When Belinda got home, Lady Delacour was busy in the library looking over a collection of French plays with the ci-devant Count de N——; a gentleman who possessed such singular talents for reading dramatic compositions, that many people declared that they would rather hear him read a play than see it performed at the theatre. Even those who were not judges of his merit, and who had little taste for literature, crowded to hear him, because it was the fashion. Lady Delacour engaged him for a reading party at her house, and he was consulting with her what play would be most amusing to his audience. “My dear Belinda! I am glad you are come to give us your opinion,” said her ladyship; “no one has a better taste: but first I should ask you what you have done at your bird-fancier’s; I hope you have brought home some horned cock [5], or some monstrously beautiful creature for Marriott. If it has not a voice like the macaw I shall be satisfied; but even if it be the bird of paradise, I question whether Marriott will like it as well as its screaming predecessor.”
“I am sure she will like what is coming for her,” said Belinda, “and so will your ladyship; but do not let me interrupt you and monsieur le Comte.” And as she spoke, she took up a volume of plays which lay upon the table.
“Nanine, or La Prude, which shall we have?” said Lady Delacour: “or what do you think of L’Ecossaise?”
“The scene of L’Ecossaise is laid in London,” said Belinda; “I should think with an English audience it would therefore be popular.”
“Yes! so it will,” said Lady Delacour: “then let it be L’Ecossaise. M. le Comte I am sure will do justice to the character of Friport the Englishman, ‘qui scait donner, mais qui ne scait pas vivre.’ My dear, I forgot to tell you that Clarence Hervey has been here: it is a pity you did not come a little sooner, you would have heard a charming scene of the School for Scandal read by him. M. le Comte was quite delighted; but Clarence was in a great hurry, he would only give us one scene, he was going to Mr. Percival’s on business. I am sure what I told you the other day is true: but, however, he has promised to come back to dine with me—M. le Comte, you will dine with us, I hope?”
The count was extremely sorry that it was impossible—he was engaged. Belinda suddenly recollected that it was time to dress for dinner; but just as the count took his leave, and as she was going up stairs, a footman met her, and told her that Mr. Hervey was in the drawing room, and wished to speak to her. Many conjectures were formed in Belinda’s mind as she passed on to the drawing room; but the moment that she opened the door, she knew the nature of Mr. Hervey’s business, for she saw the glass globe containing Helena Delacour’s gold fishes standing on the table beside him. “I have been commissioned to present these to you for Lady Delacour,” said Mr. Hervey, “and I have seldom received a commission that has given me so much pleasure. I perceive that Miss Portman is indeed a real friend to Lady Delacour—how happy she is to have such a friend!”
After a pause Mr. Hervey went on speaking of Lady Delacour, and of his earnest desire to see her as happy in domestic life as she appeared to be in public. He frankly confessed, that when he was first acquainted with her ladyship, he had looked upon her merely as a dissipated woman of fashion, and he had considered only his own amusement in cultivating her society: “But,” continued he, “of late I have formed a different opinion of her character; and I think, from what I have observed, that Miss Portman’s ideas on this subject agree with mine. I had laid a plan for making her ladyship acquainted with Lady Anne Percival, who appears to me one of the most amiable and one of the happiest of women. Oakly Park is but a few miles from Harrowgate.—But I am disappointed in this scheme; Lady Delacour has changed her mind, she says, and will not go there. Lady Anne, however, has just told me, that, though it is July, and though she loves the country, she will most willingly stay in town a month longer, as she thinks that, with your assistance, there is some probability of her effecting a reconciliation between Lady Delacour and her husband’s relations, with some of whom Lady Anne is intimately acquainted. To begin with my friend, Mrs. Margaret Delacour: the macaw was most graciously received, and I flatter myself that I have prepared Mrs. Delacour to think somewhat more favourably of her niece than she was wont to do. All now depends upon Lady Delacour’s conduct towards her daughter: if she continues to treat her with neglect, I shall be convinced that I have been mistaken in her character.”
