Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “I protest Marriott has made a perfect fright of me,” said her ladyship, as she got into her carriage, “and I’m positive my dress would become you a million of times better than your own.”

  Miss Portman regretted that it was too late to change.

  “Not at all too late, my dear,” said Lady Delacour; “never too late for women to change their minds, their dress, or their lovers. Seriously, you know, we are to call at my friend Lady Singleton’s — she sees masks to-night: I’m quite intimate there; I’ll make her let me step up to her own room, where no soul can interrupt us, and there we can change our dresses, and Marriott will know nothing of the matter. Marriott’s a faithful creature, and very fond of me; fond of power too — but who is not? — we must all have our faults: one would not quarrel with such a good creature as Marriott for a trifle.” Then suddenly changing her tone, she said, “Not a human being will find us out at the masquerade; for no one but Mrs. Freke knows that we are the two muses. Clarence Hervey swears he should know me in any disguise — but I defy him — I shall take special delight in puzzling him. Harriot Freke has told him, in confidence, that I’m to be the widow Brady, in man’s clothes: now that’s to be Harriot’s own character; so Hervey will make fine confusion.”

  As soon as they got to Lady Singleton’s, Lady Delacour and Miss Portman immediately went up stairs to exchange dresses. Poor Belinda, now that she felt herself in spirits to undertake the comic muse, was rather vexed to be obliged to give up her becoming character; but there was no resisting the polite energy of Lady Delacour’s vanity. Her ladyship ran as quick as lightning into a closet within the dressing-room, saying to Lady Singleton’s woman, who attempted to follow with—”Can I do any thing for your ladyship?”—”No, no, no — nothing, nothing — thank ye, thank ye, — I want no assistance — I never let any body do any thing for me but Marriott;” and she bolted herself in the closet. In a few minutes she half opened the door, threw out her tragic robes, and cried, “Here, Miss Portman, give me yours — quick — and let’s see whether comedy or tragedy will be ready first.”

  “Lord bless and forgive me,” said Lady Singleton’s woman, when Lady Delacour at last threw open the door, when she was completely dressed—”but if your la’ship has not been dressing all this time in that den, without any thing in the shape of a looking-glass, and not to let me help! I that should have been so proud.”

  Lady Delacour put half a guinea into the waiting-maid’s hand, laughed affectedly at her own whimsicalities, and declared that she could always dress herself better without a glass than with one. All this went off admirably well with every body but Miss Portman; she could not help thinking it extraordinary that a person who was obviously fond of being waited upon would never suffer any person to assist her at her toilet except Marriott, a woman of whom she was evidently afraid. Lady Delacour’s quick eye saw curiosity painted in Belinda’s countenance, and for a moment she was embarrassed; but she soon recovered herself, and endeavoured to turn the course of Miss Portman’s thoughts by whispering to her some nonsense about Clarence Hervey — a cabalistical name, which she knew had the power, when pronounced in a certain tone, of throwing Belinda into confusion.

  The first person they saw, when they went into the drawing-room at Lady Singleton’s, was this very Clarence Hervey, who was not in a masquerade dress. He had laid a wager with one of his acquaintance, that he could perform the part of the serpent, such as he is seen in Fuseli’s well-known picture. For this purpose he had exerted much ingenuity in the invention and execution of a length of coiled skin, which he manoeuvred with great dexterity, by means of internal wires; his grand difficulty had been to manufacture the rays that were to come from his eyes. He had contrived a set of phosphoric rays, which he was certain would charm all the fair daughters of Eve. He forgot, it seems, that phosphorus could not well be seen by candlelight. When he was just equipped as a serpent, his rays set fire to part of his envelope, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he was extricated. He escaped unhurt, but his serpent’s skin was utterly consumed; nothing remained but the melancholy spectacle of its skeleton. He was obliged to give up the hopes of shining at the masquerade, but he resolved to be at Lady Singleton’s that he might meet Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. The moment that the tragic and comic muse appeared, he invoked them with much humour and mock pathos, declaring that he knew not which of them could best sing his adventure. After a recital of his misfortune had entertained the company, and after the muses had performed their parts to the satisfaction of the audience and their own, the conversation ceased to be supported in masquerade character; muses and harlequins, gipsies and Cleopatras, began to talk of their private affairs, and of the news and the scandal of the day.

