appeared, and she dared not venture within ten miles of the village.

"Mrs. Freke now changed the mode of her persecution: she was acquainted with a nobleman from whom our clergyman expected a living, and she worked upon his lordship so successfully, that he insisted upon having an apology made to the lady. Mr. Moreton had as much dignity of mind as gentleness of character; his forbearance was that of principle, and so was his firmness: he refused to make the concessions that were required. His noble patron bullied. Though he had a large family to provide for, the clergyman would not degrade himself by any improper submission. The incumbent died, and the living was given to a more compliant friend. So ends the history of one of Mrs. Freke's numerous frolics."

"This was the story," said Mr. Vincent, "which effectually changed my opinion of her. Till I heard it, I always looked upon her as one of those thoughtless, good-natured people, who, as the common saying is, do nobody any harm but themselves."

"It is difficult in society," said Mr. Percival, "especially for women, to do harm to themselves, without doing harm to others. They may begin in frolic, but they must end in malice. They defy the world—the world in return excommunicates them—the female outlaws become desperate, and make it the business and pride of their lives to disturb the peace of their sober neighbours. Women who have lowered themselves in the public opinion cannot rest without attempting to bring others to their own level."

"Mrs. Freke, notwithstanding the blustering merriment that she affects, is obviously unhappy," said Belinda; "and since we cannot do her any good, either by our blame or our pity, we had better think of something else."

"Scandal," said Mr. Vincent, "does not seem to give you much pleasure, Miss Portman. You will be glad to hear that Mrs. Freke's malice against poor Mr. Moreton has not ruined him. Do you know Mr. Percival, that he has just been presented to a good living by a generous young man, who heard of his excellent conduct?"

"I am extremely glad of it," said Mr. Percival. "Who is this generous young man? I should like to be acquainted with him."

"So should I," said Mr. Vincent: "he is a Mr. Hervey."

"Clarence Hervey, perhaps?"

"Yes, Clarence was his name."

"No man more likely to do a generous action than Clarence Hervey," said Mr. Percival.

"Nobody more likely to do a generous action than Mr. Hervey," repeated Belinda, in rather a low tone. She could now praise Clarence Hervey without blushing, and she could think even of his generosity without partiality, though not without pleasure. By strength of mind, and timely exertion, she had prevented her prepossession from growing into a passion that might have made her miserable. Proud of this conquest over herself, she was now disposed to treat Mr. Vincent with more favour than usual. Self-complacency generally puts us in good-humour with our friends.

After spending some pleasant hours in Lord C———'s beautiful grounds, where the children explored to their satisfaction every dingle and bushy dell, they returned home in the cool of the evening. Mr. Vincent thought it the most delightful evening he had ever felt.

"What! as charming as a West Indian evening?" said Mr. Percival. "This is more than I expected ever to hear you acknowledge in favour of England. Do you remember how you used to rave of the climate and of the prospects of Jamaica?"

"Yes, but my taste has quite changed."

"I remember the time," said Mr. Percival, "when you thought it impossible that your taste should ever change; when you told me that taste, whether for the beauties of animate or inanimate nature, was immutable."

"You and Miss Portman have taught me better sense. First loves are generally silly things," added he, colouring a little. Belinda coloured also.

"First loves," continued Mr. Percival, "are not necessarily more foolish than others; but the chances are certainly against them. From poetry or romance, young people usually form their earlier ideas of love, before they have actually felt the passion; and the image which they have in their own minds of the beau ideal is cast upon the first objects they afterward behold. This, if I may be allowed the expression, is Cupid's Fata Morgana. Deluded mortals are in ecstasy whilst the illusion lasts, and in despair when it vanishes."

Mr. Percival appeared to be unconscious that what he was saying was any way applicable to Belinda. He addressed himself to Mr. Vincent solely, and she listened at her ease.

"But," said she, "do not you think that this prejudice, as I am willing to allow it to be, in favour of first loves, may in our sex be advantageous? Even when a woman may be convinced—that she ought not to indulge a first love, should she not be prevented by delicacy from thinking of a second?"

"Delicacy, my dear Miss Portman, is a charming word, and a still more charming thing, and Mrs. Freke has probably increased our affection for it; but even delicacy, like all other virtues, must be judged of by the test of utility. We should run into romance, and error, and misery, if we did not constantly refer to this standard. Our reasonings as to the conduct of life, as far as moral prudence is concerned, must depend ultimately upon facts. Now, of the numbers of people in this world, how many do you think have married their first loves? Probably not one out of ten. Then, would you have nine out of ten pine all their lives in celibacy, or fret in matrimony, because they cannot have the persons who first struck their fancy?"

