Belinda and Mr. Vincent could never agree in their definition of the-word flattery; so that there were continual complaints on the one hand of a breach of treaty, and, on the other, solemn protestations of the most scrupulous adherence to his compact. However this might be, it is certain that the gentleman gained so much, either by truth or fiction, that, in the course of some weeks, he got the lady as far as “gratitude and esteem.”
One evening, Belinda was playing with little Charles Percival at spillikins. Mr. Vincent, who found pleasure in everything that amused Belinda, and Mr. Percival, who took an interest in everything which entertained his children, were looking on at this simple game.
“Mr. Percival,” said Belinda, “condescending to look at a game of jack-straws!”
“Yes,” said Lady Anne; “for he is of Dryden’s opinion, that, if a straw can be made the instrument of happiness, he is a wise man who does not despise it.”
“Ah! Miss Portman, take care!” cried Charles, who was anxious that she should win, though he was playing against her. “Take care! don’t touch that knave.”
“I would lay a hundred guineas upon the steadiness of Miss Portman’s hand,” cried Mr. Vincent.
“I’ll lay you sixpence, though,” cried Charles, eagerly, “that she’ll stir the king, if she touches that knave—I’ll lay you a shilling.”
“Done! done!” cried Mr. Vincent.
“Done! done!” cried the boy, stretching out his hand, but his father caught it.
“Softly! softly, Charles!—No betting, if you please, my dear. Done and done sometimes ends in—undone.”
“It was my fault—it was I who was in the wrong,” cried Vincent immediately.
“I am sure you are in the right, now,” said Mr. Percival; “and, what is better than my saying so, Miss Portman thinks so, as her smile tells me.”
“You moved, Miss Portman!” cried Charles:—“Oh, indeed! the king’s head stirred, the very instant papa spoke. I knew it was impossible that you could get that knave clear off without shaking the king. Now, papa, only look how they were balanced.”
“I grant you,” said Mr. Vincent, “I should have made an imprudent bet. So it is well I made none; for now I see the chances were ten to one, twenty to one, a hundred to one against me.”
“It does not appear to me to be a matter of chance,” said Mr. Percival. “This is a game of address, not chance, and that is the reason I like it.”
“Oh, papa! Oh, Miss Portman! look how nicely these are balanced. There! my breath has set them in motion. Look, they shake, shake, shake, like the great rocking-stones at Brimham Crags.”
“That is comparing small things to great, indeed!” said Mr. Percival.
“By-the-by,” cried Mr. Vincent, “Miss Portman has never seen those wonderful rocking-stones—suppose we were to ride to see them tomorrow?”
The proposal was warmly seconded by the children, and agreed to by everyone. It was settled, that after they had seen Brimham Crags they should spend the remainder of the day at Lord C——’s beautiful place in the neighbourhood.
The next morning was neither too hot nor too cold, and they set out on their little party of pleasure; the children went with their mother, to their great delight, in the sociable; and Mr. Vincent, to his great delight, rode with Belinda. When they came within sight of the Crags, Mr. Percival, who was riding with them, exclaimed—“What is that yonder, on the top of one of the great rocking-stones?”
“It looks like a statue,” said Vincent. “It has been put up since we were here last.”
“I fancy it has got up of itself,” said Belinda, “for it seems to be getting down of itself. I think I saw it stoop. Oh! I see now, it is a man who has got up there, and he seems to have a gun in his hand, has not he? He is going through his manual exercise for his diversion—for the diversion of the spectators below, I perceive—there is a party of people looking at him.”
“Him!” said Mr. Percival.
“I protest it is a woman!” said Vincent.
“No, surely,” said Belinda: “it cannot be a woman!”
“Not unless it be Mrs. Freke,” replied Mr. Percival.
In fact it was Mrs. Freke, who had been out shooting with a party of gentlemen, and who had scrambled upon this rocking-stone, on the summit of which she went through the manual exercise at the word of command from her officer. As they rode nearer to the scene of action, Belinda heard the shrill screams of a female voice, and they descried amongst the gentlemen a slight figure in a riding habit.
