Mrs. Freke's leg was much cut and bruised; and now that she was no longer supported by the hopes of revenge, she began to lament loudly and incessantly the injury that she had sustained. She impatiently inquired how long it was probable that she should be confined by this accident; and she grew quite outrageous when it was hinted, that the beauty of her legs would be spoiled, and that she would never more be able to appear to advantage in man's apparel. The dread of being seen by Lady Delacour in the deplorable yet ludicrous situation to which she had reduced herself operated next upon her mind, and every time the door of the apartment opened, she looked with terror towards it, expecting to see her ladyship appear. But though Lady Delacour heard from Marriott immediately the news of Mrs. Freke's disaster, she never disturbed her by her presence. She was too generous to insult a fallen foe.

Early in the morning Mrs. Freke was by her own desire conveyed to her cousin's house, where without regret we shall leave her to suffer the consequences of her frolic.

"A false prophetess! Nowithstanding all my visions, I have outlived the night, you see," said Lady Delacour, to Miss Portman when they met in the morning. "I have heard, my dear Belinda, and I believe, that the passion of love, which can endure caprice, vice, wrinkles, deformity, poverty, nay, disease itself, is notwithstanding so squeamish as to be instantaneously disgusted by the perception of folly in the object beloved. I hope friendship, though akin to love, is of a more robust constitution, else what would become of me? My folly, and my visions, and my spectre—oh, that I had not exposed myself to you in this manner! Harriot Freke herself is scarcely more contemptible. Spies and cowards are upon an equal footing. Her malice and her frolic are consistent with her character, but my fears and my superstition are totally inconsistent with mine. Forget the nonsense I talked to you last night, my dear, or fancy that I was then under the dominion of laudanum. This morning you shall see Lady Delacour herself again. Is Dr. X——, is the surgeon ready? Where are they? I am prepared. My fortitude shall redeem me in your opinion, Belinda, and in my own."

Doctor X—— and the surgeon immediately obeyed her summons.

Helena heard them go into Lady Delacour's room, and she saw by Marriott's countenance, who followed, that her mother was going to submit to the operation. She sat down trembling on the steps which led to her mother's room, and waited there a long time, as she thought, in the most painful suspense. At last she heard some one call Helena. She looked up, and saw her father close to her.

"Helena," said he, "how is your mother?"

"I don't know. Oh, papa, you cannot go in there now," said Helena, stopping him as he was pressing forwards.

"Why did not you or Miss Portman write to me yesterday, as you promised?" said Lord Delacour, in a voice that showed he was scarcely able to ask the question.

"Because, papa, we had nothing to tell you: nothing was done yesterday. But the surgeon is now there," said Helena, pointing towards her mother's room.

Lord Delacour stood motionless for an instant; then suddenly seizing his daughter's hand, "Let us go," said he: "if we stay here, we shall hear her screams;" and he was hurrying her away, when the door of Lady Delacour's apartment opened, and Belinda appeared, her countenance radiant with joy.

"Good news, dear Helena! Oh, my lord! you are come in a happy moment—I give you joy."

"Joy! joy! joy!" cried Marriott, following.

"Is it all over?" said Lord Delacour.

"And without a single shriek!" said Helena. "What courage!"

"There's no need of shrieks, or courage either, thank God," said Marriott. "Dr. X—— says so, and he is the best man in the world, and the cleverest. And I was right from the first; I said it was impossible my lady should have such a shocking complaint as she thought she had. There's no such thing at all in the case, my lord! I said so always, till I was persuaded out of my senses by that villainous quack, who contradicted me for this own 'molument. And Doctor X—— says, if my lady will leave off the terrible quantities of laudanum she takes, he'll engage for her recovery."

The surgeon and Dr. X—— now explained to Lord Delacour that the unprincipled wretch to whom her ladyship had applied for assistance had persuaded her that she had a cancer, though in fact her complaint arose merely from the bruise which she had received. He knew too well how to make a wound hideous and painful, and so continue her delusion for his own advantage. Dr. X—— observed, that if Lady Delacour would have permitted either the surgeon or him to have examined sooner into the real state of the case, it would have saved herself infinite pain, and them all anxiety. Belinda at this moment felt too much to speak.

"I'm morally certain," cried Marriott, "Mr. Champfort would die with vexation, if he could see the joy that's painted in my lord's face this minute. And we may thank Miss Portman for this, for 'twas she made every thing go right, and I never expected to live to see so happy a day."

Whilst Marriott ran on in this manner with all the volubility of joy, Lord Delacour passed her with some difficulty, and Helena was in her mother's arms in an instant.

Lady Delacour, struck to the heart by their affectionate looks and words, burst into tears. "How little have I deserved this kindness from you, my lord! or from you, my child! But my feelings," added she, wiping away her tears, "shall not waste themselves in tears, nor in vain thanks. My actions, the whole course of my future life, shall show that I am not quite a brute. Even brutes are won by kindness. Observe, my lord," continued she, smiling, "I said won, not tamed!—A tame Lady Delacour would be a sorry animal, not worth looking at. Were she even to become domesticated, she would fare the worse."

"How so?—How so, my dear?" said Lord Delacour and Belinda almost in the same breath.

"How so?—Why, if Lady Delacour were to wash off her rouge, and lay aside her air, and be as gentle, good, and kind as Belinda Portman, for instance, her lord would certainly say to her,

'So alter'd are your face and mind, 'Twere perjury to love you now.'"



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE CHAPLAIN.

In some minds, emotions of joy are always connected with feelings of benevolence and generosity. Lady Delacour's heart expanded with the sensations of friendship and gratitude, now that she was relieved from those fears by which she had so long been oppressed.

"My dear daughter," said she to Helena, "have you at this instant any wish that I can gratify?—Ask any thing you please, the fairy Goodwill shall contrive to get it for you in a trice. You have thought of a wish at this moment, I know, by your eyes, by your blush. Nay, do not hesitate. Do you doubt me because I do not appear before you in the shape of a little ugly woman, like Cinderella's godmother? or do you despise me because you do not see a wand waving in my hand?—'Ah, little skilled of fairy lore!' know that I am in possession of a talisman that can command more than ever fairy granted. Behold my talisman," continued she, drawing out her purse, and showing the gold through the net-work. "Speak boldly, then," cried she to Helena, "and be obeyed."

"Ah, mamma," said Helena, "I was not thinking of what fairies or gold can give; but you can grant my wish, and if you will let me, I will whisper it to you."

Lady Delacour stooped to hear her daughter's whisper.

"Your wish is granted, my own grateful, charming girl," said her mother.

Helena's wish was, that her mother could be reconciled to her good aunt, Margaret Delacour.

Her ladyship sat down instantly, and wrote to Mrs. Delacour. Helena was the bearer of this letter, and Lady Delacour promised to wait upon this excellent old lady as soon as she should return to town.

In the meantime her ladyship's health rapidly improved under the skilful care of Dr. X——: it had been terribly injured by the ignorance and villany of the wretch to whom she had so long and so rashly trusted. The nostrums which he persuaded her to take, and the immoderate use of opium to which she accustomed herself, would have ruined her constitution, had it not been uncommonly strong. Dr. X—— recommended it to her ladyship to abstain gradually from opium, and this advice she had the resolution to follow with uninterrupted perseverance.

The change in Lady Delacour's manner of life, in the hours and the company that she kept, contributed much to her recovery.[9] She was no longer in continual anxiety to conceal the state of her health from the world. She had no secret to keep—no part to act; her reconciliation with her husband and with his friends restored her mind to ease and self-complacency. Her little Helena was a source of daily pleasure; and no longer conscious of neglecting her daughter, she no longer feared that the affections of her child should be alienated. Dr. X——, well aware that the passions have a powerful influence over the body, thought it full as necessary, in some cases, to attend to the mind as to the pulse. By conversing with Lady Delacour, and by combining hints and circumstances, he soon discovered what had lately been the course of her reading, and what impression it had made on her imagination. Mrs. Marriott, indeed, assisted him with her opinion concerning the methodistical books; and when he recollected the forebodings of death which her ladyship had felt, and the terror with which she had been seized on the night of Mrs. Freke's adventure, he was convinced that superstitious horrors hung upon his patient's spirits, and affected her health. To argue on religious subjects was not his province, much less his inclination; but he was acquainted with a person qualified by his profession and his character 'to minister to a mind diseased,' and he resolved on the first favourable opportunity to introduce this gentleman to her ladyship.

One morning Lady Delacour was complaining to Belinda, that the books in the library were in dreadful confusion. "My lord has really a very fine library," said she; "but I wish he had half as many books twice as well arranged: I never can find any thing I want. Dr. X——, I wish to heaven you could recommend a librarian to my lord—not a chaplain, observe."

"Why not a chaplain, may I ask your ladyship?" said the doctor.