"I acknowledge this would not add to the happiness of society," said Belinda.

"Nor to its virtue," said Mr. Percival. "I scarcely know an idea more dangerous to domestic happiness than this belief in the unextinguishable nature of a first flame. There are people who would persuade us that, though it may be smothered for years, it must break out at last, and blaze with destructive fury. Pernicious doctrine! false as it is pernicious!—The struggles between duty and passion may be the charm of romance, but must be the misery of real life. The woman who marries one man, and loves another, who, in spite of all that an amiable and estimable husband can do to win her confidence and affection, nourishes in secret a fatal prepossession for her first love, may perhaps, by the eloquence of a fine writer, be made an interesting heroine;—but would any man of sense or feeling choose to be troubled with such a wife?—Would not even the idea that women admired such conduct necessarily tend to diminish our confidence, if not in their virtue, at least in their sincerity? And would not this suspicion destroy our happiness? Husbands may sometimes have delicate feelings as well as their wives, though they are seldom allowed to have any by these unjust novel writers. Now, could a husband who has any delicacy be content to possess the person without the mind?—the duty without the love?—Could he be perfectly happy, if, in the fondest moments, he might doubt whether he were an object of disgust or affection?—whether the smiles of apparent joy were only the efforts of a suffering martyr?—Thank Heaven! I am not married to one of these charming martyrs. Let those live with them who admire them. For my part, I admire and love the wife, who not only seems but is happy—as I," added Mr. Percival smiling, "have the fond credulity to believe. If I have spoken too long or too warmly upon the chapter of first loves, I have at least been a perfectly disinterested declaimer; for I can assure you, Miss Portman, that I do not suspect Lady Anne Percival of sighing in secret for some vision of perfection, any more than she suspects me of pining for the charming Lady Delacour, who, perhaps, you may have heard was my first love. In these days, however, so few people marry with even the pretence to love of any sort, that you will think I might have spared this tirade. No; there are ingenuous minds which will never be enslaved by fashion or interest, though they may be exposed to be deceived by romance, or by the delicacy of their own imaginations."

"I hear," said Belinda, smiling, "I hear and understand the emphasis with which you pronounce that word delicacy. I see you have not forgotten that I used it improperly half an hour ago, as you have convinced me."

"Happy they," said Mr. Percival, "who can be convinced in half an hour! There are some people who cannot be convinced in a whole life, and who end where they began, with saying—'This is my opinion—I always thought so, and always shall.'"

Mr. Vincent at all times loved Mr. Percival; but he never felt so much affection for him as he did this evening, and his arguments appeared to him unanswerable. Though Belinda had never mentioned to Mr. Vincent the name of Clarence Hervey till this day, and though he did not in the least suspect from her manner that this gentleman ever possessed any interest in her heart; yet, with her accustomed sincerity, she had confessed to him that an impression had been made upon her mind before she came to Oakly-park.

After this conversation with Mr. Percival, Mr. Vincent perceived that he gained ground more rapidly in her favour; and his company grew every day more agreeable to her taste: he was convinced that, as he possessed her esteem, he should in time secure her affections.

"In time," repeated Lady Anne Percival: "you must allow her time, or you will spoil all."

It was with some difficulty that Mr. Vincent restrained his impatience, even though he was persuaded of the prudence of his friend's advice. Things went on in this happy, but as he thought slow, state of progression till towards the latter end of September.

One fine morning Lady Anne Percival came into Belinda's room with a bridal favour in her hand. "Do you know," said she, "that we are to have a wedding to-day? This favour has just been sent to my maid. Lucy, the pretty girl whom you may remember to have seen some time ago with that prettily turned necklace, is the bride, and James Jackson is the bridegroom. Mr. Vincent has let them a very pretty little farm in the neighbourhood, and—hark! there's the sound of music."