  A group of gentlemen, amongst whom was Clarence Hervey, gathered round the tragic muse; as Mr. Hervey had hinted that he knew she was a person of distinction, though he would not tell her name. After he had exercised his wit for some time, without obtaining from the tragic muse one single syllable, he whispered, “Lady Delacour, why this unnatural reserve? Do you imagine that, through this tragical disguise, I have not found you out?”

  The tragic muse, apparently absorbed in meditation, vouchsafed no reply.

  “The devil a word can you get for your pains, Hervey,” said a gentleman of his acquaintance, who joined the party at this instant. “Why didn’t you stick to t’other muse, who, to do her justice, is as arrant a flirt as your heart could wish for?”

  “There’s danger in flirting,” said Clarence, “with an arrant flirt of Mrs. Stanhope’s training. There’s a kind of electricity about that girl. I have a sort of cobweb feeling, an imaginary net coming all over me.”

  “Fore-warned is fore-armed,” replied his companion: “a man must be a novice indeed that could be taken in at this time of day by a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s.”

  “That Mrs. Stanhope must be a good clever dame, faith,” said a third gentleman: “there’s no less than six of her nieces whom she has got off within these four winters — not one of ’em now that has not made a catch-match. — There’s the eldest of the set, Mrs. Tollemache, what had she, in the devil’s name, to set up with in the world but a pair of good eyes? — her aunt, to be sure, taught her the use of them early enough: they might have rolled to all eternity before they would have rolled me out of my senses; but you see they did Tollemache’s business. However, they are going to part now, I hear: Tollemache was tired of her before the honey-moon was over, as I foretold. Then there’s the musical girl. Joddrell, who has no more ear than a post, went and married her, because he had a mind to set up for a connoisseur in music; and Mrs. Stanhope flattered him that he was one.”

  The gentlemen joined in the general laugh: the tragic muse sighed.

  “Even were she at the School for Scandal, the tragic muse dare not laugh, except behind her mask,” said Clarence Hervey.

  “Far be it from her to laugh at those follies which she must for ever deplore!” said Belinda, in a feigned voice.—”What miseries spring from these ill-suited marriages! The victims are sacrificed before they have sense enough to avoid their fate.”

  Clarence Hervey imagined that this speech alluded to Lady Delacour’s own marriage.

  “Damn me if I know any woman, young or old, that would avoid being married, if she could, though,” cried Sir Philip Baddely, a gentleman who always supplied “each vacuity of sense” with an oath: “but, Rochfort, didn’t Valleton marry one of these nieces?”

  “Yes: she was a mighty fine dancer, and had good legs enough: Mrs. Stanhope got poor Valleton to fight a duel about her place in a country dance, and then he was so pleased with himself for his prowess, that he married the girl.”

  Belinda made an effort to change her seat, but she was encompassed so that she could not retreat.

  “As to Jenny Mason, the fifth of the nieces,” continued the witty gentleman, “she was as brown as mahogany, and had neither eyes, nose, mouth, nor legs: what Mrs. Stanhope could do with h
er I often wondered; but she took courage, rouged her up, set her a going as a dasher, and she dashed herself into Tom Levit’s curricle, and Tom couldn’t get her out again till she was the honourable Mrs. Levit: she then took the reins into her own hands, and I hear she’s driving him and herself the road to ruin as fast as they can gallop. As for this Belinda Portman, ’twas a good hit to send her to Lady Delacour’s; but, I take it she hangs upon hand; for last winter, when I was at Bath, she was hawked about every where, and the aunt was puffing her with might and main. You heard of nothing, wherever you went, but of Belinda Portman, and Belinda Portman’s accomplishments: Belinda Portman, and her accomplishments, I’ll swear, were as well advertised as Packwood’s razor strops.”

  “Mrs. Stanhope overdid the business, I think,” resumed the gentleman who began the conversation: “girls brought to the hammer this way don’t go off well. It’s true, Christie himself is no match for dame Stanhope. Many of my acquaintance were tempted to go and look at the premises, but not one, you may be sure, had a thought of becoming a tenant for life.”