“Miss Moreton, I suppose,” said Mr. Vincent.
“Poor girl! what are they doing with her?” cried Belinda.
“They seem to be forcing her up to the top of that place, where she has no mind to go. Look how Mrs. Freke drags her up by the arm!”
As they drew nearer, they heard Mrs. Freke laughing loud as she rocked this frightened girl upon the top of the stone.
“We had better keep out of the way, I think,” said Belinda: “for perhaps, as she has vowed vengeance against me, she might take a fancy to setting me upon that pinnacle of glory.”
“She dare not,” cried Vincent, his eyes flashing with anger: “you may trust to us to defend you.”
“Certainly!—But I will not run into danger on purpose to give you the pleasure of defending me,” said Belinda; and as she spoke, she turned her horse another way.
“You won’t turn back, Miss Portman?” cried Vincent eagerly, laying his hand on her bridle.—“Good Heavens, ma’am! we can’t run away!—We came here to look at these rocking-stones!—We have not half seen them. Lady Anne and the children will be here immediately. You would not deprive them of the pleasure of seeing these things!”
“I doubt whether they would have much pleasure in seeing some of these things! and as to the rest, if I disappoint the children now, Mr. Percival will, perhaps, have the goodness to bring them some other day.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Percival: “Miss Portman shows her usual prudence.”
“The children are so good tempered, that I am sure they will forgive me,” continued Belinda; “and Mr. Vincent will be ashamed not to follow their example, though he seems to be rather angry with me at present for obliging him to turn back—out of the path of danger.”
“You must not be surprised at that,” said Mr. Percival, laughing; “for Mr. Vincent is a lover and a hero. You know it is a ruled case, in all romances, that when a lover and his mistress go out riding together, some adventure must befal them. The horse must run away with the lady, and the gentleman must catch her in his arms just as her neck is about to be broken. If the horse has been too well trained for the heroine’s purpose, ‘some footpad, bandit fierce, or mountaineer,’ some jealous rival must make his appearance quite unexpectedly at the turn of a road, and the lady must be carried off—robes flying—hair streaming—like Bürger’s Leonora. Then her lover must come to her rescue just in the proper moment. But if the damsel cannot conveniently be run away with, she must, as the last resource, tumble into a river to make herself interesting, and the hero must be at least half drowned in dragging her out, that she may be under eternal obligations to him, and at last be forced to marry him out of pure gratitude.”
“Gratitude!” interrupted Mr. Vincent: “he is no hero, to my mind, who would be content with gratitude, instead of love.”
“You need not alarm yourself: Miss Portman does not seem inclined to put you to the trial, you see,” said Mr. Percival, smiling. “Now it is really to be regretted, that she deprived you of an opportunity of fighting some of the gentlemen in Mrs. Freke’s train, or of delivering her from the perilous height of one of those rocking-stones. It would have been a new incident in a novel.”
“How that poor girl screamed!” said Belinda. “Was her terror real or affected?”
“Partly real, partly affected, I fancy,” said Mr. Percival.
“I pity her,” said Mr. Vincent; “for Mrs. Freke leads her a weary life.”