They looked out of the window, and they saw a troop of villagers, gaily dressed, going to the wedding. Lady Anne, who was always eager to promote innocent festivity, sent immediately to have a tent pitched in the park; and all the rural company were invited to a dance in the evening: it was a very cheerful spectacle. Belinda heard from all sides praises of Mr. Vincent's generosity; and she could not be insensible to the simple but enthusiastic testimony which Juba bore to his master's goodness. Juba had composed, in his broken dialect, a little song in honour of his master, which he sang to his banjore with the most touching expression of joyful gratitude. In some of the stanzas Belinda could distinguish that her own name was frequently repeated. Lady Anne called him, and desired to have the words of this song. They were a mixture of English and of his native language; they described in the strongest manner what had been his feelings whilst he was under the terror of Mrs. Freke's fiery obeah-woman, then his joy on being relieved from these horrors, with the delightful sensations of returning health;—and thence he suddenly passed to his gratitude to Belinda, the person to whom he owed his recovery. He concluded with wishing her all sorts of happiness, and, above all, that she might be fortunate in her love; which Juba thought the highest degree of felicity. He had no sooner finished his song, which particularly touched and pleased Miss Portman, than he begged his master to offer to her the little instrument, which he had made with much pains and ingenuity. She accepted the banjore with a smile that enchanted Mr. Vincent; but at this instant they were startled by the sound of a carriage driving rapidly into the park. Belinda looked up, and between the heads of the dancers she just caught a glimpse of a well-known livery. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "Lady Delacour's carriage!—Can it be Lady Delacour?"

The carriage stopped, and Marriott hastily jumped out of it. Belinda pressed forward to meet her; poor Marriott was in great agitation:—"Oh, Miss Portman! my poor lady is very ill—very ill, indeed. She has sent me for you—here's her letter. Dear Miss Portman, I hope you won't refuse to come; she has been very ill, and is very ill; but she would be better, if she could see you again. But I'll tell every thing, ma'am, when we are by ourselves, and when you have read your letter."

Miss Portman immediately accompanied Marriott towards the house; and as they walked thither, she learned that Lady Delacour had applied to the quack-doctor in whom she had such implicit faith, and had in vain endeavoured to engage him to perform for her the operation to which she had determined to submit. He was afraid to hazard it, and he prevailed upon her to give up the scheme, and to try some new external remedy from which he promised wonders. No one knew what his medicines were, but they affected her head in the most alarming manner.

In her delirium she called frequently upon Miss Portman; sometimes accusing her of the basest treachery, sometimes addressing her as if she were present, and pouring forth the warmest expressions of friendship. "In her lucid intervals, ma'am," continued Marriott, "she for some weeks scarcely ever mentioned your name, nor could bear to hear me mention it. One day, when I was saying how much I wished that you were with her again, she darted at me the most terrible look that ever I beheld.

"'When I am in my grave, Marriott,' cried my lady, 'it will be time enough for Miss Portman again to visit this house, and you may then express your attachment to her with more propriety than at present.' These were my lady's own words—I shall never forget them: they struck and astonished me, ma'am, so much, I stood like one stupified, and then left the room to think them over again by myself, and make sense of them, if I could. Well, ma'am, to be sure, it then struck me like a flash of lightning, that my lady was jealous—and, begging your pardon, ma'am—of you. This seemed to me the most unnatural thing in the world, considering how easy my lady had always seemed to be about my lord; but it was now clear to me, that this was the cause of your leaving us so suddenly, ma'am. Well, I was confident that Mr. Champfort was at the bottom of the business from the first; and now that I knew what scent to go upon, I went to work with fresh spirit to find him out, which was a thing I was determined upon—and what I'm determined upon, I generally do, ma'am. So I put together things about Miss Portman and my lord, that had dropped at odd times from Sir Philip Baddely's gentleman; and I, partly serious and partly flirting, which in a good cause is no sin, drew from him (for he pretends to be a little an admirer of mine, ma'am, though I never gave him the smallest encouragement) all he knew or suspected, or had heard reported, or whispered; and out it came, ma'am, that Mr. Champfort was the original of all; and that he had told a heap of lies about some bank-notes that my lord had given you, and that you and my lord were to be married as soon as my lady was dead; and I don't know what, which he maliciously circulated through Sir Philip's gentleman to Sir Philip himself, and so round again to my lady. Now, Sir Philip's man behaved like a gentleman upon the occasion, which I shall ever be free to acknowledge and remember: and when I represented things properly, and made him sensible of the mischief, which, he assured me, was done purely with an eye to serve Sir Philip, his master, he very candidly offered to assist me to unmask that villain Champfort, which he could easily do with the assistance of a few bottles of claret, and a few fair words; which, though I can't abide hypocrisy, I thought quite allowable upon such an occasion. So, ma'am, when Mr. Champfort was thrown off his guard by the claret, Sir Philip's gentleman began to talk of my lord and my lady, and Miss Portman; and he observed that my lord and my lady were coming together more than they used to be since Miss Portman left the house. To which Champfort replied with an oath, like an unmannered reprobate as he is, and in his gibberish, French and English, which I can't speak; but the sense of it was this:—'My lord and lady shall never come together, if I can help it. It was to hinder this I got Miss Portman banished; for my lord was quite another man after she got Miss Helena into the house; and I don't doubt but he might have been brought to leave off his burgundy, and set up for a sober, regular man; which would not suit me at all. If my lady once was to get power over him again, I might go whistle—so (with another reprobate oath) my lord and my lady shall never come together again whilst I live.'

