“Ha! ha! ha! that’s a good one, Rochfort — a pet quiz! — Ha! ha! ha! Dr. X —— shall be Miss Portman’s pet quiz. Put it about, put it about, Rochfort,” continued the witty baronet, and he and his facetious companion continued to laugh as long as they possibly could at this happy hit.
Belinda, without being in the least discomposed by their insolent folly, as soon as they had finished laughing, very coolly observed, that she could have no objection to give her reasons for preferring Dr. X — —’s company but for fear they might give offence to Sir Philip and his friends. She then defended the doctor with so much firmness, and yet with so much propriety, that Clarence Hervey was absolutely enchanted with her, and with his own penetration in having discovered her real character, notwithstanding her being Mrs. Stanhope’s niece.
“I never argue, for my part,” cried Mr. Rochfort: “‘pon honour, ’tis a deal too much trouble. A lady, a handsome lay, I mean, is always in the right with me.”
“But as to you, Hervey,” said Sir Philip, “damme, do you know, my boy, that our club has come to a determination to black-ball you, if you keep company with this famous doctor?”
“Your club, Sir Philip, will do me honour by such an ostracism.”
“Ostracism!” repeated Sir Philip.—”In plain English, does that mean that you choose to be black-balled by us? Why, damn it, Clary, you’ll be nobody. But follow your own genius — damn me, if I take it upon me to understand your men of genius — they are in the Serpentine river one day, and in the clouds the next: so fare ye well, Clary. I expect to see you a doctor of physic, or a methodist parson, soon, damn me if I don’t: so fare ye well, Clary. Is black-ball your last word? or will you think better on’t, and give up the doctor?”
“I can never give up Dr. X — —’s friendship — I would sooner be black-balled by every club in London. The good lesson you gave me, Sir Philip, the day I was fool enough to jump into the Serpentine river, has made me wiser for life. I know, for I have felt, the difference between real friends and fashionable acquaintance. Give up Dr. X —— ! Never! never!”
“Then fare you well, Clary,” said Sir Philip, “you’re no longer one of us.”
“Then fare ye well, Clary, you’re no longer the man for me,” said Rochfort.
“Tant pis, and tant mieux” said Clarence, and so they parted.
As they left the room, Clarence Hervey involuntarily turned to Belinda, and he thought that he read in her ingenuous, animated countenance, full approbation of his conduct.
“Hist! are they gone? quite gone?” said Lady Delacour, entering the room from an adjoining apartment; “they have stayed an unconscionable time. How much I am obliged to Mrs. Franks for detaining me! I have escaped their vapid impertinence; and in truth, this morning I have such a multiplicity of business, that I have scarcely a moment even for wit and Clarence Hervey. Belinda, my dear, will you have the charity to look over some of these letters for me, which, as Marriott tells me, have been lying in my writing-table this week — expecting, most unreasonably, that I should have the grace to open them? We are always punished for our indolence, as your friend Dr. X —— said the other day: if we suffer business to accumulate, it drifts with every ill wind like snow, till at last an avalanche of it comes down at once, and quite overwhelms us. Excuse me, Clarence,” continued her ladyship, as she opened her letters, “this is very rude: but I know I have secured my pardon from you by remembering your friend’s wit — wisdom, I should say: how seldom are wit and wisdom joined! They might have been joined in Lady Delacour, perhaps — there’s vanity! — if she had early met with such a friend as Dr. X —— ; but it’s too late now,” said she, with a deep sigh.
Clarence Hervey heard it, and it made a great impression upon his benevolent imagination. “Why too late?” said he to himself. “Mrs. Margaret Delacour is mistaken, if she thinks this woman wants sensibility.”
“What have you got there, Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour, taking from Belinda’s hand one of the letters which she had begged her to look over: “something wondrous pathetic, I should guess, by your countenance. ‘Helena Delacour.’ Oh! read it to yourself, my dear — a school-girl’s letter is a thing I abominate — I make it a rule never to read Helena’s epistles.”
“Let me prevail upon your ladyship to make an exception to the general rule then,” said Belinda; “I can assure you this is not a common school-girl’s letter: Miss Delacour seems to inherit her mother’s ‘eloquence de billet.’”
“Miss Portman seems to possess, by inheritance, by instinct, by magic, or otherwise, powers of persuasion, which no one can resist. There’s compliment for compliment, my dear. Is there any thing half so well turned in Helena’s letter? Really, ’tis vastly well,” continued her ladyship, as she read the letter: “where did the little gipsy learn to write so charmingly? I protest I should like of all things to have her at home with me this summer — the 21st of June — well, after the birthday, I shall have time to think about it. But then, we shall be going out of town, and at Harrowgate I should not know what to do with her; she had better, much better, go to her humdrum Aunt Margaret’s, as she always does — she is a fixture in Grosvenor-square. These stationary good people, these zoophite friends, are sometimes very convenient; and Mrs. Margaret Delacour is the most unexceptionable zoophite in the creation. She has, it is true, an antipathy to me, because I’m of such a different nature from herself; but then her antipathy does not extend to my offspring: she is kind beyond measure to Helena, on purpose, I believe, to provoke me. Now I provoke her in my turn, by never being provoked, and she saves me a vast deal of trouble, for which she is overpaid by the pleasure of abusing me. This is the way of the world, Clarence. Don’t look so serious — you are not come yet to daughters and sons, and schools and holidays, and all the evils of domestic life.”