“She is certainly to be pitied, but also to be blamed,” said Mr. Percival. “You do not know her history. Miss Moreton ran away from her friends to live with this Mrs. Freke, who has led her into all kinds of mischief and absurdity. The girl is weak and vain, and believes that everything becomes her which Mrs. Freke assures her is becoming. At one time she was persuaded to go to a public ball with her arms as bare as Juno’s, and her feet as naked as Mad. Tallien’s. At another time Miss Moreton (who unfortunately has never heard the Greek proverb, that half is better than the whole,) was persuaded by Mrs. Freke to lay aside, her half boots, and to equip herself in men’s whole boots; and thus she rode about the country, to the amazement of all the world. These are trifles; but women who love to set the world at defiance in trifles seldom respect its opinion in matters of consequence. Miss Moreton’s whole boots in the morning, and her bare feet in the evening, were talked of by everybody, till she gave them more to talk of about her attachment to a young officer. Mrs. Freke, whose philosophy is professedly latitudinarian in morals, laughed at the girl’s prejudice in favour of the ceremony of marriage. So did the officer; for Miss Moreton had no fortune. It is suspected that the young lady did not feel the difficulty, which philosophers are sometimes said to find in suiting their practice to their theory. The unenlightened world reprobated the theory much, and the practice more. I am inclined, in spite of scandal, to think the poor girl was only imprudent: at all events, she repents her folly too late. She has now no friend upon earth but Mrs. Freke, who is, in fact, her worst enemy, and who tyrannizes over her without mercy. Imagine what it is to be the butt of a buffoon!”
“What a lesson to young ladies in the choice of female friends!” said Belinda. “But had Miss Moreton no relations, who could interfere to get her out of Mrs. Freke’s hands?”
“Her father and mother were old, and, what is more contemptible, old-fashioned: she would not listen to their advice; she ran away from them. Some of her relations were, I believe, willing that she should stay with Mrs. Freke, because she was a dashing, fashionable woman, and they thought it might be what is called an advantage to her. She had one relation, indeed, who was quite of a different opinion, who saw the danger of her situation, and remonstrated in the strongest manner—but to no purpose. This was a cousin of Miss Moreton’s, a respectable clergyman. Mrs. Freke was so much incensed by his insolent interference, as she was pleased to call it, that she made an effigy of Mr. Moreton dressed in his canonicals, and hung the figure up as a scarecrow in a garden close by the high road. He was so much beloved and respected for his benevolence and unaffected piety, that Mrs. Freke totally failed in her design of making him ridiculous; her scarecrow was torn to pieces by his parishioners; and though, in the true spirit of charity, he did all he could to moderate their indignation against his enemy, the lady became such an object of detestation, that she was followed with hisses and groans whenever she appeared, and she dared not venture within ten miles of the village.
“Mrs. Freke now changed the mode of her persecution: she was acquainted with a nobleman from whom our clergyman expected a living, and she worked upon his lordship so successfully, that he insisted upon having an apology made to the lady. Mr. Moreton had as much dignity of mind as gentleness of character; his forbearance was that of principle, and so was his firmness: he refused to make the concessions that were required. His noble patron bullied. Though he had a large family to provide for, the clergyman would not degrade himself by any improper submission. The incumbent died, and the living was given to a more compliant friend. So ends the history of one of Mrs. Freke’s numerous frolics.”
“This was the story,” said Mr. Vincent, “which effectually changed my opinion of her. Till I heard it, I always looked upon her as one of those thoughtless, good-natured people, who, as the common saying is, do nobody any harm but themselves.”
“It is difficult in society,” said Mr. Percival, “especially for women, to do harm to themselves, without doing harm to others. They may begin in frolic, but they must end in malice. They defy the world—the world in return excommunicates them—the female outlaws become desperate, and make it the business and pride of their lives to disturb the peace of their sober neighbours. Women who have lowered themselves in the public opinion cannot rest without attempting to bring others to their own level.”
“Mrs. Freke, notwithstanding the blustering merriment that she affects, is obviously unhappy,” said Belinda; “and since we cannot do her any good, either by our blame or our pity, we had better think of something else.”
“Scandal,” said Mr. Vincent, “does not seem to give you much pleasure, Miss Portman. You will be glad to hear that Mrs. Freke’s malice against poor Mr. Moreton has not ruined him. Do you know Mr. Percival, that he has just been presented to a good living by a generous young man, who heard of his excellent conduct?”
“I am extremely glad of it,” said Mr. Percival. “Who is this generous young man? I should like to be acquainted with him.”
“So should I,” said Mr. Vincent: “he is a Mr. Hervey.”