"Oh, because we had once a chaplain, who gave me a surfeit of the whole tribe. The meanest sycophant, yet the most impertinent busy-body—always cringing, yet always intriguing—wanting to govern the whole family, and at the same time every creature's humble servant—fawning to my lord the bishop, insolent to the poor curate—anathematizing all who differed from him in opinion, yet without dignity to enforce the respect due to his faith or his profession—greedy for preferment, yet without a thought of the duties of his office. It was the common practice of this man to leap from his horse at the church door on a holiday, after following a pack of hounds, huddle on his surplice, and gabble over the service with the most indecent mockery of religion. Do I speak with acrimony? I have reason. It was this chaplain who first led my lord to Newmarket; it was he who first taught my lord to drink. Then he was a wit—an insufferable wit. His conversation after he had drank was such as no woman but Harriot Freke could understand, and such as few gentlemen could hear. I have never, alas! been thought a prude, but in the heyday of my youth and gaiety, this man always disgusted me. In one word, he was a buck parson. I hope you have as great a horror for this species of animal as I have?"

"Full as great," replied Dr. X——; "but I consider them as monsters, which belonging to no species, can disgrace none."

"They ought to be hunted by common consent out of civilized society," said Lady Delacour.

"They are by public opinion banished from all rational society; and your ladyship's just indignation proves, that they have no chance of being tolerated by fashion. But would it not allow such beings too much consequence, would it not extend their power to do mischief, if we perceived that one such person could disgust Lady Delacour with the whole race of chaplains?"

"It is uncommon," replied her ladyship, "to hear a physician earnest in the defence of the clergy—and a literary philosophic physician too! Shall we have an eulogium upon bishops as well as chaplains?"

"We have had that already," replied Dr. X——. "All ranks, persuasions, and descriptions of people, including, I hope, those stigmatized by the name of philosophers, have joined in admiration of the bishop of St. Pol de Leon. The conduct of the real martyrs to their faith amongst the French clergy, not even the most witty or brutal sceptic could ridicule."

"You surprise me, doctor!" said Lady Delacour; "for I assure you that you have the character of being very liberal in your opinions."

"I hope I am liberal in my opinions," replied the doctor, "and that I give your ladyship a proof of it."

"You would not then persecute a man or woman with ridicule for believing more than you do?" said Lady Delacour.

"Those who persecute, to overturn religion, can scarcely pretend to more philosophy, or more liberality, than those who persecute to support it," said Dr. X——.

"Perhaps, doctor, you are only speaking popularly?"

"I believe what I now say to be true," said Dr. X——, "and I always endeavour to make truth popular."

"But possibly these are only truths for ladies. Doctor X—— may be such an ungallant philosopher, as to think that some truths are not fit for ladies. He may hold a different language with gentlemen."

"I should not only be an ungallant but a weak philosopher," said Dr. X——, "if I thought that truth was not the same for all the world who can understand it. And who can doubt Lady Delacour's being of that number?"

Lady Delacour, who, at the beginning of this conversation, had spoken guardedly, from the fear of lowering the doctor's opinion of her understanding, was put at her ease by the manner in which he now spoke; and, half laying aside the tone of raillery, she said to him, "Well, doctor! seriously, I am not so illiberal as to condemn all chaplains for one, odious as he was. But where to find his contrast in these degenerate days? Can you, who are a defender of the faith, and so forth, assist me? Will you recommend a chaplain to my lord?"

"Willingly," said Dr. X——; "and that is what I would not say for a world of fees, unless I were sure of my man."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Not a buck parson."

"And I hope not a pedant, not a dogmatist, for that would be almost as bad. Before we domesticate another chaplain, I wish to know all his qualities, and to have a full and true description of him."

"Shall I then give you a full and true description of him in the words of Chaucer?"

"In any words you please. But Chaucer's chaplain must be a little old-fashioned by this time, I should think."

"Pardon me. Some people, as well as some things, never grow old-fashioned. I should not be ashamed to produce Chaucer's parish priest at this day to the best company in England—I am not ashamed to produce him to your ladyship; and if I can remember twenty lines in his favour, I hope you will give me credit for being a sincere friend to the worthy part of the clergy. Observe, you must take them as I can patch them together; I will not promise that I can recollect twenty lines de suite, and without missing a word; that is what I would not swear to do for His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"His Grace will probably excuse you from swearing; at least I will," said Lady Delacour, "on the present occasion: so now for your twenty lines in whatever order you please."

Doctor X——, with sundry intervals of recollection, which may be spared the reader, repeated the following lines:

"Yet has his aspect nothing of severe, But such a face as promised him sincere. Nothing reserved or sullen was to see, But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity, Mild was his accent, and his action free. With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd, Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charm'd; For, letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upwards to the sky. He taught the Gospel rather than the law, And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw. The tithes his parish freely paid, he took; But never sued, or curs'd with bell and book. Wide was his parish, not contracted close In streets—but here and there a straggling house. Yet still he was at hand, without request, To serve the sick, and succour the distressed. The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd, Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd. His preaching much, but more his practice wrought, A living sermon of the truths he taught."

Lady Delacour wished that she could find a chaplain, who in any degree resembled this charming parish priest, and Dr. X——promised that he would the next day introduce to her his friend Mr. Moreton.

"Mr. Moreton!" said Belinda, "the gentleman of whom Mr. Percival spoke, Mrs. Freke's Mr. Moreton?"

"Yes," said Dr. X——, "the clergyman whom Mrs. Freke hanged in effigy, and to whom Clarence Hervey has given a small living."

These circumstances, even if he had not precisely resembled Chaucer's character of a benevolent clergyman, would have strongly interested Lady Delacour in his favour. She found him, upon farther acquaintance, a perfect contrast to her former chaplain; and he gradually acquired such salutary influence over her mind, that he relieved her from the terrors of methodism, and in their place substituted the consolations of mild and rational piety.

Her conscience was now at peace; her spirits were real and equable, and never was her conversation so agreeable. Animated with the new feelings of returning health, and the new hopes of domestic happiness, she seemed desirous to impart her felicity to all around her, but chiefly to Belinda, who had the strongest claims upon her gratitude, and the warmest place in her affections. Belinda never made her friend feel the weight of any obligation, and consequently Lady Delacour's gratitude was a voluntary pleasure—not an expected duty. Nothing could be more delightful to Miss Portman than thus to feel herself the object at once of esteem, affection, and respect; to see that she had not only been the means of saving her friend's life, but that the influence she had obtained over her mind was likely to be so permanently beneficial both to her and to her family.

Belinda did not take all the merit of this reformation to herself: she was most willing to share it, in her own imagination, not only with Dr. X—— and Mr. Moreton, but with poor Clarence Hervey. She was pleased to observe that Lady Delacour never omitted any occasion of doing justice to his merit, and she loved her for that generosity, which sometimes passed the bounds of justice in her eulogiums. But Belinda was careful to preserve her consistency, and to guard her heart from the dangerous effect of these enthusiastic praises; and as Lady Delacour was now sufficiently re-established in her health, she announced her intention of returning immediately to Oakly-park, according to her promise to Lady Anne Percival and to Mr. Vincent.

"But, my dear," said Lady Delacour, "one week more is all I ask from you—may not friendship ask such a sacrifice from love?"

"You expect, I know," said Miss Portman, ingenuously, "that before the end of that time Mr. Hervey will be here."

"True. And have you no friendship for him?" said Lady Delacour with an arch smile, "or is friendship for every man in the creation, one Augustus Vincent always excepted, prohibited by the statutes of Oakly-park?"

"By the statutes of Oakly-park nothing is forbidden," said Belinda, "but what reason—"

"Reason! Oh, I have done if you go to reason! You are invulnerable to the light shafts of wit, I know, when you are cased in this heavy armour of reason; Cupid himself may strain his bow, and exhaust his quiver upon you in vain. But have a care—you cannot live in armour all your life—lay it aside but for a moment, and the little bold urchin will make it his prize. Remember, in one of Raphael's pictures, Cupid creeping into the armour of the conqueror of the world."

"I am sufficiently aware," said Belinda, smiling, "of the power of Cupid, and of his wiles. I would not brave his malice, but I will fly from it."

"It is so cowardly to fly!"

"Surely prudence, not courage, is the virtue of our sex; and seriously, my dear Lady Delacour, I entreat you not to use your influence over my mind, lest you should lessen my happiness, though you cannot alter my determination."

Moved by the earnest manner in which Belinda uttered these words, Lady Delacour rallied her no more, nor did she longer oppose her resolution of returning immediately to Oakly-park.

"May I remind you," said Miss Portman, "though it is seldom either politic or polite, to remind people of their promises,—but may I remind you of something like a promise you made, to accompany me to Mr. Percival's?"

"And would you have me behave so brutally to poor Lord Delacour, as to run away from him in this manner the moment I have strength to run?"

"Lord Delacour is included in this invitation," said Miss Portman, putting the last letter that she had received from Lady Anne Percival into her hands.

"When I recollect," said Lady Delacour, as she looked over the letter, "how well this Lady Anne of yours has behaved to me about Helena, when I recollect, that, though you have been with her so long, she has not supplanted me in your affections, and that she did not attempt to detain you when I sent Marriott to Oakly-park, and when I consider how much for my own advantage it will be to accept this invitation, I really cannot bring myself, from pride, or folly, or any other motive, to refuse it. So, my dear Belinda, prevail upon Lord Delacour to spend his Christmas at Oakly-park, instead of at Studley-manor (Rantipole, thank Heaven! is out of the question), and prevail upon yourself to stay a few days for me, and you shall take us all with you in triumph."