"Well, ma'am," continued Marriott, "as soon as I was in possession of this precious speech, I carried it and a letter of Sir Philip Baddely's gentleman vouching it to my lady. My lady was thunderstruck, and so vexed to have been, as she said, a dupe, that she sent for my lord directly, and insisted upon his giving up Mr. Champfort. My lord demurred, because my lady spoke so high, and said insist. He would have done it, I'm satisfied, of his own accord with the greatest pleasure, if my lady had not, as it were, commanded it. But he answered at last, 'My Lady Delacour, I'm not a man to be governed by a wife—I shall keep or part with my own servants in my own house, according to my own pleasure;' and saying so, he left the room. I never saw my lady so angry as she was at this refusal of my lord to part with him. The house was quite in a state of distraction for some days. I never would sit down to the same table, ma'am, with Mr. Champfort, nor speak to him, nor look at him, and parties ran high above and below stairs. And at last my lady, who had been getting better, took to her bed again with a nervous fever, which brought her almost to death's door; she having been so much weakened before by the quack medicines and convulsions, and all her sufferings in secret. She would not see my lord on no account, and Champfort persuaded him her illness was pretence, to bring him to her purpose; which was the more readily believed, because nobody was ever let into my lady's bedchamber but myself. All this time she never mentioned your name, ma'am; but once, when I was sitting by her bedside, as she was asleep, she started suddenly, and cried out, 'Oh, my dearest Belinda! are you come back to me?'—She awakened herself with the start; and raising herself quite up in her bed, she pulled back the curtains, and looked all round the room. I'm sure she expected to see you; and when she found it was a dream, she gave a heavy sigh, and sank down upon her pillow. I then could not forbear to speak, and this time my lady was greatly touched when I mentioned your name:—she shed tears, ma'am; and you know it is not a little thing that can draw tears from my lady. But when I said something about sending for you, she answered, she was sure you would not return to her, and that she would never condescend to ask a favour in vain, even from you. Then I replied that I was sure you loved her still, and as well as ever: and that the proof of that was, that Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke together, by all their wiles, could not draw you over to their party at Harrowgate, and that you had affronted Mrs. Freke by defending her ladyship. My lady was all surprise at this, and eagerly asked how I came to know it. Now, ma'am, I had it all by a post letter from Mrs. Luttridge's maid, who is my cousin, and knows every thing that's going on. My lady from this moment forward could scarce rest an instant without wishing for you, and fretting for you as I knew by her manner. One day my lord met me on the stairs as I was coming down from my poor lady's room, and he asked me how she was, and why she did not send for a physician. 'The best physician, my lord, she could send for,' said I, 'would be Miss Portman; for she'll never be well till that good young lady comes back again, in my humble opinion.'

"'And what should prevent that good young lady from coming back again? Not I, surely,' rejoined my lord, 'for I wish she were here with all my heart.'

"'It is not easy to suppose, my lord,' said I, 'after all that has passed, that the young lady would choose to return, or that my lady would ask her, whilst Mr. Champfort remains paramount in the house.' 'If that's all,' cried my lord, 'tell your lady I'll part with Champfort upon the spot; for the rascal has just had the insolence to insist upon it, that a pair of new boots are not too tight for me, when I said they were. I'll show him I can be master, and will, in my own house.' Ma'am, my heart leaped for joy within me at hearing these words, and I ran up to my lady with them. I easily concluded in my own mind, that my lord was glad of the pretence of the boots, to give up handsomely after his standing out so long. To be sure, my lord's mightily jealous of being master, and mighty fond of his own way; but I forgive him every thing for doing as I would have him at last, and dismissing that prince of mischief-makers, Mr. Champfort. My lady called for her writing-desk directly, and sat up in her bed, and with her trembling hand, as you see by the writing, ma'am, wrote a letter to you as fast as ever she could, and the postchaise was ordered. I don't know what fancy seized her—but if you remember, ma'am, the hammercloth to her new carriage had orange and black fringe at first: she would not use it, till this had been changed to blue and white. Well, ma'am, she recollected this on a sudden, as I was getting ready to come for you; and she set the servants at work directly to take off the blue and white, and put on the black and orange fringe again, which she said must be done before your coming. And my lady ordered her own footman to ride along with me; and I have come post, and have travelled night and day, and will never rest till I get back. But, ma'am, I won't keep you any longer from reading your letter, only to say, that I hope to Heaven you will not refuse to return to my poor lady, if it be only to put her mind at ease before she dies. She cannot have long to live."