“Clarence Hervey, perhaps?”
“Yes, Clarence was his name.”
“No man more likely to do a generous action than Clarence Hervey,” said Mr. Percival.
“Nobody more likely to do a generous action than Mr. Hervey,” repeated Belinda, in rather a low tone. She could now praise Clarence Hervey without blushing, and she could think even of his generosity without partiality, though not without pleasure. By strength of mind, and timely exertion, she had prevented her prepossession from growing into a passion that might have made her miserable. Proud of this conquest over herself, she was now disposed to treat Mr. Vincent with more favour than usual. Self-complacency generally puts us in good-humour with our friends.
After spending some pleasant hours in Lord C——’s beautiful grounds, where the children explored to their satisfaction every dingle and bushy dell, they returned home in the cool of the evening. Mr. Vincent thought it the most delightful evening he had ever felt.
“What! as charming as a West Indian evening?” said Mr. Percival. “This is more than I expected ever to hear you acknowledge in favour of England. Do you remember how you used to rave of the climate and of the prospects of Jamaica?”
“Yes, but my taste has quite changed.”
“I remember the time,” said Mr. Percival, “when you thought it impossible that your taste should ever change; when you told me that taste, whether for the beauties of animate or inanimate nature, was immutable.”
“You and Miss Portman have taught me better sense. First loves are generally silly things,” added he, colouring a little. Belinda coloured also.
“First loves,” continued Mr. Percival, “are not necessarily more foolish than others; but the chances are certainly against them. From poetry or romance, young people usually form their earlier ideas of love, before they have actually felt the passion; and the image which they have in their own minds of the beau ideal is cast upon the first objects they afterward behold. This, if I may be allowed the expression, is Cupid’s Fata Morgana. Deluded mortals are in ecstasy whilst the illusion lasts, and in despair when it vanishes.”
Mr. Percival appeared to be unconscious that what he was saying was any way applicable to Belinda. He addressed himself to Mr. Vincent solely, and she listened at her ease.
“But,” said she, “do not you think that this prejudice, as I am willing to allow it to be, in favour of first loves, may in our sex be advantageous? Even when a woman may be convinced—that she ought not to indulge a first love, should she not be prevented by delicacy from thinking of a second?”
“Delicacy, my dear Miss Portman, is a charming word, and a still more charming thing, and Mrs. Freke has probably increased our affection for it; but even delicacy, like all other virtues, must be judged of by the test of utility. We should run into romance, and error, and misery, if we did not constantly refer to this standard. Our reasonings as to the conduct of life, as far as moral prudence is concerned, must depend ultimately upon facts. Now, of the numbers of people in this world, how many do you think have married their first loves? Probably not one out of ten. Then, would you have nine out of ten pine all their lives in celibacy, or fret in matrimony, because they cannot have the persons who first struck their fancy?”
“I acknowledge this would not add to the happiness of society,” said Belinda.
“Nor to its virtue,” said Mr. Percival. “I scarcely know an idea more dangerous to domestic happiness than this belief in the unextinguishable nature of a first flame. There are people who would persuade us that, though it may be smothered for years, it must break out at last, and blaze with destructive fury. Pernicious doctrine! false as it is pernicious!—The struggles between duty and passion may be the charm of romance, but must be the misery of real life. The woman who marries one man, and loves another, who, in spite of all that an amiable and estimable husband can do to win her confidence and affection, nourishes in secret a fatal prepossession for her first love, may perhaps, by the eloquence of a fine writer, be made an interesting heroine;—but would any man of sense or feeling choose to be troubled with such a wife?—Would not even the idea that women admired such conduct necessarily tend to diminish our confidence, if not in their virtue, at least in their sincerity? And would not this suspicion destroy our happiness? Husbands may sometimes have delicate feelings as well as their wives, though they are seldom allowed to have any by these unjust novel writers. Now, could a husband who has any delicacy be content to possess the person without the mind?—the duty without the love?—Could he be perfectly happy, if, in the fondest moments, he might doubt whether he were an object of disgust or affection?—whether the smiles of apparent joy were only the efforts of a suffering martyr?—Thank Heaven! I am not married to one of these charming martyrs. Let those live with them who admire them. For my part, I admire and love the wife, who not only seems but is happy—as I,” added Mr. Percival smiling, “have the fond credulity to believe. If I have spoken too long or too warmly upon the chapter of first loves, I have at least been a perfectly disinterested declaimer; for I can assure you, Miss Portman, that I do not suspect Lady Anne Percival of sighing in secret for some vision of perfection, any more than she suspects me of pining for the charming Lady Delacour, who, perhaps, you may have heard was my first love. In these days, however, so few people marry with even the pretence to love of any sort, that you will think I might have spared this tirade. No; there are ingenuous minds which will never be enslaved by fashion or interest, though they may be exposed to be deceived by romance, or by the delicacy of their own imaginations.”