Belinda was convinced that, when Lady Delacour had once tasted the pleasures of domestic life, she would not easily return to that dissipation which she had followed from habit, and into which she had first been driven by a mixture of vanity and despair. All the connexions which she had imprudently formed with numbers of fashionable but extravagant and thoughtless women would insensibly be broken off by this measure; for Lady Delacour, who was already weary of their company, would be so much struck with the difference between their insipid conversation and the animated and interesting society in Lady Anne Percival's family, that she would afterwards think them not only burdensome but intolerable. Lord Delacour's intimacy with Lord Studley was one of his chief inducements to that intemperance, which injured almost equally his constitution and his understanding: for some weeks past he had abstained from all excess, and Belinda was well aware, that, when the immediate motive of humanity to Lady Delacour ceased to act upon him, he would probably return to his former habits, if he continued to visit his former associates. It was therefore of importance to break at once his connexion with Lord Studley, and to place him in a situation where he might form new habits, and where his dormant talents might be roused to exertion. She was convinced that his understanding was not so much below par as she had once been taught to think it: she perceived, also, that since their reconciliation, Lady Delacour was anxious to make him appear to advantage: whenever he said any thing that was worth hearing, she looked at Belinda with triumph; and whenever he happened to make a mistake in conversation, she either showed involuntary signs of uneasiness, or passed it off with that easy wit, by which she generally knew how "to make the worse appear the better reason." Miss Portman knew that Mr. Percival possessed the happy talent of drawing out all the abilities of those with whom he conversed, and that he did not value men merely for their erudition, science, or literature; he was capable of estimating the potential as well as the actual range of the mind. Of his generosity she could not doubt, and she was persuaded that he would take every possible means which good nature, joined to good sense, could suggest, to raise Lord Delacour in his lady's esteem, and to make that union happy which was indissoluble. All these reflections passed with the utmost rapidity in Belinda's mind, and the result of them was, that she consented to wait Lady Delacour's leisure for her journey.



CHAPTER XXIV.

PEU A PEU.

Things were in this situation, when one day Marriott made her appearance at her lady's toilette with a face which at once proclaimed that something had discomposed her, and that she was impatient to be asked what it was.

"What is the matter, Marriott?" said Lady Delacour; "for I know you want me to ask."

"Want you to ask! Oh, dear, my lady, no!—for I'm sure, it's a thing that goes quite against me to tell; for I thought, indeed, my lady, superiorly of the person in question; so much so, indeed, that I wished what I declare I should now be ashamed to mention, especially in the presence of Miss Portman, who deserves the best that this world can afford of every denomination. Well, ma'am, in one word," continued she, addressing herself to Belinda, "I am extremely rejoiced that things are as they are, though I confess that was not always my wish or opinion, for which I beg Mr. Vincent's pardon and yours; but I hope to be forgiven, since I'm now come entirely round to my Lady Anne Percival's way of thinking, which I learnt from good authority at Oakly-park; and I am now convinced and confident, Miss Portman, that every thing is for the best."

"Marriott will inform us, in due course of time, what has thus suddenly and happily converted her," said Lady Delacour to Belinda, who was thrown into some surprise and confusion by Marriott's address; but Marriott went on with much warmth—

Dear me! I'm sure I thought we had got rid of all double-dealers, when the house was cleared of Mr. Champfort; but, oh, mercy! there's not traps enough in the world for them all; I only wish they were all caught as finely as some people were. "Tis what all double-dealers, and Champfort at the head of the whole regiment, deserve—that's certain."

"We must take patience, my dear Belinda," said Lady Delacour, calmly, "till Marriott has exhausted all the expletives in and out of the English language; and presently, when she has fought all her battles with Champfort over again, we may hope to get at the fact."

"Dear! my lady, it has nothing to do with Mr. Champfort, nor any such style of personage, I can assure you; for, I'm positive, I'd rather think contemptibly of a hundred million Mr. Champforts than of one such gentleman as Mr. Clarence Hervey."

"Clarence Hervey!" exclaimed Lady Delacour: taking it for granted that Belinda blushed, her ladyship, with superfluous address, instantly turned, so as to hide her friend's face from Mrs. Marriott. "Well, Marriott, what of Mr. Hervey?"

"Oh, my lady, something you'll be surprised to hear, and Miss Portman, too. It is not, by any means, that I am more of a prude than is becoming, my lady: nor that I take upon me to be so innocent as not to know that young gentlemen of fortune will, if it be only for fashion's sake, have such things as kept mistresses (begging pardon for mentioning such trash); but no one that has lived in the world thinks any thing of that, except," added she, catching a glimpse of Belinda's countenance, "except, to be sure, ma'am, morally speaking, it's very wicked and shocking, and makes one blush before company, till one's used to it, and ought certainly to be put down by act of parliament, ma'am; but, my lady, you know, in point of surprising any body, or being discreditable in a young gentleman of Mr. Hervey's fortune and pretensions, it would be mere envy and scandal to deem it any thing—worth mentioning."

"Then, for mercy's sake, or mine," said Lady Delacour, "go on to something that is worth mentioning."

"Well, my lady, you must know, then, that yesterday I wanted some hempseed for my bullfinch—Miss Helena's bullfinch, I mean; for it was she found it by accident, you know, Miss Portman, the day after we came here. Poor thing! it got itself so entangled in the net over the morello cherry tree, in the garden, that it could neither get itself in nor out; but very luckily Miss Helena saw it, and saved, and brought it in: it was almost dead, my lady."

"Was it?—I mean I am very sorry for it: that is what you expect me to say. Now, go on—get us once past the bullfinch, or tell us what it has to do with Clarence Hervey."

"That is what I am aiming at, as fast as possible, my lady. So I sent for some hempseed for the bullfinch, and along with the hempseed they brought me wrapped round it, as it were, a printed handbill, as it might be, or advertisement, which I threw off, disregardingly, taking for granted it might have been some of those advertisements for lozenges or razor-strops, that meet one wherever one goes; but Miss Delacour picked it up, and found it was a kind of hue and cry after a stolen or strayed bullfinch. Ma'am, I was so provoked, I could have cried, when I learnt it was the exact description of our little Bobby to a feather—gray upon the back, and red on——"

"Oh! spare me the description to a feather. Well, you took the bird, bullfinch, or Bobby, as you call it, home to its rightful owner, I presume? Let me get you so far on your way."

"No, I beg your pardon, my lady, that is not the thing."

"Then you did not take the bird home to its owner—and you are a bird-stealer? With all my heart: be a dog-stealer, if you will—only go on."

"But, my lady, you hurry me so, it puts every thing topsy-turvy in my head; I could tell it as fast as possible my own way."

"Do so, then."

"I was ready to cry, when I found our little Bobby was claimed from us, to be sure; but Miss Delacour observed, that those with whom it had lived till it was grey must be sorrier still to part with it: so I resolved to do the honest and genteel thing by the lady who advertised for it, and to take it back myself, and to refuse the five guineas reward offered. The lady's name, according to the advertisement, was Ormond."

"Ormond!" repeated Lady Delacour, looking eagerly at Belinda: "was not that the name Sir Philip Baddely mentioned to us—you remember?"

"Yes, Ormond was the name, as well as I recollect," said Belinda, with a degree of steady composure that provoked her ladyship. "Go on, Marriott."

"And the words were, to leave the bird at a perfumer's in Twickenham, opposite to ——; but that's no matter. Well, my lady, to the perfumer's I went with the bird, this morning. Now, I had my reasons for wishing to see this Mrs. Ormond myself, because, my lady, there was one thing rather remarkable about this bullfinch, that it sings a very particular tune, which I never heard any bullfinch, or any human creature, sing anything like before: so I determined, in my own cogitations, to ask this Mrs. Ormond to name the tunes her bullfinch could sing, before I produced it; and if she made no mention of its knowing any one out of the common way, I resolved to keep my bird to myself, as I might very conscientiously and genteelly too. So, my lady, when I got to the perfumer's, I inquired where Mrs. Ormond was to be found? I was told that she received no visits from any, at least from the female sex; and that I must leave the bird there till called for. I was considering what to do, and the strangeness of the information made about the female sex, when in there came, into the shop, a gentleman, who saved me all the indelicacy of asking particulars. The bullfinch was at this time piping away at a fine rate, and, as luck would have it, that very remarkable strange tune that I mentioned to you. Says the gentleman, as he came into the shop, fixing his eyes on the bullfinch as if they would have come fairly out of his head, 'How did that bird come here?'—'I brought it here, sir,' said I. Then he began to offer me mountains of gold in a very strange way, if I could tell him any tidings of the lady to whom it belonged. The shopman from behind the counter now bent forward, and whispered the gentleman that he could give him some information, if he would make it worth his while; and they both went together to a little parlour behind the shop, and I saw no more of them. But, my lady, very opportunely for me, that was dying with curiosity, out of the parlour they turned a young woman in, to attend the shop, who proved to be an acquaintance of mine, whom I had done some little favours to when in service in London. And this young woman, when I told her my distress about the advertisement and the bullfinch, let me into the whole of the affair. 'Ma'am,' said she, 'all that is known about Mrs. Ormond, in this house, or any where else, is from me; so there was no occasion for turning me out of the parlour. I lived with Mrs. Ormond, ma'am," says she, "'for half a year, in the very house she now occupies, and consequently nobody can be better informed than I am:'—to which I agreed. Then she told me that the reason that Mrs. Ormond never saw any company of any sort was, because she is not fit to see company—proper company—for she's not a proper woman. She has a most beautiful young creature there, shut up, who has been seduced, and is now deserted in a most cruel manner by a Mr. Hervey. Oh, my lady! how the name struck upon my ear! I hoped, however, it was not our Mr. Hervey; but it was the identical Mr. Clarence Hervey. I made the young woman describe him, for she had often and often seen him, when he visited the unfortunate creature; and the description could suit none but our Mr. Hervey, and besides it put it beyond a doubt, she told me his linen was all marked C. H. So our Mr. Hervey, ma'am," added Marriott, turning to Belinda, "it certainly proved to be, to my utter dismay and confusion."