Belinda was much pleased by the openness and the unaffected good-nature with which Clarence Hervey spoke, and she certainly was not sorry to hear from his own lips a distinct explanation of his views and sentiments. She assured him that no effort that she could make with propriety should be wanting to effect the desirable reconciliation between her ladyship and her family, as she perfectly agreed with him in thinking that Lady Delacour’s character had been generally misunderstood by the world.
“Yes,” said Mr. Hervey, “her connection with that Mrs. Freke hurt her more in the eyes of the world than she was aware of. It is tacitly understood by the public, that every lady goes bail for the character of her female friends. If Lady Delacour had been so fortunate as to meet with such a friend as Miss Portman in her early life, what a different woman she would have been! She once said some such thing to me herself, and she never appeared to me so amiable as at that moment.”
Mr. Hervey pronounced these last words in a manner more than usually animated; and whilst he spoke, Belinda stooped to gather a sprig from a myrtle, which stood on the hearth. She perceived that the myrtle, which was planted in a large china vase, was propped up on one side with the broken bits of Sir Philip Baddely’s little stick: she took them up, and threw them out of the window. “Lady Delacour stuck those fragments there this morning,” said Clarence smiling, “as trophies. She told me of Miss Portman’s victory over the heart of Sir Philip Baddely; and Miss Portman should certainly have allowed them to remain there, as indisputable evidence in favour of the baronet’s taste and judgment.”
Clarence Hervey appeared under some embarrassment, and seemed to be restrained by some secret cause from laying open his real feelings: his manner varied continually. Belinda could not avoid seeing his perplexity—she had recourse again to the gold fishes and to Helena: upon these subjects they could both speak very fluently. Lady Delacour made her appearance by the time that Clarence had finished repeating the Abbé Nollet’s experiments, which he had heard from his friend Doctor X——.
“Now, Miss Portman, the transmission of sound in water,” said Clarence—
“Deep in philosophy, I protest!” said Lady Delacour, as she came in. “What is this about the transmission of sound in water?—Ha! whence come these pretty gold fishes?”
“These gold fishes,” said Belinda, “are come to console Marriott for the loss of her macaw.”
“Thank you, my dear Belinda, for these mute comforters,” said her ladyship; “the very best things you could have chosen.”
“I have not the merit of the choice,” said Belinda, “but I am heartily glad that you approve of it.”
“Pretty creatures,” said Lady Delacour: “no fish were ever so pretty since the days of the prince of the Black Islands in the Arabian Tales. And am I obliged to you, Clarence, for these subjects?”
“No; I have only had the honour of bringing them to your ladyship from—”
“From whom?—Amongst all my numerous acquaintance, have I one in the world who cares a gold fish about me?—Stay, don’t tell me, let me guess—Lady Newland?—No; you shake your heads. I guessed her ladyship, merely because I know she wants to bribe me some way or other to go to one of her stupid entertainments; she wants to pick out of me taste enough to spend a fortune. But you say it was not Lady Newland?—Mrs. Hunt then perhaps? for she has two daughters whom she wants me to ask to my concerts. It was not Mrs. Hunt?—Well, then, it was Mrs. Masterson; for she has a mind to go with me to Harrowgate, where, by-the-bye, I shall not go; so I won’t cheat her out of her gold fishes; it was Mrs. Masterson, hey?”
“No. But these little gold fishes came from a person who would be very glad to go with you to Harrowgate!” said Clarence Hervey. “Or who would be very glad to stay with you in town,” said Belinda: “from a person who wants nothing from you but—your love.”
“Male or female?” said Lady Delacour.
“Female.”
“Female? I have not a female friend in the world but yourself, my dear Belinda; nor do I know another female in the world, whose love I should think about for half an instant. But pray tell me the name of this unknown friend of mine, who wants nothing from me but love.”
“Excuse me,” said Belinda; “I cannot tell her name, unless you will promise to see her.”