  “That’s an honour reserved for you, Clarence Hervey,” said another, tapping him upon the shoulder.—”Give ye joy, Hervey; give ye joy!”

  “Me!” said Clarence, starting.

  “I’ll be hanged if he didn’t change colour,” said his facetious companion; and all the young men again joined in a laugh.

  “Laugh on, my merry men all!” cried Clarence; “but the devil’s in it if I don’t know my own mind better than any of you. You don’t imagine I go to Lady Delacour’s to look for a wife? — Belinda Portman’s a good pretty girl, but what then? Do you think I’m an idiot? — do you think I could be taken in by one of the Stanhope school? Do you think I don’t see as plainly as any of you that Belinda Portman’s a composition of art and affectation?”

  “Hush — not so loud, Clarence; here she comes,” said his companion. “The comic muse, is not she — ?”

  Lady Delacour, at this moment, came lightly tripping towards them, and addressing herself, in the character of the comic muse, to Hervey, exclaimed,

  “Hervey! my Hervey! most favoured of my votaries, why do you forsake me?

  ‘Why mourns my friend, why weeps his downcast eye?

  That eye where mirth and fancy used to shine.’

  Though you have lost your serpent’s form, yet you may please any of the fair daughters of Eve in your own.”

  Mr. Hervey bowed; all the gentlemen who stood near him smiled; the tragic muse gave an involuntary sigh.

  “Could I borrow a sigh, or a tear, from my tragic sister,” pursued Lady Delacour, “however unbecoming to my character, I would, if only sighs or tears can win the heart of Clarence Hervey: — let me practise” — and her ladyship practised sighing with much comic effect.

  “Persuasive words and more persuasive sighs,”

  said Clarence Hervey.

  “A good bold Stanhope cast of the net, faith,” whispered one of his companions. “Melpomene, hast thou forgot thyself to marble?” pursued Lady Delacour. “I am not very well,” whispered Miss Portman to her ladyship: “could we get away?”

  “Get away from Clarence Hervey, do you mean?” replied her ladyship, in a whisper: “’tis not easy, but we’ll try what can be done, if it is necessary.”

  Belinda had no power to reply to this raillery; indeed, she scarcely heard the words that were said to her; but she put her arm within Lady Delacour’s, who, to her great relief, had the good nature to leave the room with her immediately. Her ladyship, though she would sacrifice the feelings of others, without compunction, to her vanity, whenever the power of her wit was disputed, yet towards those by whom it was acknowledged she showed some mercy.

  “What is the matter with the child?” said she, as she went down the staircase.

  “Nothing, if I could have air,” said Belinda. There was a crowd of servants in the hall.

  “Why does Lady Delacour avoid me so pertinaciously? What crime have I committed, that I was not favoured with one word?” said Clarence Hervey, who had followed them down stairs, and overtook them in the hall.

  “Do see if you can find any of my people,” cried Lady Delacour.

  “Lady Delacour, the comic muse!” exclaimed Mr. Hervey. “I thought—”

  “No matter what you thought,” interrupted her ladyship. “Let my carriage draw up, for here’s a young friend of yours trembling so about nothing, that I am half afraid she will faint; and you know it would not be so pleasant to faint here amongst footmen. Stay! this room is empty. O, I did not mean to tell you to stay,” said she to Hervey, who involuntarily followed her in the utmost consternation.

  “I’m perfectly well, now — perfectly well,” said Belinda.

  “Perfectly a simpleton, I think,” said Lady Delacour. “Nay, my dear, you must be ruled; your mask must come off: didn’t you tell me you wanted air? — What now! This is not the first time Clarence Hervey has ever seen your face without a mask, is it? It’s the first time indeed he, or anybody else, ever saw it of such a colour, I believe.”

  When Lady Delacour pulled off Belinda’s mask, her face was, during the first instant, pale; the next moment, crimsoned over with a burning blush.