“I hear,” said Belinda, smiling, “I hear and understand the emphasis with which you pronounce that word delicacy. I see you have not forgotten that I used it improperly half an hour ago, as you have convinced me.”
“Happy they,” said Mr. Percival, “who can be convinced in half an hour! There are some people who cannot be convinced in a whole life, and who end where they began, with saying—‘This is my opinion—I always thought so, and always shall.’”
Mr. Vincent at all times loved Mr. Percival; but he never felt so much affection for him as he did this evening, and his arguments appeared to him unanswerable. Though Belinda had never mentioned to Mr. Vincent the name of Clarence Hervey till this day, and though he did not in the least suspect from her manner that this gentleman ever possessed any interest in her heart; yet, with her accustomed sincerity, she had confessed to him that an impression had been made upon her mind before she came to Oakly Park.
After this conversation with Mr. Percival, Mr. Vincent perceived that he gained ground more rapidly in her favour; and his company grew every day more agreeable to her taste: he was convinced that, as he possessed her esteem, he should in time secure her affections.
“In time,” repeated Lady Anne Percival: “you must allow her time, or you will spoil all.”
It was with some difficulty that Mr. Vincent restrained his impatience, even though he was persuaded of the prudence of his friend’s advice. Things went on in this happy, but as he thought slow, state of progression till towards the latter end of September.
One fine morning Lady Anne Percival came into Belinda’s room with a bridal favour in her hand. “Do you know,” said she, “that we are to have a wedding today? This favour has just been sent to my maid. Lucy, the pretty girl whom you may remember to have seen some time ago with that prettily turned necklace, is the bride, and James Jackson is the bridegroom. Mr. Vincent has let them a very pretty little farm in the neighbourhood, and—hark! there’s the sound of music.”
They looked out of the window, and they saw a troop of villagers, gaily dressed, going to the wedding. Lady Anne, who was always eager to promote innocent festivity, sent immediately to have a tent pitched in the park; and all the rural company were invited to a dance in the evening: it was a very cheerful spectacle. Belinda heard from all sides praises of Mr. Vincent’s generosity; and she could not be insensible to the simple but enthusiastic testimony which Juba bore to his master’s goodness. Juba had composed, in his broken dialect, a little song in honour of his master, which he sang to his banjore with the most touching expression of joyful gratitude. In some of the stanzas Belinda could distinguish that her own name was frequently repeated. Lady Anne called him, and desired to have the words of this song. They were a mixture of English and of his native language; they described in the strongest manner what had been his feelings whilst he was under the terror of Mrs. Freke’s fiery obeah-woman, then his joy on being relieved from these horrors, with the delightful sensations of returning health;—and thence he suddenly passed to his gratitude to Belinda, the person to whom he owed his recovery. He concluded with wishing her all sorts of happiness, and, above all, that she might be fortunate in her love; which Juba thought the highest degree of felicity. He had no sooner finished his song, which particularly touched and pleased Miss Portman, than he begged his master to offer to her the little instrument, which he had made with much pains and ingenuity. She accepted the banjore with a smile that enchanted Mr. Vincent; but at this instant they were startled by the sound of a carriage driving rapidly into the park. Belinda looked up, and between the heads of the dancers she just caught a glimpse of a well-known livery. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “Lady Delacour’s carriage!—Can it be Lady Delacour?”