“You have really made me impatient to see her,” said Lady Delacour: “but I am not able to go out, you know, yet; and with a new acquaintance, one must go through the ceremony of a morning visit. Now, en conscience, is it worthwhile?”
“Very well worthwhile,” cried Belinda and Clarence Hervey, eagerly.
“Ah, pardi! as M. le Comte exclaims continually, Ah, pardi! You are both wonderfully interested in this business. It is some sister, niece, or cousin of Lady Anne Percival’s; or—no, Belinda looks as if I were wrong. Then, perhaps, it is Lady Anne herself?—Well, take me where you please, my dear Belinda, and introduce me where you please: I depend on your taste and judgment in all things; but I really am not yet able to pay morning visits.”
“The ceremony of a morning visit is quite unnecessary here,” said Belinda: “I will introduce the unknown friend to you tomorrow, if you will let me invite her to your reading-party.”
“With pleasure. She is some charming émigrée of Clarence Hervey’s acquaintance. But where did you meet with her this morning? You have both of you conspired to puzzle me. Take it upon yourselves, then, if this new acquaintance should not, as Ninon de l’Enclos used to say, quit cost. If she be half as agreeable and graceful, Clarence, as Madame la Comtesse de Pomenars, I should not think her acquaintance too dearly purchased by a dozen morning visits.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a thundering knock at the door.
“Whose carriage is it?” said Lady Delacour. “Oh! Lady Newland’s ostentatious livery; and here is her ladyship getting out of her carriage as awkwardly as if she had never been in one before. Overdressed, like a true city dame! Pray, Clarence, look at her, entangled in her bale of gold muslin, and conscious of her bulse of diamonds!—‘Worth, if I’m worth a farthing, five hundred thousand pounds bank currency!’ she says or seems to say, whenever she comes into a room. Now let us see her entrée—”
“But, my dear,” cried Lady Delacour, starting at the sight of Belinda, who was still in her morning dress, “absolutely below par!—Make your escape to Marriott, I conjure you, by all your fears of the contempt of a lady, who will at the first look estimate you, au juste, to a farthing a yard.”
As she left the room, Belinda heard Clarence Hervey repeat to Lady Delacour—
“Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free—”
he paused—but Belinda recollected the remainder of the stanza—
“Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’adulteries of art,
That strike mine eyes, but not mine heart.”
It was observed, that Miss Portman dressed herself this day with the most perfect simplicity.
Lady Delacour’s curiosity was raised by the description which Belinda and Clarence Hervey had given of the new acquaintance who sent her the gold fishes, and who wanted nothing from her but her love.
Miss Portman told her that the unknown would probably come half an hour earlier to the reading-party than any of the rest of the company. Her ladyship was alone in the library, when Lady Anne Percival brought Helena, in consequence of a note from Belinda.
Miss Portman ran down stairs to the hall to receive her: the little girl took her hand in silence. “Your mother was much pleased with the pretty gold fishes,” said Belinda, “and she will be still more pleased, when she knows that they came from you:—she does not know that yet.”
“I hope she is better today? I will not make the least noise,” whispered Helena, as she went upstairs on tiptoe.
“You need not be afraid to make a noise—you need not walk on tiptoe, nor shut the doors softly; for Lady Delacour seems to like all noises except the screaming of the macaw. This way, my dear.”
“Oh, I forgot—it is so long since!—Is mamma up and dressed?”
“Yes. She has had concerts and balls since her illness. You will hear a play read tonight,” said Belinda, “by that French gentleman whom Lady Anne Percival mentioned to me yesterday.”
“But there is a great deal of company, then, with mamma?”
“Nobody is with her now: so come into the library with me,” said Belinda. “Lady Delacour, here is the young lady who sent you the gold fishes.”
“Helena!” cried Lady Delacour.
“You must, I am sure, acknowledge that Mr. Hervey was in the right, when he said that the lady was a striking resemblance of your ladyship.”
“Mr. Hervey knows how to flatter. I never had that ingenuous countenance, even in my best days: but certainly the hair of her head is like mine—and her hands and arms. But why do you tremble, Helena? Is there anything so very terrible in the looks of your mother?”