“Evils!” repeated Clarence Hervey, in a tone which surprised her ladyship. She looked immediately with a significant smile at Belinda. “Why do not you echo evils, Miss Portman?”
“Pray, Lady Delacour,” interrupted Clarence Hervey, “when do you go to Harrowgate?”
“What a sudden transition!” said Lady Delacour. “What association of ideas could just at that instant take you to Harrowgate? When do I go to Harrowgate? Immediately after the birthday, I believe we shall — I advise you to be of the party.”
“Your ladyship does me a great deal of honour,” said Hervey: “I shall, if it be possible, do myself the honour of attending you.”
And soon after this arrangement was made, Mr. Hervey took his leave.
“Well, my dear, are you still poring over that letter of Helena’s?” said Lady Delacour to Miss Portman.
“I fancy your ladyship did not quite finish it,” said Belinda.
“No; I saw something about the Leverian Museum, and a swallow’s nest in a pair of garden-shears; and I was afraid I was to have a catalogue of curiosities, for which I have little taste and less time.”
“You did not see, then, what Miss Delacour says of the lady who took her to that Museum?”
“Not I. What lady? her Aunt Margaret?”
“No; Mrs. Margaret Delacour, she says, has been so ill for some time past, that she goes no where but to Lady Anne Percival’s.”
“Poor woman,” said Lady Delacour, “she will die soon, and then I shall have Helena upon my hands, unless some other kind friend takes a fancy to her. Who is this lady that has carried her to the Leverian Museum?”
“Lady Anne Percival; of whom she speaks with so much gratitude and affection, that I quite long — —”
“Lord bless me!” interrupted Lady Delacour, “Lady Anne Percival! Helena has mentioned this Lady Anne Percival to me before, I recollect, in some of her letters.”
“Then you did read some of her letters?”
“Half! — I never read more than half, upon my word,” said Lady Delacour, laughing.
“Why will you delight in making yourself appear less good than you are, my dear Lady Del
acour?” said Belinda, taking her hand.
“Because I hate to be like other people,” said her ladyship, “who delight in making themselves appear better than they are. But I was going to tell you, that I do believe I did provoke Percival by marrying Lord Delacour: I cannot tell you how much this Mea delights me — I am sure that the man has a lively remembrance of me, or else he would never make his wife take so much notice of my daughter.”
“Surely, your ladyship does not think,” said Belinda, “that a wife is a being whose actions are necessarily governed by a husband.”
“Not necessarily — but accidentally. When a lady accidentally sets up for being a good wife, she must of course love, honour, and obey. Now, you understand, I am not in the least obliged to Lady Anne for her kindness to Helena, because it all goes under the head of obedience, in my imagination; and her ladyship is paid for it by an accession of character: she has the reward of having it said, ‘Oh, Lady Anne Percival is the best wife in the world!’—’Oh, Lady Anne Percival is quite a pattern woman!’ I hate pattern women. I hope I may never see Lady Anne; for I’m sure I should detest her beyond all things living — Mrs. Luttridge not excepted.”
Belinda was surprised and shocked at the malignant vehemence with which her ladyship uttered these words; it was in vain, however, that she remonstrated on the injustice of predetermining to detest Lady Anne, merely because she had shown kindness to Helena, and because she bore a high character. Lady Delacour was a woman who never listened to reason, or who listened to it only that she might parry it by wit. Upon this occasion, her wit had not its usual effect upon Miss Portman; instead of entertaining, it disgusted her.
“You have called me your friend, Lady Delacour,” said she; “I should but ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to you — if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong.”
“But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, stopping her ears. “So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose that you have said every thing that is wise, and good, and proper, and sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends; you shall enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh — for my folly. Alas! my dear, ’tis hardly worth while — my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must keep it up with incessant dissipation — the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us talk of the birthnight, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or the ridiculous figure Lady H —— made at the concert; or let us talk of Harrowgate, or what you will.”
Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure in Belinda’s mind, and she could hardly refrain from tears, whilst she saw this unhappy creature, with forced smiles, endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul: she could only say, “But, my dear Lady Delacour, do not you think that your little Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to your happiness at home?”
“Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me,” said Lady Delacour.
Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour’s lap.
“Can you wonder,” continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear which she had let fall; “can you wonder that I should talk of detesting Lady Anne Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections of my child. Helena asks to come home: yes, but how does she ask it? Coldly, formally, — as a duty. But look at the end of her letter; I have read it all — every bitter word of it I have tasted. How differently she writes — look even at the flowing hand — the moment she begins to speak of Lady Anne Percival; then her soul breaks out: ‘Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakly-park — she should be extremely happy to go, if I please.’ Yes, let her go; let her go as far from me as possible; let her never, never see her wretched mother more! — Write,” said Lady Delacour, turning hastily to Belinda, “write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-park, and to be happy.”
“But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with you?” said Belinda. “Let us see her — let us try the experiment.”