"Oh, Marriott! my poor head!" exclaimed Lady Delacour, starting from under her hands: "that cruel comb went at least half an inch into my head—heads have feeling as well as hearts, believe me." And, as she spoke, she snatched out the comb with which Marriott had just fastened up her hair, and flung it on a sofa at some yards' distance. While Marriott went to fetch it, Lady Delacour thought that Belinda would have time to recover from that utter dismay and confusion into which she hoped that she must now be thrown. "Come, Marriott, make haste. I have done you at least a great favour, for you have all this hair to perform upon again, and you will have leisure to finish this story of yours—which, at all events, if it is not in any other respect wonderful, we must allow is wonderfully long."

"Well, my lady, to be short, then—I was more curious than ever, when I heard all this, to hear more; and asked my friend how she could ever think of staying in a house with ladies of such a description! Upon which she justified herself by assuring me, upon her honour, that at first she believed the young lady was married privately to Mr. Hervey, for that a clergyman came in secret, and read prayers, and she verily believes that the unfortunate young creature was deceived barbarously, and made to fancy herself married to all intents and purposes, till all at once Mr. Hervey threw off the mask, and left off visiting her, pretending a necessity to take a journey, and handing her over to that vile woman, that Mrs. Ormond, who bid her to be comforted, and all the things that are said by such women, on such occasions, by all accounts. But the poor deluded young thing saw how it was now too plain, and she was ready to break her heart; but not in a violent, common sort of way, ma'am, but in silent grief, pining and drooping. My friend could not stand the sight, nor endure to look upon Mrs. Ormond now she knew what she was; and so she left the house, without giving any reason, immediately. I forgot to mention, that the unfortunate girl's maiden name was St. Pierre, my lady: but her Christian name, which was rather an out o' the way name, I quite forget."

"No matter," said Lady Delacour; "we can live without it; or we can imagine it."

"To be sure—I beg pardon; such sort of people's names can't be of any consequence, and, I'm sure, I blame myself now for going to the house, after all I had heard."

"You did go to the house, then?"

"To my shame be it spoken; my curiosity got the better of me, and I went—-but only on account of the bullfinch in the eyes of the world. It was a great while before I could get in: but I was so firm, that I would not give up the bird to no one but the lady herself, that I got in at last. Oh, never did my eyes light upon so beautiful a creature, nor so graceful, nor so innocent to look at!"—Belinda sighed—Marriott echoed the sigh, and continued "She was by herself, and in tears, when I was shown in, ma'am, and she started as if she had never seen any body before in her life. But when she saw the bullfinch, ma'am, she clapped her hands, and, smiling through her tears like a child, she ran up to me, and thanked me again and again, kissing the bird between times, and putting it into her bosom. Well, I declare, if she had talked to all eternity, she could never have made me pity her half so much as all this did, for it looked so much like innocence. I'm sure, nobody that was not—or, at least, that did not think themselves innocent, could have such ways, and such an innocent affection for a little bird. Not but what I know ladies of a certain description often have birds, but then their fondness is all affectation and fashion; but this poor thing was all nature. Ah! poor unfortunate girl, thought I—but it's no matter what I thought now," said Marriott, shutting her eyes, to hide the tears that came into them at this instant; "I was ashamed of myself, when I saw Mrs. Ormond just then come into the room, which made me recollect what sort of company I was in. La! my lady, how I detested the sight of her! She looked at me, too, more like a dragon than any thing else; though in a civil way, and as if she was frightened out of her wits, she asked Miss St. Pierre, as she called her, how I had got in (in a whisper), and she made all sorts of signs afterward to her, to go out of the room. Never having been in such a situation before, I was quite robbed of all fluency, and could not—what with the anger I felt for the one, and sorrow for the other—get out a word of common sense, or even recollect what pretence brought me into the room, till the bird very luckily put it into my head by beginning to sing; so then I asked, whether they could certify it to be theirs by any particular tune of its own? 'Oh, yes,' said Miss St. Pierre; and she sung the very same tune. I never heard so sweet a voice; but, poor thing, something came across her mind in the middle of it, and she stopped; but she thanked me again for bringing back the bird, which, she said, had been hers for a great many years, and that she loved it dearly. I stood, I believe, like one stupified, till I was roused by the woman's offering to put the five guineas reward, mentioned in the advertisement, into my hand. The touch of her gold made me start, as if it had been a snake, and I pushed it from me; and when she pressed it again, I threw it on the table, scarce knowing what I did; and just then, in her iniquitous hand, I saw a letter, directed to Clarence Hervey, Esq. Oh, how I hated the sight of his name, and every thing belonging to him, ma'am, at that minute! I'm sure, I could not have kept myself from saying something quite outrageous, if I had not taken myself out of the house, as I did, that instant.

"When there are women enough born and bred good for nothing, and ladies enough to flirt with, that would desire no better, that a gentleman like Mr. Clarence Hervey, ma'am, should set his wits, as one may say, to be the ruin of such a sweet, innocent-looking young creature, and then desert her in that barbarous way, after bringing a clergyman to deceive her with a mock ceremony, and all—oh! there is no fashion, nor nothing can countenance such wickedness! 'tis the worst of wickedness and cruelty—and I shall think and say so to the latest hour of my life."

"Well said, Marriott," cried Lady Delacour.

"And now you know the reason, ma'am," added Marriott, "that I said, I was glad things are as they are. To be sure I and every body once thought—but that's all over now—and I am glad things are as they are."

Lady Delacour once more turned her quick eyes upon Belinda, and was much pleased to see that she seemed to sympathize with Marriott's indignation.

In the evening, when they were alone, Lady Delacour touched upon the subject again, and observed, that as they should now, in all probability, see Mr. Hervey in a few days, they might be able to form a better judgment of this affair, which she doubted not had been exaggerated. "You should judge from the whole of Clarence's conduct and character, and not from any particular part," said her ladyship. "Do not his letters breathe a spirit of generosity?"

"But," interrupted Miss Portman, "I am not called upon to judge of Mr. Hervey's whole conduct and character, nor of any part of it; his letters and his generosity are nothing—"

"To you?" said Lady Delacour with a smile.

"This is no time, and no subject for raillery, my dear friend," said Belinda; "you assured me, and I believed you, that the idea of Mr. Hervey's return was entirely out of the question, when you prevailed upon me to delay my journey to Oakly-park. As I now understand that your ladyship has changed your mind, I must request your ladyship will permit me—"

"I will permit you to do what you please, dearest Belinda, except to call me your ladyship twice in one sentence. You shall go to Oakly-park the day after to-morrow: will that content you, my dear? I admire your strength of mind—you are much fitter to conduct yourself than I am to conduct you. I have done with raillery: my first, my only object, is your happiness. I respect and esteem as much as I love you, and I love you better than any thing upon earth—power excepted, you will say—power not excepted, believe me; and if you are one of those strange people that cannot believe without proof, you shall have proof positive upon the spot," added she, ringing the bell as she spoke. "I will no longer contend for power over your mind with your friends at Oakly-park. I will give orders, in your presence, to Marriott, to prepare for our march—I did not call it retreat; but there is nothing shows so much generalship as a good retreat, unless it be a great victory. I am, I confess, rather prejudiced in favour of victory."

"So am I," said Belinda, with a smile; "I am so strongly prejudiced in favour of victory, that rather than obtain no other, I would even be content with a victory over myself."

Scarcely had Belinda pronounced these words, when Lord Delacour, who had dined in town, entered the room, accompanied by Mr. Vincent.

"Give me leave, Lady Delacour, to introduce to you," said his lordship, "a young gentleman, who has a great, and, I am sure, a most disinterested desire to cultivate your ladyship's further acquaintance."

Lady Delacour received him with all the politeness imaginable; and even her prepossessions in favour of Clarence Hervey could not prevent her from being struck with his appearance. Il a infiniment l'air d'un heros de roman, thought she, and Belinda is not quite so great a philosopher as I imagined. In due time her ladyship recollected that she had orders to give to Marriott about her journey, that made it absolutely necessary she should leave Miss Portman to entertain Mr. Vincent, if possible, without her, for a few minutes; and Lord Delacour departed, contenting himself with the usual excuse of—letters to write.

"I ought to be delighted with your gallantry, Mr. Vincent," said Belinda, "in travelling so many miles, to remind me of my promise about Oakly-park; but on the contrary, I am sorry you have taken so much unnecessary trouble: Lady Delacour is, at this instant, preparing for our journey to Mr. Percival's. We intend to set out the day after to-morrow."