“No, only—”
“Only what, my dear?”
“Only—I was afraid—you might not like me.”
“Who has filled your little foolish head with these vain fears? Come, simpleton, kiss me, and tell me how comes it that you are not at Oakly-hall, or—What’s the name of the place?—Oakly Park?”
“Lady Anne Percival would not take me out of town, she said, whilst you were ill; because she thought that you might wish—I mean she thought that I should like to see you—if you pleased.”
“Lady Anne is very good—very obliging—very considerate.”
“She is very good-natured,” said Helena.
“You love this Lady Anne Percival, I perceive.”
“Oh, yes, that I do. She has been so kind to me! I love her as if she were—”
“As if she were—What? finish your sentence.”
“My mother,” said Helena, in a low voice, and she blushed.
“You love her as well as if she were your mother,” repeated Lady Delacour: “that is intelligible: speak intelligibly whatever you say, and never leave a sentence unfinished.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Nothing can be more ill-bred, nor more absurd; for it shows that you have the wish without the power to conceal your sentiments. Pray, my dear,” continued Lady Delacour, “go to Oakly Park immediately—all farther ceremony towards me may be spared.”
“Ceremony, mamma!” said the little girl, and the tears came into her eyes. Belinda sighed; and for some moments there was a dead silence.
“I mean only to say, Miss Portman,” resumed Lady Delacour, “that I hate ceremony: but I know that there are people in the world who love it, who think all virtue, and all affection, depend on ceremony—who are
‘Content to dwell in decencies forever.’
I shall not dispute their merits. Verily, they have their reward in the good opinion and good word of all little minds, that is to say, of above half the world. I envy them not their hard-earned fame. Let ceremony curtsy to ceremony with Chinese decorum; but, when ceremony expects to be paid with affection, I beg to be excused.”
“Ceremony sets no value upon affection, and therefore would not desire to be paid with it,” said Belinda.
“Never yet,” continued lady Delacour, pursuing the train of her own thoughts without attending to Belinda, “never yet was anything like real affection won by any of these ceremonious people.”
“Never,” said Miss Portman, looking at Helena; who, having quickness enough to perceive that her mother aimed this tirade against ceremony at Lady Anne Percival, sat in the most painful embarrassment, her eyes cast down, and her face and neck colouring all over. “Never yet,” said Miss Portman, “did mere ceremonious person win anything like real affection; especially from children, who are often excellent, because unprejudiced, judges of character.”
“We are all apt to think, that an opinion that differs from our own is a prejudice,” said Lady Delacour: “what is to decide?”
“Facts, I should think,” said Belinda.
“But it is so difficult to get at facts, even about the merest trifles,” said Lady Delacour. “Actions we see, but their causes we seldom see—an aphorism worthy of Confucius himself: now to apply. Pray, my dear Helena, how came you by the pretty gold fishes that you were so good as to send to me yesterday?”
“Lady Anne Percival gave them to me, ma’am.”
“And how came her ladyship to give them to you, ma’am?”
“She gave them to me,” said Helena, hesitating.
“You need not blush, nor repeat to me that she gave them to you; that I have heard already—that is the fact: now for the cause—unless it be a secret. If it be a secret which you have been desired to keep, you are quite right to keep it. I make no doubt of its being necessary, according to some systems of education, that children should be taught to keep secrets; and I am convinced (for Lady Anne Percival is, I have heard, a perfect judge of propriety) that it is peculiarly proper that a daughter should know how to keep secrets from her mother: therefore, my dear, you need not trouble yourself to blush or hesitate any more—I shall ask no farther questions: I was not aware that there was any secret in the case.”
“There is no secret in the world in the case, mamma,” said Helena; “I only hesitated because—”
“You hesitated only because, I suppose you mean. I presume Lady Anne Percival will have no objection to your speaking good English?”
“I hesitated only because I was afraid it would not be right to praise myself. Lady Anne Percival one day asked us all—”
“Us all?”