As Marriott finished these words they reached the house, and Belinda went to her own room to read Lady Delacour's letter. It contained none of her customary 'eloquence du billet,' no sprightly wit, no real, no affected gaiety; her mind seemed to be exhausted by bodily suffering, and her high spirit subdued. She expressed the most poignant anguish for having indulged such unjust suspicions and intemperate passions. She lamented having forfeited the esteem and affection of the only real friend she had ever possessed—a friend of whose forbearance, tenderness, and fidelity, she had received such indisputable proofs. She concluded by saying, "I feel my end fast approaching, and perhaps, Belinda, your humanity will induce you to grant my last request, and to let me see you once more before I die."

Belinda immediately decided to return to Lady Delacour—though it was with real regret that she thought of leaving Lady Anne Percival, and the amiable and happy family to whom she had become so much attached. The children crowded round her when they heard that she was going, and Mr. Vincent stood in silent sorrow—but we spare our readers this parting scene Miss Portman promised to return to Oakly-park as soon as she possibly could. Mr. Vincent anxiously requested permission to follow her to town: but this she positively refused; and he submitted with as good a grace as a lover can submit to any thing that crosses his passion.



CHAPTER XX.

RECONCILIATION.

Aware that her remaining in town at such an unusual season of the year would appear unaccountable to her fashionable acquaintance, Lady Delacour contrived for herself a characteristic excuse; she declared that there was no possibility of finding pleasure in any thing but novelty, and that the greatest novelty to her would be to remain a whole summer in town. Most of her friends, amongst whom she had successfully established a character for caprice, were satisfied that this was merely some new whim, practised to signalize herself by singularity. The real reason that detained her was her dependence upon the empiric, who had repeatedly visited and constantly prescribed for her. Convinced, however, by the dreadful situation to which his prescriptions had lately reduced her that he was unworthy of her confidence, she determined to dismiss him: but she could not do this, as she had a considerable sum to pay him, till Marriott's return, because she could not trust any one but Marriott to let him up the private staircase into the boudoir.

During Marriott's absence, her ladyship suffered no one to attend her but a maid who was remarkable for her stupidity. She thought that she could have nothing to fear from this girl's spirit of inquiry, for never was any human being so destitute of curiosity. It was about noon when Belinda and Marriott arrived. Lady Delacour, who had passed a restless night, was asleep. When she awoke, she found Marriott standing beside her bed.

"Then it is all in vain, I see," cried her ladyship: "Miss Portman is not with you?—Give me my laudanum."

"Miss Portman is come, my lady," said Marriott; "she is in the dressing-room: she would not come in here with me, lest she should startle you."

"Belinda is come, do you say? Admirable Belinda!" cried Lady Delacour, and she clasped her hands with ecstasy.

"Shall I tell her, my lady, that you are awake?"

"Yes—no—stay—Lord Delacour is at home. I will get up immediately. Let my lord be told that I wish to speak with him—that I beg he will breakfast with me in my dressing-room half an hour hence. I will dress immediately."

Marriott in vain represented that she ought not to hurry herself in her present weak state. Intent upon her own thoughts, she listened to nothing that was said, but frequently urged Marriott to be expeditious. She put on an unusual quantity of rouge: then looking at herself in the glass, she said, with a forced smile, "Marriott, I look so charmingly, that Miss Portman, perhaps, will be of Lord Delacour's opinion, and think that nothing is the matter with me. Ah! no; she has been behind the scenes—she knows the truth too well!—Marriott, pray did she ask you many questions about me?—Was not she very sorry to leave Oakly-park?—Were not they all extremely concerned to part with her?—Did she ask after Helena?—Did you tell her that I insisted upon my lord's parting with Champfort?"

At the word Champfort, Marriott's mouth opened eagerly, and she began to answer with her usual volubility. Lady Delacour waited not for any reply to the various questions which, in the hurry of her mind, she had asked; but, passing swiftly by Marriott, she threw open the door of her dressing-room. At the sight of Belinda she stopped short; and, totally overpowered, she would have sunk upon the floor, had not Miss Portman caught her in her arms, and supported her to a sofa. When she came to herself, and heard the soothing tone of Belinda's voice, she looked up timidly in her face for a few moments without being able to speak.