"I am heartily glad of it—I shall be infinitely overpaid for my journey, by having the pleasure of going back with you."

After some conversation upon different subjects, Mr. Vincent, with an air of frankness which was peculiarly pleasing to Belinda, put into her hands an anonymous letter, which he had received the preceding day.

"It is not worth your reading," said he; "but I know you too well to fear that it should give you any pain; and I hope you know me too well, to apprehend that it could make any impression on my mind."

Belinda read with some surprise:—

"Rash young man! beware of connecting yourself with the lady to whom you have lately been drawn in to pay your addresses: she is the most artful of women. She has been educated, as you may find upon inquiry, by one, whose successful trade it has been to draw in young men of fortune for her nieces, whence she has obtained the appellation of the match-maker general. The only niece whom she could not get rid of any other way, she sent to the most dissipated and unprincipled viscountess in town. The viscountess fell sick, and, as it was universally reported last winter, the young lady was immediately, upon her friend's death, to have been married to the viscount widower. But the viscountess detected the connexion, and the young lady, to escape from her friend's rage, and from public shame, was obliged to retreat to certain shades in the neighbourhood of Harrowgate; where she passed herself for a saint upon those who were too honourable themselves to be suspicious of others.

"At length the quarrel between her and the viscountess was made up, by her address and boldness in declaring, that if she was not recalled, she would divulge some secrets respecting a certain mysterious boudoir in her ladyship's house: this threat terrified the viscountess, who sent off express for her late discarded humble companion. The quarrel was hushed up, and the young lady is now with her noble friend at Twickenham. The person who used to be let up the private stairs into the boudoir, by Mrs. Marriott, is now more conveniently received at Twickenham."

Much more was said by the letter-writer in the same strain. The name of Clarence Hervey, in the last page, caught Belinda's eye; and with a trepidation which she did not feel at the beginning of this epistle, she read the conclusion.

"The viscount is not supposed to have been unrivalled in the young lady's favour. A young gentleman, of large fortune, great talents, and uncommon powers of pleasing, has, for some months, been her secret object; but he has been prudent enough to escape her matrimonial snares, though he carries on a correspondence with her, through the means of her friend the viscountess, to whom he privately writes. The noble lady has bargained to make over to her confidante all her interest in Hervey's heart. He is expected every day to return from his tour; and, if the schemes upon him can be brought to bear, the promised return to the neighbourhood of Harrowgate will never be thought of. Mr. Vincent will be left in the lurch; he will not even have the lady's fair hand—her fair heart is Clarence Hervey's, at all events. Further particulars shall be communicated to Mr. Vincent, if he pays due attention to this warning from

"A SINCERE FRIEND."

As soon as Belinda had finished this curious production, she thanked Mr. Vincent, with more kindness than she had ever before shown him, for the confidence he placed in her, and for the openness with which he treated her. She begged his permission to show this letter to Lady Delacour, though he had previously dreaded the effect which it might have upon her ladyship's feelings.

Her first exclamation was, "This is one of Harriot Freke's frolics;" but as her ladyship's indignation against Mrs. Freke had long since subsided into utter contempt, she did not waste another thought upon the writer of this horrible letter; but instantly the whole energy of her mind and fire of her eloquence burst forth in an eulogium upon her friend. Careless of all that concerned herself, she explained, without a moment's hesitation, every thing that could exalt Belinda: she described all the difficult circumstances in which her friend had been placed; she mentioned the secret with which she had been intrusted; the honour with which, even at the hazard of her own reputation, she had kept her promise of secrecy inviolable, when Lord Delacour, in a fit of intoxication and jealousy, had endeavoured to wrest from Marriott the key of the mysterious boudoir. She confessed her own absurd jealousy, explained how it had been excited by the artifices of Champfort and Sir Philip Baddely, how slight circumstances had worked her mind up almost to frenzy. "The temper, the dignity, the gentleness, the humanity, with which Belinda bore with me, during this paroxysm of madness," said Lady Delacour, "I never can forget; nor the spirit with which she left my house, when she saw me unworthy of her esteem, and ungrateful for her kindness; nor the magnanimity with which she returned to me, when I thought myself upon my death-bed: all this has made an impression upon my soul, which never, whilst I have life and reason, can be effaced. She has saved my life. She has made my life worth saving. She has made me feel my own value. She has made me know my own happiness. She has reconciled me to my husband. She has united me with my child. She has been my guardian angel.—She, the confidante of my intrigues!—she leagued with me in vice!—No, I am bound to her by ties stronger than vice ever felt; than vice, even in the utmost ingenuity of its depravity, can devise."

Exhausted by the vehemence with which she had spoken, Lady Delacour paused; but Vincent, who sympathized in her enthusiasm, kept his eyes fixed upon her, in hopes that she had yet more to say.

"I might, perhaps, you will think," continued she, smiling, "have spared you this history of myself, and of my own affairs, Mr. Vincent; but I thought it necessary to tell you the plain facts, which malice has distorted into the most odious form. This is the quarrel, this is the reconciliation, of which your anonymous friend has been so well informed. Now, as to Clarence Hervey."

"I have explained to Mr. Vincent," interrupted Belinda, "every thing that he could wish to know on that subject, and I now wish you to tell him that I faithfully remembered my promise to return to Oakly-park, and that we were actually preparing for the journey."

"Look here, sir," cried Lady Delacour, opening the door of her dressing-room, in which Marriott was upon her knees, locking a trunk, "here's dreadful note of preparation."

"You are a happier man than you yet know, Mr. Vincent," continued Lady Delacour; "for I can tell you, that some persuasion, some raillery, and some wit, I flatter myself, have been used, to detain Miss Portman from you."

"From Oakly-park," interrupted Belinda.

"From Oakly-park, &c. a few days longer. Shall I be frank with you, Mr. Vincent?—Yes, for I cannot help it—I am not of the nature of anonymous letter-writers; I cannot, either secretly or publicly, sign or say myself a sincere friend, without being one to the utmost extent of my influence. I never give my vote without my interest, nor my interest without my vote. Now Clarence Hervey is my friend. Start not at all, sir,—you have no reason; for if he is my friend, Miss Portman is yours: which has the better bargain? But, as I was going to tell you, Mr. Clarence Hervey is my friend, and I am his. My vote, interest, and influence, have consequently been all in his favour. I had reason to believe that he has long admired the dignity of Miss Portman's mind, and the simplicity of her character," continued her ladyship, with an arch look at Belinda; "and though he was too much a man of genius to begin with the present tense of the indicative mood, 'I love,' yet I was, and am, convinced, that he does love her."

"Can you, dear Lady Delacour," cried Belinda, "speak in this manner, and recollect all we heard from Marriott this morning? And to what purpose all this?"

"To what purpose, my dear? To convince your friend, Mr. Vincent, that I am neither fool nor knave; but that I deal fairly by you, by him, and by all the world. Mr. Hervey's conduct towards Miss Portman has, I acknowledge, sir, been undecided. Some circumstances have lately come to my knowledge which throw doubts upon his honour and integrity—doubts which, I firmly believe, he will clear up to my satisfaction at least, as soon as I see him, or as soon as it is in his power; with this conviction, and believing, as I do, that no man upon earth is so well suited to my friend,—pardon me, Mr. Vincent, if my wishes differ from yours: though my sincerity may give you present, it may save you from future, pain."

"Your ladyship's sincerity, whatever pain it may give me, I admire," said Mr. Vincent, with some pride in his manner; "but I see that I must despair of the honour of your ladyship's congratulations."

"Pardon me," interrupted Lady Delacour; "there you are quite mistaken: the man of Belinda's choice must receive my congratulations; he must do more—he must become my friend I would never rest till I had won his regard, nor should I in the least be apprehensive that he would not have sufficient greatness of mind to forgive my having treated him with a degree of sincerity which the common forms of politeness cannot justify, and at which common souls would be scandalized past recovery."

Mr. Vincent's pride was entirely vanquished by this speech; and with that frankness by which his manners were usually characterized, he thanked her for having distinguished him from common souls; and assured her that such sincerity as hers was infinitely more to his taste than that refined politeness of which he was aware no one was more perfect mistress than Lady Delacour.

Here their conversation ended, and Mr. Vincent, as it was now late, took his leave.

"Really, my dear Belinda," said Lady Delacour, when he was gone, "I am not surprised at your impatience to return to Oakly-park; I am not so partial to my knight, as to compare him, in personal accomplishments, with your hero. I acknowledge, also, that there is something vastly prepossessing in the frankness of his manners; he has behaved admirably well about this abominable letter; but, what is better than all in a lady's eyes he is eperdument amoureux."

"Not eperdument, I hope," said Belinda.

"Then, as you do not think it necessary for your hero to be eperdument amoureux, I presume," said Lady Delacour, "you do not think it necessary that a heroine should be in love at all. So love and marriage are to be separated by philosophy, as well as by fashion. This is Lady Anne Percival's doctrine! I give Mr. Percival joy. I remember the time, when he fancied love essential to happiness."

"I believe he not only fancies, but is sure of it now, from experience," said Belinda.