“I mean Charles, and Edward, and me, to give her an account of some experiments, on the hearing of fishes, which Dr. X—— had told to us: she promised to give the gold fishes, of which we were all very fond, to whichever of us should give the best account of them—Lady Anne gave the fishes to me.”
“And is this all the secret? So it was real modesty made her hesitate, Belinda? I beg your pardon, my dear, and Lady Anne’s: you see how candid I am, Belinda. But one question more, Helena: Who put it into your head to send me your gold fishes?”
“Nobody, mamma; no one put it into my head. But I was at the bird-fancier’s yesterday, when Miss Portman was trying to get some bird for Mrs. Marriott, that could not make any noise to disturb you; so I thought my fishes would be the nicest things for you in the world; because they cannot make the least noise, and they are as pretty as any birds in the world—prettier, I think—and I hope Mrs. Marriott thinks so too.”
“I don’t know what Marriott thinks about the matter, but I can tell you what I think,” said Lady Delacour, “that you are one of the sweetest little girls in the world, and that you would make me love you if I had a heart of stone, which I have not, whatever some people may think.—Kiss me, my child!”
The little girl sprang forwards, and threw her arms round her mother, exclaiming, “Oh, mamma, are you in earnest?” and she pressed close to her mother’s bosom, clasping her with all her force.
Lady Delacour screamed, and pushed her daughter away.
“She is not angry with you, my love,” said Belinda, “she is in sudden and violent pain—don’t be alarmed—she will be better soon. No, don’t ring the bell, but try whether you can open these window-shutters, and throw up the sash.”
Whilst Belinda was supporting Lady Delacour, and whilst Helena was trying to open the window, a servant came into the room to announce the Count de N——.
“Show him into the drawing room,” said Belinda. Lady Delacour, though in great pain, rose and retired to her dressing room. “I shall not be able to go down to these people yet,” said she; “you must make my excuses to the count and to everybody; and tell poor Helena I was not angry, though I pushed her away. Keep her below stairs: I will come as soon as I am able. Send Marriott. Do not forget, my dear, to tell Helena I was not angry.”
The reading party went on, and Lady Delacour made her appearance as the company were drinking orgeat, between the fourth and fifth act. “Helena, my dear,” said she, “will you bring me a glass of orgeat?”
Clarence Hervey looked at Belinda with a congratulatory smile: “do not you think,” whispered he, “that we shall succeed? Did you see that look of Lady Delacour’s?”
Nothing tends more to increase the esteem and affection of two people for each other than their having one and the same benevolent object. Clarence Hervey and Belinda seemed to know one another’s thoughts and feelings this evening better than they had ever done before during the whole course of their acquaintance.
After the play was over, most of the company went away; only a select party of beaux esprits stayed to supper; they were standing at the table at which the count had been reading: several volumes of French plays and novels were lying there, and Clarence Hervey, taking up one of them, cried, “Come, let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae.”
Lady Delacour opened the book, which was a volume of Marmontel’s Tales.
“La femme comme il y en a peu!” exclaimed Hervey.
“Who will ever more have faith in the Sortes Virgilianae?” said Lady Delacour, laughing; but whilst she laughed she went closer to a candle, to read the page which she had opened. Belinda and Clarence Hervey followed her. “Really, it is somewhat singular, Belinda, that I should have opened upon this passage,” continued she, in a low voice, pointing it out to Miss Portman.
It was a description of the manner in which la femme comme il y en a peu managed a husband, who was excessively afraid of being thought to be governed by his wife. As her ladyship turned over the page, she saw a leaf of myrtle which Belinda, who had been reading the story the preceding day, had put into the book for a mark.
“Whose mark is this? Yours, Belinda, I am sure, by its elegance,” said Lady Delacour. “So! this is a concerted plan between you two, I see,” continued her ladyship, with an air of pique: “you have contrived prettily de me dire des vérités! One says, ‘Let us try our fate by the Sortes Virgilianae;’ the other has dexterously put a mark in the book, to make it open upon a lesson for the naughty child.”