“No,” said Lady Delacour; “no — it is too late: I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim.”
Pride, anger, and sorrow, struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She turned her face from Belinda, and walked out of the room with dignity.
Nothing remains for me to do, thought Belinda, but to sooth this haughty spirit: all other hope, I see, is vain.
At this moment Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay, brilliant Lady Delacour was sinking into the grave, had formed a design worthy of his ardent and benevolent character. The manner in which her ladyship had spoken of his friend Dr. X —— , the sigh which she gave at the reflection that she might have been a very different character if she had early had a sensible friend, made a great impression upon Mr. Hervey. Till then, he had merely considered her ladyship as an object of amusement, and an introduction to high life; but he now felt so much interested for her, that he determined to exert all his influence to promote her happiness. He knew that influence to be considerable: not that he was either coxcomb or dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacour was in love with him; he was perfectly sensible that her only wish was to obtain his admiration, and he resolved to show her that it could no longer be secured without deserving his esteem. Clarence Hervey was a thoroughly generous young man: capable of making the greatest sacrifices, when encouraged by the hope of doing good, he determined to postpone the declaration of his attachment to Belinda, that he might devote himself entirely to his new project. His plan was to wean Lady Delacour by degrees from dissipation, by attaching her to her daughter, and to Lady Anne Percival. He was sanguine in all his hopes, and rapid, but not unthinking, in all his decisions. From Lady Delacour he went immediately to Dr. X —— , to whom he communicated his designs.
“I applaud your benevolent intentions,” said the doctor: “but have you really the presumption to hope, that an ingenuous young man of four-and-twenty can reform a veteran coquet of four-and-thirty?”
“Lady Delacour is not yet thirty,” said Clarence; “but the older she is, the better the chance of her giving up a losing game. She has an admirable understanding, and she will soon — I mean as soon as she is acquainted with Lady Anne Percival — discover that she has mistaken the road to happiness. All the difficulty will be to make them fairly acquainted with each other; for this, my dear doctor, I must trust to you. Do you prepare Lady Anne to tolerate Lady Delacour’s faults, and I will prepare Lady Delacour to tolerate Lady Anne’s virtues.”
“You have generously taken the more difficult task of the two,” replied Dr. X —— . “Well, we shall see what can be done. After the birthday, Lady Delacour talks of going to Harrowgate: you know, Oakly-park is not far from Harrowgate, so they will have frequent opportunities of meeting. But, take my word for it, nothing can be done till after the birthday; for Lady Delacour’s head is at present full of crape petticoats, and horses, and carriages, and a certain Mrs. Luttridge, whom she hates with a hatred passing that of women.”
CHAPTER X. — THE MYSTERIOUS BOUDOIR.
Accustomed to study human nature, Dr. X —— had acquired peculiar sagacity in judging of character. Notwithstanding the address with which Lady Delacour concealed the real motives for her apparently thoughtless conduct, he quickly discovered that the hatred of Mrs. Luttridge was her ruling passion. Above nine years of continual warfare had exasperated the tempers of both parties, and no opportunities of manifesting their mutual antipathy were ever neglected. Extravagantly as Lady Delacour loved admiration, the highest possible degree of positive praise was insipid to her taste, if it did not imply some superiority over the woman whom she considere
d as a perpetual rival.
Now it had been said by the coachmaker, that Mrs. Luttridge would sport a most elegant new vis-à-vis on the king’s birthday. Lady Delacour was immediately ambitious to outshine her in equipage; and it was this paltry ambition that made her condescend to all the meanness of the transaction by which she obtained Miss Portman’s draft, and Clarence Hervey’s two hundred guineas. The great, the important day, at length arrived — her ladyship’s triumph in the morning at the drawing-room was complete. Mrs. Luttridge’s dress, Mrs. Luttridge’s vis-à-vis, Mrs. Luttridge’s horses were nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison with Lady Delacour’s: her ladyship enjoyed the full exultation of vanity; and at night she went in high spirits to the ball.
“Oh, my dearest Belinda,” said she, as she left her dressing-room, “how terrible a thing it is that you cannot go with me! — None of the joys of this life are without alloy!—’Twould be too much to see in one night Mrs. Luttridge’s mortification, and my Belinda’s triumph. Adieu! my love: we shall live to see another birthday, it is to be hoped. Marriott, my drops. Oh, I have taken them.”
Belinda, after her ladyship’s departure, retired to the library. Her time passed so agreeably during Lady Delacour’s absence, that she was surprised when she heard the clock strike twelve.
“Is it possible,” thought she, “that I have spent two hours by myself in a library without being tired of my existence? — How different are my feelings now from what they would have been in the same circumstances six months ago! — I should then have thought the loss of a birthnight ball a mighty trial of temper. It is singular, that my having spent a winter with one of the most dissipated women in England should have sobered my mind so completely. If I had never seen the utmost extent of the pleasures of the world, as they are called, my imagination might have misled me to the end of my life; but now I can judge from my own experience, and I am convinced that the life of a fine lady would never make me happy. Dr. X —— told me, the other day, that he thinks me formed for something better, and he is incapable of flattery.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 27