The carriage stopped, and Marriott hastily jumped out of it. Belinda pressed forward to meet her; poor Marriott was in great agitation:—“Oh, Miss Portman! my poor lady is very ill—very ill, indeed. She has sent me for you—here’s her letter. Dear Miss Portman, I hope you won’t refuse to come; she has been very ill, and is very ill; but she would be better, if she could see you again. But I’ll tell everything, ma’am, when we are by ourselves, and when you have read your letter.”
Miss Portman immediately accompanied Marriott towards the house; and as they walked thither, she learned that Lady Delacour had applied to the quack-doctor in whom she had such implicit faith, and had in vain endeavoured to engage him to perform for her the operation to which she had determined to submit. He was afraid to hazard it, and he prevailed upon her to give up the scheme, and to try some new external remedy from which he promised wonders. No one knew what his medicines were, but they affected her head in the most alarming manner.
In her delirium she called frequently upon Miss Portman; sometimes accusing her of the basest treachery, sometimes addressing her as if she were present, and pouring forth the warmest expressions of friendship. “In her lucid intervals, ma’am,” continued Marriott, “she for some weeks scarcely ever mentioned your name, nor could bear to hear me mention it. One day, when I was saying how much I wished that you were with her again, she darted at me the most terrible look that ever I beheld.
“‘When I am in my grave, Marriott,’ cried my lady, ‘it will be time enough for Miss Portman again to visit this house, and you may then express your attachment to her with more propriety than at present.’ These were my lady’s own words—I shall never forget them: they struck and astonished me, ma’am, so much, I stood like one stupified, and then left the room to think them over again by myself, and make sense of them, if I could. Well, ma’am, to be sure, it then struck me like a flash of lightning, that my lady was jealous—and, begging your pardon, ma’am—of you. This seemed to me the most unnatural thing in the world, considering how easy my lady had always seemed to be about my lord; but it was now clear to me, that this was the cause of your leaving us so suddenly, ma’am. Well, I was confident that Mr. Champfort was at the bottom of the business from the first; and now that I knew what scent to go upon, I went to work with fresh spirit to find him out, which was a thing I was determined upon—and what I’m determined upon, I generally do, ma’am. So I put together things about Miss Portman and my lord, that had dropped at odd times from Sir Philip Baddely’s gentleman; and I, partly serious and partly flirting, which in a good cause is no sin, drew from him (for he pretends to be a little an admirer of mine, ma’am, though I never gave him the smallest encouragement) all he knew or suspected, or had heard reported, or whispered; and out it came, ma’am, that Mr. Champfort was the original of all; and that he had told a heap of lies about some banknotes that my lord had given you, and that you and my lord were to be married as soon as my lady was dead; and I don’t know what, which he maliciously circulated through Sir Philip’s gentleman to Sir Philip himself, and so round again to my lady. Now, Sir Philip’s man behaved like a gentleman upon the occasion, which I shall ever be free to acknowledge and remember: and when I represented things properly, and made him sensible of the mischief, which, he assured me, was done purely with an eye to serve Sir Philip, his master, he very candidly offered to assist me to unmask that villain Champfort, which he could easily do with the assistance of a few bottles of claret, and a few fair words; which, though I can’t abide hypocrisy, I thought quite allowable upon such an occasion. So, ma’am, when Mr. Champfort was thrown off his guard by the claret, Sir Philip’s gentleman began to talk of my lord and my lady, and Miss Portman; and he observed that my lord and my lady were coming together more than they used to be since Miss Portman left the house. To which Champfort replied with an oath, like an unmannered reprobate as he is, and in his gibberish, French and English, which I can’t speak; but the sense of it was this:—‘My lord and lady shall never come together, if I can help it. It was to hinder this I got Miss Portman banished; for my lord was quite another man after she got Miss Helena into the house; and I don’t doubt but he might have been brought to leave off his burgundy, and set up for a sober, regular man; which would not suit me at all. If my lady once was to get power over him again, I might go whistle—so (with another reprobate oath) my lord and my lady shall never come together again whilst I live.’