Belinda and Mr. Hervey assured her that they had used no such mean arts, that nothing had been concerted between them.
“How came this leaf of myrtle here, then?” said Lady Delacour.
“I was reading that story yesterday, and left it as my mark.”
“I cannot help believing you, because you never yet deceived me, even in the merest trifle: you are truth itself, Belinda. Well, you see that you were the cause of my drawing such an extraordinary lot; the book would not have opened here but for your mark. My fate, I find, is in your hands: if Lady Delacour is ever to be la femme comme il y en a peu, which is the most improbable thing in the world, Miss Portman will be the cause of it.”
“Which is the most probable thing in the world,” said Clarence Hervey. “This myrtle has a delightful perfume,” added he, rubbing the leaf between his fingers.
“But, after all,” said Lady Delacour, throwing aside the book, “This heroine of Marmontel’s is not la femme comme il y en a peu, but la femme comme il n’y en a point.”
“Mrs. Margaret Delacour’s carriage, my lady, for Miss Delacour,” said a footman to her ladyship.
“Helena stays with me tonight—my compliments,” said Lady Delacour.
“How pleased the little gipsy looks!” added she, turning to Helena, who heard the message; “and how handsome she looks when she is pleased!—Do these auburn locks of yours, Helena, curl naturally or artificially?”
“Naturally, mamma.”
“Naturally! so much the better: so did mine at your age.”
Some of the company now took notice of the astonishing resemblance between Helena and her mother; and the more Lady Delacour considered her daughter as a part of herself, the more she was inclined to be pleased with her. The glass globe containing the gold fishes was put in the middle of the table at supper; and Clarence Hervey never paid her ladyship such respectful attention in his life as he did this evening.
The conversation at supper turned upon a magnificent and elegant entertainment which had lately been given by a fashionable duchess, and some of the company spoke in high terms of the beauty and accomplishments of her grace’s daughter, who had for the first time appeared in public on that occasion.
“The daughter will eclipse, totally eclipse, the mother,” said Lady Delacour. “That total eclipse has been foretold by many knowing people,” said Clarence Hervey; “but how can there be an eclipse between two bodies which never cross one another and that I understand to be the case between the duchess and her daughter.”
This observation seemed to make a great impression upon Lady Delacour. Clarence Hervey went on, and with much eloquence expressed his admiration of the mother who had stopped short in the career of dissipation to employ her inimitable talents in the education of her children; who had absolutely brought Virtue into fashion by the irresistible powers of wit and beauty.
“Really, Clarence,” said Lady Delacour, rising from table, “vous parlez avec beaucoup d’onction. I advise you to write a sentimental comedy, a comédie larmoyante, or a drama on the German model, and call it The School for Mothers, and beg her grace of —— to sit for your heroine.”
“Your ladyship, surely, would not be so cruel as to send a faithful servant a begging for a heroine?” said Clarence Hervey.
Lady Delacour smiled at first at the compliment, but a few minutes afterwards she sighed bitterly. “It is too late for me to think of being a heroine,” said she.
“Too late?” cried Hervey, following her eagerly as she walked out of the supper room; “too late? Her grace of —— is some years older than your ladyship.”
“Well, I did not mean to say too late,” said Lady Delacour; “but let us go on to something else. Why were you not at the fète champêtre the other day? and where were you all this morning? And pray can you tell me when your friend doctor X—— returns to town?”
“Mr. Horton is getting better,” said Clarence, “and I hope that we shall have Dr. X—— soon amongst us again. I hear that he is to be in town in the course of a few days.”
“Did he inquire for me?—Did he ask how I did?”
“No. I fancy he took it for granted that your ladyship was quite well; for I told him you were getting better every day, and that you were in charming spirits.”
“Yes,” said Lady Delacour, “but I wear myself out with these charming spirits. I am very nervous still, I assure you, and sitting up late is not good for me: so I shall wish you and all the world a good night. You see I am absolutely a reformed rake.”