"And are you really here once more, my dear Belinda?" cried she at last; "and may I still call you my friend?—and do you forgive me?—Yes, I see you do—and from you I can endure the humiliation of being forgiven. Enjoy the noble sense of your own superiority."

"My dear Lady Delacour," said Belinda, "you see all this in too strong a light: you have done me no injury—I have nothing to forgive."

"I cannot see it in too strong a light.—Nothing to forgive!—Yes, you have; that which it is the most difficult to forgive—injustice. Oh, how you must have despised me for the folly, the meanness of my suspicions! Of all tempers that which appears to me, and I am sure to you, the most despicable, the most intolerable, is a suspicious temper. Mine was once open, generous as your own—you see how the best dispositions may be depraved—what am I now? Fit only

'To point a moral, or adorn a tale'—

a mismatched, misplaced, miserable, perverted being."

"And now you have abused yourself till you are breathless, I may have some chance," said Belinda, "of being heard in your defence. I perfectly agree with you in thinking that a suspicious temper is despicable and intolerable; but there is a vast difference between an acute fit of jealousy, as our friend Dr. X—— would say, and a chronic habit of suspicion. The noblest natures may be worked up to suspicion by designing villany; and then a handkerchief, or a hammercloth, 'trifles as light as air'—"

"Oh, my dear, you are too good. But my folly admits of no excuse, no palliation," interrupted Lady Delacour; "mine was jealousy without love."

"That indeed would admit of no excuse," said Belinda; "therefore you will pardon me if I think it incredible—especially as I have detected you in feeling something like affection for your little daughter, after you had done your best, I mean your worst, to make me believe that you were a monster of a mother."

"That was quite another affair, my dear. I did not know Helena was worth loving. I did not imagine my little daughter could love me. When I found my mistake, I changed my tone. But there is no hope of mistake with my poor husband. Your own sense must show you, that Lord Delacour is not a man to beloved."

"That could not always have been your ladyship's opinion," said Belinda, with an arch smile.

"Lord! my dear," said Lady Delacour, a little embarrassed, "in the highest paroxysm of my madness, I never suspected that you could love Lord Delacour; I surely only hinted that you were in love with his coronet. That was absurd enough in all conscience—don't make me more absurd than I am."

"Is it then the height of absurdity to love a husband?"

"Love! Nonsense!—Impossible!—Hush! here he comes, with his odious creaking shoes. What man can ever expect to be loved who wears creaking shoes?" pursued her ladyship, as Lord Delacour entered the room, his shoes creaking at every step; and assuming an air of levity, she welcomed him as a stranger to her dressing-room. "No speeches, my lord! no speeches, I beseech you," cried she, as he was beginning to speak to Miss Portman. "Believe me, that explanations always make bad worse. Miss Portman is here, thank Heaven! and her; and Champfort is gone, thank you—or your boots. And now let us sit down to breakfast, and forget as soon as possible every thing that is disagreeable."

When Lady Delacour had a mind to banish painful recollections, it was scarcely possible to resist the magical influence of her conversation and manners; yet her lord's features never relaxed to a smile during this breakfast. He maintained an obstinate silence, and a profound solemnity—till at last, rising from table, he turned to Miss Portman, and said, "Of all the caprices of fine ladies, that which surprises me the most is the whim of keeping their beds without being sick. Now, Miss Portman, you would hardly suppose that my Lady Delacour, who has been so lively this morning, has kept her bed, as I am informed, a fortnight—is not this astonishing?"

"Prodigiously astonishing, that my Lord Delacour, like all the rest of the world, should be liable to be deceived by appearances," cried her ladyship. "Honour me with your attention for a few minutes, my lord, and perhaps I may increase your astonishment."

His lordship, struck by the sudden change of her voice from gaiety to gravity, fixed his eyes upon her and returned to his seat. She paused—then addressing herself to Belinda, "My incomparable friend," said she, "I will now give you a convincing proof of the unlimited power you have over my mind. My lord, Miss Portman has persuaded me to the step which I am now going to take. She has prevailed upon me to make a decisive trial of your prudence and kindness. She has determined me to throw myself on your mercy."

"Mercy!" repeated Lord Delacour; and a confused idea, that she was now about to make a confession of the justice of some of his former suspicions, took possession of his mind: he looked aghast.