"Then he interdicts love only to his friends? He does not think it essential that you should know any thing about the matter. You may marry his ward, and welcome, without being in love with him."

"But not without loving him," said Belinda.

"I am not casuist enough in these matters to understand the subtle distinction you make, with the true Percival emphasis, between loving and falling in love. But I suppose I am to understand by loving, loving as half the world do when they marry."

"As it would be happy for half the world if they did," replied Belinda, mildly, but with a firmness of tone that her ladyship felt. "I should despise myself and deserve no pity from any human being, if, after all I have seen, I could think of marrying for convenience or interest."

"Oh! pardon me; I meant not to insinuate such an idea: even your worst enemy, Sir Philip Baddely, would acquit you there. I meant but to hint, my dear Belinda, that a heart such as yours is formed for love in its highest, purest, happiest state."

A pause ensued.

"Such happiness can be secured only," resumed Belinda, "by a union with a man of sense and virtue."

"A man of sense and virtue, I suppose, means Mr. Vincent," said Lady Delacour: "no doubt you have lately learned in the same sober style that a little love will suffice with a great deal of esteem."

"I hope I have learned lately that a great deal of esteem is the best foundation for a great deal of love."

"Possibly," said Lady Delacour; "but we often see people working at the foundation all their lives without getting any farther."

"And those who build their castles of happiness in the air," said Belinda, "are they more secure, wiser, or happier?"

"Wiser! I know nothing about that," said Lady Delacour; "but happier I do believe they are; for the castle-building is always a labour of love, but the foundation of drudgery is generally love's labour lost. Poor Vincent will find it so."

"Perhaps not," said Belinda; "for already his solid good qualities—"

"Solid good qualities!" interrupted Lady Delacour: "I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, my dear, you know we never fall in love with good qualities, except, indeed, when they are joined to an aquiline nose—oh! that aquiline nose of Mr. Vincent's! I am more afraid of it than of all his solid good qualities. He has again, I acknowledge it, much the advantage of Clarence Hervey in personal accomplishments. But you are not a woman to be decided by personal accomplishments."

"And you will not allow me to be decided by solid good qualities," said Belinda. "So by what must I be determined?"

"By your heart, my dear; by your heart: trust your heart only."

"Alas!" said Belinda, "how many, many women have deplored their having trusted to their hearts only."

"Their hearts! but I said your heart: mind your pronouns, my dear; that makes all the difference. But, to be serious, tell me, do you really and bona fide, as my old uncle the lawyer used to say, love Mr. Vincent?"

"No," said Belinda, "I do not love him yet."

"But for that emphatic yet, how I should have worshipped you! I wish I could once clearly understand the state of your mind about Mr. Vincent, and then I should be able to judge how far I might indulge myself in raillery without being absolutely impertinent. So without intruding upon your confidence, tell me whatever you please."

"I will tell you all I know of my own mind," replied Belinda, looking up with an ingenuous countenance. "I esteem Mr. Vincent; I am grateful to him for the proofs he has given me of steady attachment, and of confidence in my integrity. I like his manners and the frankness of his temper; but I do not yet love him, and till I do, no earthly consideration could prevail upon me to marry him."

"Perfectly satisfactory, my dear Belinda; and yet I cannot be quite at ease whilst Mr. Vincent is present, and my poor Clarence absent: proximity is such a dangerous advantage even with the wisest of us. The absent lose favour so quickly in Cupid's court, as in all other courts; and they are such victims to false reports and vile slanderers!"

Belinda sighed.

"Thank you for that sigh, my dear," said Lady Delacour. "May I ask, would you, if you discovered that Mr. Vincent had a Virginia, discard him for ever from your thoughts?"

"If I discovered that he had deceived and behaved dishonourably to any woman, I certainly should banish him for ever from my regard."

"With as much ease as you banished Clarence Hervey?"

"With more, perhaps."

"Then you acknowledge—that's all I want—that you liked Clarence better than you do Vincent?"

"I acknowledge it," said Belinda, colouring up to her temples; "but that time is entirely past, and I never look back to it."

"But if you were forced to look back to it, my dear,—if Clarence Hervey proposed for you,—would not you cast a lingering look behind?"

"Let me beg of you, my dear Lady Delacour, as my friend," cried Belinda, speaking and looking with great earnestness; "let me beg of you to forbear. Do not use your powerful influence over my heart to make me think of what I ought not to think, or do what I ought not to do. I have permitted Mr. Vincent to address me. You cannot imagine that I am so base as to treat him with duplicity, or that I consider him only as a pis-aller; no—I have treated, I will treat him honourably. He knows exactly the state of my mind. He shall have a fair trial whether he can win my love; the moment I am convinced that he cannot succeed, I will tell him so decidedly: but if ever I should feel for him that affection which is necessary for my happiness and his, I hope I shall without fear, even of Lady Delacour's ridicule or displeasure, avow my sentiments, and abide by my choice."

"My dear, I admire you," said Lady Delacour; "but I am incorrigible; I am not fit to hear myself convinced. After all, I am impelled by the genius of imprudence to tell you, that, in spite of Mr. Percival's cure for first loves, I consider love as a distemper that can be had but once."

"As you acknowledge that you are not fit to hear yourself convinced," said Belinda, "I will not argue this point with you."

"But you will allow," said Lady Delacour, "as it is said or sung in Cupid's calendar, that—

'Un peu d'amour, un peu de soin, Menent souvent un coeur bien loin;'"

and she broke off the conversation by singing that beautiful French air.



CHAPTER XXV.

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.

The only interest that honest people can take in the fate of rogues is in their detection and punishment; the reader, then, will be so far interested in the fate of Mr. Champfort, as to feel some satisfaction at his being safely lodged in Newgate. The circumstance which led to this desirable catastrophe was the anonymous letter to Mr. Vincent. From the first moment that Marriott saw or heard of the letter, she was convinced, she said, that "Mr. Champfort was at the bottom of it." Lady Delacour was equally convinced that Harriot Freke was the author of the epistle; and she supported her opinion by observing, that Champfort could neither write nor spell English. Marriott and her lady were both right. It was a joint, or rather a triplicate performance. Champfort, in conjunction with the stupid maid, furnished the intelligence, which Mrs. Freke manufactured; and when she had put the whole into proper style and form, Mr. Champfort got her rough draught fairly copied at his leisure, and transmitted his copy to Mr. Vincent. Now all this was discovered by a very slight circumstance. The letter was copied by Mr. Champfort upon a sheet of mourning paper, off which he thought that he had carefully cut the edges; but one bit of the black edge remained, which did not escape Marriott's scrutinizing eye. "Lord bless my stars! my lady," she exclaimed, "this must be the paper—I mean may be the paper—that Mr. Champfort was cutting a quire of, the very day before Miss Portman left town. It's a great while ago, but I remember it as well as if it was yesterday. I saw a parcel of black jags of paper littering the place, and asked what had been going on? and was told, that it was only Mr. Champfort who had been cutting some paper; which, to be sure, I concluded my lord had given to him, having no further occasion for,—as my lord and you, my lady, were just going out of mourning at that time, as you may remember."

Lord Delacour, when the paper was shown to him, recognized it immediately by a private mark which he had put on the outside sheet of a division of letter paper, which, indeed, he had never given to Champfort, but which he had missed about the time Marriott mentioned. Between the leaves of this paper his lordship had put, as it was often his practice, some bank notes: they were notes but of small value, and when he missed them he was easily persuaded by Champfort that, as he had been much intoxicated the preceding night, he had thrown them away with some useless papers. He rummaged through his writing-desk in vain, and then gave up the search. It was true that on this very occasion he gave Champfort the remainder of some mourning paper, which he made no scruple, therefore, of producing openly. Certain that he could swear to his own private mark, and that he could identify his notes by their numbers, &c., of which he had luckily a memorandum, Lord Delacour, enraged to find himself both robbed and duped by a favourite servant, in whom he had placed implicit confidence, was effectually roused from his natural indolence: he took such active and successful measures, that Mr. Champfort was committed to gaol, to take his trial for the robbery. To make peace for himself, he confessed that he had been instigated by Mrs. Freke to get the anonymous letter written. This lady was now suffering just punishment for her frolics, and Lady Delacour thought her fallen so much below indignation, that she advised Belinda to take no manner of notice of her conduct, except by simply returning the letter to her, with "Miss Portman's, Mr. Vincent's, and Lord and Lady Delacour's, compliments and thanks to a sincere friend, who had been the means of bringing villany to justice."

So much for Mrs. Freke and Mr. Champfort, who, both together, scarcely deserve an episode of ten lines.