  “What is the matter with ye both? How he stands!” said Lady Delacour, turning to Mr. Hervey. “Did you never see a woman blush before? — or did you never say or do any thing to make a woman blush before? Will you give Miss Portman a glass of water? — there’s some behind you on that sideboard, man! — but he has neither eyes, ears, nor understanding. — Do go about your business,” said her ladyship, pushing him towards the door—”Do go about your business, for I haven’t common patience with you: on my conscience I believe the man’s in love — and not with me! That’s sal-volatile for you, child, I perceive,” continued she to Belinda. “O, you can walk now — but remember you are on slippery ground: remember Clarence Hervey is not a marrying man, and you are not a married woman.”

  “It is perfectly indifferent to me, madam,” Belinda said, with a voice and look of proud indignation.

  “Lady Delacour, your carriage has drawn up,” said Clarence Hervey, returning to the door, but without entering.

  “Then put this ‘perfectly well’ and ‘perfectly indifferent’ lady into it,” said Lady Delacour.

  He obeyed without uttering a syllable.

  “Dumb! absolutely dumb! I protest,” said her ladyship, as he handed her in afterwards. “Why, Clarence, the casting of your serpent’s skin seems to have quite changed your nature — nothing but the simplicity of the dove left; and I expect to hear, you cooing presently — don’t you, Miss Portman?” She ordered the coachman to drive to the Pantheon.

  “To the Pantheon! I was in hopes your ladyship would have the goodness to set me down at home; for indeed I shall be a burden to you and everybody else at the masquerade.”

  “If you have made any appointment for the rest of the evening in Berkley-square, I’ll set you down, certainly, if you insist upon it, my dear — for punctuality is a virtue; but prudence is a virtue too, in a young lady; who, as your aunt Stanhope would say, has to establish herself in the world. Why these tears, Belinda? — or are they tears? for by the light of the lamps I can scarcely tell; though I’ll swear I saw the handkerchief at the eyes. What is the meaning of all this? You’d best trust me — for I know as much of men and manners as your aunt Stanhope at least; and in one word, you have nothing to fear from me, and every thing to hope from yourself, if you will only dry up your tears, keep on your mask, and take my advice; you’ll find it as good as your aunt Stanhope’s.”

  “My aunt Stanhope’s! O,” cried Belinda, “never, never more will I take such advice; never more will I expose myself to be insulted as a female adventurer. — Little did I know in what a light I appeared; little did I know what gentlemen thought of my aunt Stanhope, of my cousins, of myself!”

  “Gentlemen! I presume Clarence Hervey stands at this instant, in your imagination, as the representative of
all the gentlemen in England; and he, instead of Anacharsis Cloots, is now, to be sure, l’orateur du genre humain. Pray let me have a specimen of the eloquence, which, to judge by its effects, must be powerful indeed.”

  Miss Portman, not without some reluctance, repeated the conversation which she had heard.—”And is this all?” cried Lady Delacour. “Lord, my dear, you must either give up living in the world, or expect to hear yourself, and your aunts, and your cousins, and your friends, from generation to generation, abused every hour in the day by their friends and your friends; ’tis the common course of things. Now you know what a multitude of obedient humble servants, dear creatures, and very sincere and most affectionate friends, I have in my writing-desk, and on my mantel-piece, not to mention the cards which crowd the common rack from intimate acquaintance, who cannot live without the honour, or favour, or pleasure of seeing Lady Delacour twice a week; — do you think I’m fool enough to imagine that they would care the hundredth part of a straw if I were this minute thrown into the Red or the Black Sea? — No, I have not one real friend in the world except Harriot Freke; yet, you see I am the comic muse, and mean to keep it up — keep it up to the last — on purpose to provoke those who would give their eyes to be able to pity me; — I humbly thank them, no pity for Lady Delacour. Follow my example, Belinda; elbow your way through the crowd: if you stop to be civil and beg pardon, and ‘hope I didn’t hurt ye,’ you will be trod under foot. Now you’ll meet those young men continually who took the liberty of laughing at your aunt, and your cousins, and yourself; they are men of fashion. Show them you’ve no feeling, and they’ll acknowledge you for a woman of fashion. You’ll marry better than any of your cousins, — Clarence Hervey if you can; and then it will be your turn to laugh about nets and cages. As to love and all that—”