Now to return to Mr. Vincent. Animated by fresh hope, he pressed his suit with Belinda with all the ardour of his sanguine temper. Though little disposed to fear any future evil, especially in the midst of present felicity, yet he was aware of the danger that might ensue to him from Clarence Hervey's arrival; he was therefore impatient for the intermediate day to pass, and it was with heartfelt joy that he saw the carriages at last at the door, which were actually to convey them to Oakly-park. Mr. Vincent, who had all the West Indian love for magnificence, had upon this occasion an extremely handsome equipage. Lady Delacour, though she was disappointed by Clarence Hervey's not appearing, did not attempt to delay their departure. She contented herself with leaving a note, to be delivered to him on his arrival, which, she still flattered herself, would induce him immediately to go to Harrowgate. The trunks were fastened upon the carriages, the imperial was carrying out, Marriott was full of a world of business, Lord Delacour was looking at his horses as usual, Helena was patting Mr. Vincent's great dog, and Belinda was rallying her lover upon his taste for "the pomp, pride, and circumstance" of glorious travelling—when an express arrived from Oakly-park. It was to delay their journey for a few weeks. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne wrote word, that they were unexpectedly called from home by—. Lady Delacour did not stay to read by what, or by whom, she was so much delighted by this reprieve. Mr. Vincent bore the disappointment as well as could be expected; particularly when Belinda observed, to comfort him, that "the mind is its own place;" and that hers, she believed, would be the same at Twickenham as at Oakly-park. Nor did she give him any reason to regret that she was not immediately under the influence of his own friends. The dread of being unduly biassed by Lady Delacour, and the strong desire Belinda felt to act honourably by Mr. Vincent, to show him that she was not trifling with his happiness, and that she was incapable of the meanness of retaining a lover as a pis-aller, were motives which acted more powerfully in his favour than all that even Lady Anne Percival could have looked or said. The contrast between the openness and decision of his conduct towards her, and Clarence Hervey's vacillation and mystery; the belief that Mr. Hervey was or ought to be attached to another woman; the conviction that Mr. Vincent was strongly attached to her, and that he possessed many of the good qualities essential to her happiness, operated every day more and more strongly upon Belinda's mind.

Where was Clarence Hervey all this time? Lady Delacour, alas! could not divine. She every morning was certain that he would appear that day, and every night she was forced to acknowledge her mistake. No inquiries—and she had made all that could be made, by address and perseverance—no inquiries could clear up the mystery of Virginia and Mrs. Ormond; and her impatience to see her friend Clarence every hour increased. She was divided between her confidence in him and her affection for Belinda; unwilling to give him up, yet afraid to injure her happiness, or to offend her, by injudicious advice, and improper interference. One thing kept Lady Delacour for some time in spirits—Miss Portman's assurance that she would not bind herself by any promise or engagement to Mr. Vincent, even when decided in his favour; and that she should hold both him and herself perfectly free till they were actually married. This was according to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival's principles; and Lady Delacour was never tired of expressing directly or indirectly her admiration of the prudence and propriety of their doctrine.

Lady Delacour recollected her own promise, to give her sincere congratulations to the victorious knight; and she endeavoured to treat Mr. Vincent with impartiality. She was, however, now still less inclined to like him, from a discovery, which she accidentally made, of his being still upon good terms with odious Mrs. Luttridge. Helena, one morning, was playing with Mr. Vincent's large dog, of which he was excessively fond. It was called Juba, after his faithful servant.

"Helena, my dear," said Lady Delacour, "take care! don't trust your hand in that creature's monstrous mouth."

"I can assure your ladyship," cried Mr. Vincent, "that he is the very quietest and best creature in the world."

"No doubt," said Belinda, smiling, "since he belongs to you; for you know, as Mr. Percival tells you, every thing animate or inanimate that is under your protection, you think must be the best of its kind in the universe."

"But, really, Juba is the best creature in the world," repeated Mr. Vincent, with great eagerness. "Juba is, without exception, the best creature in the universe."

"Juba, the dog, or Juba, the man?" said Belinda: "you know, they cannot be both the best creatures in the universe."

"Well! Juba, the man, is the best man—and Juba, the dog, is the best dog, in the universe," said Mr. Vincent, laughing, with his usual candour, at his own foible, when it was pointed out to him. "But, seriously, Lady Delacour, you need not be in the least afraid to trust Miss Delacour with this poor fellow; for, do you know, during a whole month that I lent him to Mrs. Luttridge, at Harrowgate, she used constantly to let him sleep in the room with her; and now, whenever he sees her, he licks her hand as gently as if he were a lapdog; and it was but yesterday, when I had him there, she declared he was more gentle than any lapdog in London."

At the name of Luttridge, Lady Delacour changed countenance, and she continued silent for some time. Mr. Vincent, attributing her sudden seriousness to dislike or fear of his dog, took him out of the room.

"My dear Lady Delacour," said Belinda, observing that she still retained an air of displeasure, "I hope your antipathy to odious Mrs. Luttridge does not extend to every body who visits her."

"Tout au contraire," cried Lady Delacour, starting from her reverie, and assuming a playful manner: "I have made a general gaol-delivery of all my old hatreds; and even odious Mrs. Luttridge, though a hardened offender, must be included in this act of grace: so you need not fear that Mr. Vincent should fall under my royal displeasure for consorting with this state criminal. Though I can't sympathize with him, I forgive him, both for liking that great dog, and that little woman; especially, as I shrewdly suspect, that he likes the lady's E O table better than the lady."

"E O table! Good Heavens! you do not imagine Mr. Vincent——"

"Nay, my dear, don't look so terribly alarmed! I assure you, I did not mean to hint that there was any serious, improper attachment to the E O table; only a little flirtation, perhaps, to which his passion for you has, doubtless, put a stop."

"I'll ask him the moment I see him," cried Belinda, "if he is fond of play: I know he used to play at billiards at Oakly-park, but merely as an amusement. Games of address are not to be put upon a footing with games of hazard.'

"A man may, however, contrive to lose a good deal of money at billiards, as poor Lord Delacour can tell you. But I beseech you, my dear, do not betray me to Mr. Vincent; ten to one I am mistaken, for his great dog put me out of humour——"

"But with such a doubt upon my mind, unsatisfied——"

"It shall be satisfied; Lord Delacour shall make inquiries for me. Lord Delacour shall make inquiries, did I say?—will, I should have said. If Champfort had heard me, to what excellent account he might have turned that unlucky shall. What a nice grammarian a woman had need to be, who would live well with a husband inferior to her in understanding! With a superior or an equal, she might use shall and will as inaccurately as she pleases. Glorious privilege! How I shall envy it you, my dear Belinda! But how can you ever hope to enjoy it? Where is your superior? Where is your equal?"

Mr. Vincent, who had by this time seen his dog fed, which was one of his daily pleasures, returned, and politely assured Lady Delacour that Juba should not again intrude. To make her peace with Mr. Vincent, and to drive the E O table from Belinda's thoughts, her ladyship now turned the conversation from Juba the dog, to Juba the man. She talked of Harriot Freke's phosphoric Obeah woman, of whom, she said, she had heard an account from Miss Portman. From thence she went on to the African slave trade, by way of contrast, and she finished precisely where she intended, and where Mr. Vincent could have wished, by praising a poem called 'The dying Negro,' which he had the preceding evening brought to read to Belinda. This praise was peculiarly agreeable, because he was not perfectly sure of his own critical judgment, and his knowledge of English literature was not as extensive as Clarence Hervey's; a circumstance which Lady Delacour had discovered one morning, when they went to see Pope's famous villa at Twickenham. Flattered by her present confirmation of his taste, Mr. Vincent readily complied with a request to read the poem to Belinda. They were all deeply engaged by the charms of poetry, when they were suddenly interrupted by the entrance of—Clarence Hervey!

The book dropped from Vincent's hand the instant that he heard his name. Lady Delacour's eyes sparkled with joy. Belinda's colour rose, but her countenance maintained an expression of calm dignity. Mr. Hervey, upon his first entrance, appeared prepared to support an air of philosophic composure, which forsook him before he had walked across the room. He seemed overpowered by the kindness with which Lady Delacour received his congratulations on her recovery—struck by the reserve of Belinda's manner—but not surprised, or displeased, at the sight of Mr. Vincent. On the contrary, he desired immediately to be introduced to him, with the air of a man resolute to cultivate his friendship. Provoked and perplexed, Lady Delacour, in a tone of mingled reproach and astonishment, exclaimed, "Though you have not done me the honour, Mr. Hervey, to take any other notice of my last letter, I am to understand, I presume, by the manner in which you desire me to introduce you to our friend Mr. Vincent, that it has been received."

"Received! Good Heavens! have not you had my answer?" cried Clarence Hervey, with a voice and look of extreme surprise and emotion: "Has not your ladyship received a packet?"

"I have had no packet—I have had no letter. Mr. Vincent, do me the favour to ring the bell," cried Lady Delacour, eagerly: "I'll know, this instant, what's become of it."

"Your ladyship must have thought me—," and, as he spoke, his eye involuntarily glanced towards Belinda.

"No matter what I thought you," cried Lady Delacour, who forgave him every thing for this single glance; "if I did you a little injustice, Clarence, when I was angry, you must forgive me; for, I assure you, I do you a great deal of justice at other times."

"Did any letter, any packet, come here for me? Inquire, inquire," said she, impatiently, to the servant who came in. No letter or packet was to be heard of. It had been directed, Mr. Hervey now remembered, to her ladyship's house in town. She gave orders to have it immediately sent for; but scarcely had she given them, when, turning to Mr. Hervey, she laughed and said, "A very foolish compliment to you and your letter, for you certainly can speak as well as you can write; nay, better, I think—though you don't write ill, neither—but you can tell me, in two words, what in writing would take half a volume. Leave this gentleman and lady to 'the dying Negro,' and let me hear your two words in Lord Delacour's dressing-room, if you please," said she, opening the door of an adjoining apartment. "Lord Delacour will not be jealous if he find you tete-a-tete with me, I promise you. But you shall not be compelled. You look—"

"I look," said Mr. Hervey, affecting to laugh, "as if I felt the impossibility of putting half a volume into two words. It is a long story, and—"

"And I must wait for the packet, whether I will or no—well, be it so," said Lady Delacour. Struck with the extreme perturbation into which he was thrown, she pressed him with no farther raillery, but instantly attempted to change the conversation to general subjects.

Again she had recourse to 'the dying Negro.' Mr. Vincent, to whom she now addressed herself, said, "For my part, I neither have, nor pretend to have, much critical taste; but I admire in this poem the manly, energetic spirit of virtue which it breathes." From the poem, an easy transition was made to the author; and Clarence Hervey, exerting himself to join in the conversation, observed, "that this writer (Mr. Day) was an instance that genuine eloquence must spring from the heart. Cicero was certainly right," continued he, addressing himself to Mr. Vincent, "in his definition of a great orator, to make it one of the first requisites, that he should be a good man."

Mr. Vincent coldly replied, "This definition would exclude too many men of superior talents, to be easily admitted."

"Perhaps the appearance of virtue," said Belinda, "might, on many occasions, succeed as well as the reality."

"Yes, if the man be as good an actor as Mr. Hervey," said, Lady Delacour, "and if he suit 'the action to the word'—'the word to the action.'"

Belinda never raised her eyes whilst her ladyship uttered these words; Mr. Vincent was, or seemed to be, so deeply engaged in looking for something in the book, which he held in his hand, that he could take no farther part in the conversation; and a dead silence ensued.

Lady Delacour, who was naturally impatient in the extreme, especially in the vindication of her friends, could not bear to see, as she did by Belinda's countenance, that she had not forgotten Marriott's story of Virginia St. Pierre; and though her ladyship was convinced that the packet would clear up all mysteries, yet she could not endure that even in the interim 'poor Clarence' should he unjustly suspected; nor could she refrain from trying an expedient, which just occurred to her, to satisfy herself and every body present. She was the first to break silence.

"To do ye justice, my friends, you are all good company this morning. Mr. Vincent is excusable, because he is in love; and Belinda is excusable, because—because—Mr. Hervey, pray help me to an excuse for Miss Portman's stupidity, for I am dreadfully afraid of blundering out the truth. But why do I ask you to help me? In your present condition, you seem totally unable to help yourself.—Not a word!—Run over the common-places of conversation—weather—fashion—scandal—dress—deaths—marriages.—Will none of these do? Suppose, then, you were to entertain me with other people's thoughts, since you have none of your own unpacked—Forfeit to arbitrary power," continued her ladyship, playfully seizing Mr. Vincent's book. "I have always observed that none submit with so good a grace to arbitrary power from our sex as your true men of spirit, who would shed the last drop of their blood to resist it from one of their own. Inconsistent creatures, the best of you! So read this charming little poem to us, Mr. Hervey, will you?"

He was going to begin immediately, but Lady Delacour put her hand upon the book, and stopped him.

"Stay; though I am tyrannical, I will not be treacherous. I warn you, then, that I have imposed upon you a difficult, a dangerous task. If you have any 'sins unwhipt of justice,' there are lines which I defy you to read without faltering—listen to the preface."

Her ladyship began as follows:

"Mr. Day, indeed, retained during all the period of his life, as might be expected from his character, a strong detestation of female seduction—— Happening to see some verses, written by a young lady, on a recent event of this nature, which was succeeded by a fatal catastrophe—the unhappy young woman, who had been a victim to the perfidy of a lover, overpowered by her sensibility of shame, having died of a broken heart—he expresses his sympathy with the fair poetess in the following manner."

Lady Delacour paused, and fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey. He, with all the appearance of conscious innocence, received the book, without hesitation, from her hands, and read aloud the lines, to which she pointed.

"Swear by the dread avengers of the tomb, By all thy hopes, by death's tremendous gloom, That ne'er by thee deceived, the tender maid Shall mourn her easy confidence betray'd, Nor weep in secret the triumphant art, With bitter anguish rankling in her heart; So may each blessing, which impartial fate Throws on the good, but snatches from the great, Adorn thy favour'd course with rays divine, And Heaven's best gift, a virtuous love, be thine!"

Mr. Hervey read these lines with so much unaffected, unembarrassed energy, that Lady Delacour could not help casting a triumphant look at Belinda, which said or seemed to say—you see I was right in my opinion of Clarence!

Had Mr. Vincent been left to his own observations, he would have seen the simple truth; but he was alarmed and deceived by Lady Delacour's imprudent expressions of joy, and by the significant looks that she gave her friend Miss Portman, which seemed to be looks of mutual intelligence. He scarcely dared to turn his eyes toward his mistress, or upon him whom he thought his rival: but he kept them anxiously fixed upon her ladyship, in whose face, as in a glass, he seemed to study every thing that was passing.

"Pray, have you ever played at chess, since we saw you last?" said Lady Delacour to Clarence. "I hope you do not forget that you are my knight. I do not forget it, I assure you—I own you as my knight to all the world, in public and private—do not I, Belinda?"

A dark cloud overspread Mr. Vincent's brow—he listened not to Belinda's answer. Seized with a transport of jealousy, he darted at Mr. Hervey a glance of mingled scorn and rage; and, after saying a few unintelligible words to Miss Portman and Lady Delacour, he left the room.

Clarence Hervey, who seemed afraid to trust himself longer with Belinda, withdrew a few minutes afterward.

"My dear Belinda," exclaimed Lady Delacour, the moment that he was out of the room, "how glad I am he is gone, that I may say all the good I think of him! In the first place, Clarence Hervey loves you. Never was I so fully convinced of it as this day. Why had we not that letter of his sooner? that will explain all to us: but I ask for no explanation, I ask for no letter, to confirm my opinion, my conviction—that he loves you: on this point I cannot be mistaken—he fondly loves you."

"He fondly loves her!—Yes, to be sure, I could have told you that news long ago," cried the dowager Lady Boucher, who was in the room before they were aware of her entrance; they had both been so eager, the one listening, and the other speaking.

"Fondly loves her!" repeated the dowager: "yes; and no secret, I promise you, Lady Delacour:" and then, turning to Belinda, she began a congratulatory speech, upon the report of her approaching marriage with Mr. Vincent. Belinda absolutely denied the truth of this report: but the dowager continued, "I distress you, I see, and it's quite out of rule, I am sensible, to speak in this sort of way, Miss Portman; but as I'm an old acquaintance, and an old friend, and an old woman, you'll excuse me. I can't help saying, I feel quite rejoiced at your meeting with such a match." Belinda again attempted to declare that she was not going to be married; but the invincible dowager went on: "Every way eligible, and every way agreeable. A charming young man, I hear, Lady Delacour: I see I must only speak to you, or I shall make Miss Portman sink to the centre of the earth, which I would not wish to do, especially at such a critical moment as this. A charming young man, I hear, with a noble West Indian fortune, and a noble spirit, and well connected, and passionately in love—no wonder. But I have done now, I promise you; I'll ask no questions: so don't run away, Miss Portman; I'll ask no questions, I promise you."

To ensure the performance of the promise, Lady Delacour asked what news there was in the world? This question, she knew, would keep the dowager in delightful employment. "I live quite out of the world here; but since Lady Boucher has the charity to come to see me, we shall hear all the 'secrets worth knowing,' from the best authority."

"Then, the first piece of news I have for you is, that my Lord and my Lady Delacour are absolutely reconciled; and that they are the happiest couple that ever lived."

"All very true," replied Lady Delacour.

"True!" repeated Lady Boucher: "why, my dear Lady Delacour, you amaze me!—Are you in earnest?—Was there ever any thing so provoking?—There have I been contradicting the report, wherever I went; for I was convinced that the whole story was a mistake, and a fabrication."

"The history of the reformation might not be exact, but the reformation itself your ladyship may depend upon, since you hear it from my own lips."

"Well, how amazing! how incredible!—Lord bless me! But your ladyship certainly is not in earnest? for you look just the same, and speak just in the same sort of way: I see no alteration, I confess."

"And what alteration, my good Lady Boucher, did you expect to see? Did you think that, by way of being exemplarily virtuous, I should, like Lady Q——, let my sentences come out of my mouth only at the rate of a word a minute?

'Like—minute—drops—from—off—the—eaves.'

Or did you expect that, in hopes of being a pattern for the rising generation, I should hold my features in penance, immoveably, thus—like some of the poor ladies of Antigua, who, after they have blistered their faces all over, to get a fine complexion, are forced, whilst the new skin is coming, to sit without speaking, smiling, or moving muscle or feature, lest an indelible wrinkle should be the consequence?"

Lady Boucher was impatient to have this speech finished, for she had a piece of news to tell. "Well!" cried she, "there's no knowing what to believe or disbelieve, one hears so many strange reports; but I have a piece of news for you, that you may all depend upon. I have one secret worth knowing, I can tell your ladyship—and one, your ladyship and Miss Portman, I'm sure, will be rejoiced to hear. Your friend, Clarence Hervey, is going to be married."