“Well, ma’am,” continued Marriott, “as soon as I was in possession of this precious speech, I carried it and a letter of Sir Philip Baddely’s gentleman vouching it to my lady. My lady was thunderstruck, and so vexed to have been, as she said, a dupe, that she sent for my lord directly, and insisted upon his giving up Mr. Champfort. My lord demurred, because my lady spoke so high, and said insist. He would have done it, I’m satisfied, of his own accord with the greatest pleasure, if my lady had not, as it were, commanded it. But he answered at last, ‘My Lady Delacour, I’m not a man to be governed by a wife—I shall keep or part with my own servants in my own house, according to my own pleasure;’ and saying so, he left the room. I never saw my lady so angry as she was at this refusal of my lord to part with him. The house was quite in a state of distraction for some days. I never would sit down to the same table, ma’am, with Mr. Champfort, nor speak to him, nor look at him, and parties ran high above and below stairs. And at last my lady, who had been getting better, took to her bed again with a nervous fever, which brought her almost to death’s door; she having been so much weakened before by the quack medicines and convulsions, and all her sufferings in secret. She would not see my lord on no account, and Champfort persuaded him her illness was pretence, to bring him to her purpose; which was the more readily believed, because nobody was ever let into my lady’s bedchamber but myself. All this time she never mentioned your name, ma’am; but once, when I was sitting by her bedside, as she was asleep, she started suddenly, and cried out, ‘Oh, my dearest Belinda! are you come back to me?’—She awakened herself with the start; and raising herself quite up in her bed, she pulled back the curtains, and looked all round the room. I’m sure she expected to see you; and when she found it was a dream, she gave a heavy sigh, and sank down upon her pillow. I then could not forbear to speak, and this time my lady was greatly touched when I mentioned your name:—she shed tears, ma’am; and you know it is not a little thing that can draw tears from my lady. But when I said something about sending for you, she answered, she was sure you would not return to her, and that she would never condescend to ask a favour in vain, even from you. Then I replied that I was sure you loved her still, and as well as ever: and that the proof of that was, that Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke together, by all their wiles, could not draw you over to their party at Harrowgate, and that you had affronted Mrs. Freke by defending her ladyship. My lady was all surprise at this, and eagerly asked how I came to know it. Now, ma’am, I had it all by a post letter from Mrs. Luttridge’s maid, who is my cousin, and knows everything that’s going on. My lady from this moment forward could scarce rest an instant without wishing for you, and fretting for you as I knew by her manner. One day my lord met me on the stairs as I was coming down from my poor lady’s room, and he asked me how she was, and why she did not send for a physician. ‘The best physician, my lord, she could send for,’ said I, ‘would be Miss Portman; for she’ll never be well till that good young lady comes back again, in my humble opinion.’
“‘And what should prevent that good young lady from coming back again? Not I, surely,’ rejoined my lord, ‘for I wish she were here with all my heart.’
“‘It is not easy to suppose, my lord,’ said I, ‘after all that has passed, that the young lady would choose to return, or that my lady would ask her, whilst Mr. Champfort remains paramount in the house.’ ‘If that’s all,’ cried my lord, ‘tell your lady I’ll part with Champfort upon the spot; for the rascal has just had the insolence to insist upon it, that a pair of new boots are not too tight for me, when I said they were. I’ll show him I can be master, and will, in my own house.’ Ma’am, my heart leaped for joy within me at hearing these words, and I ran up to my lady with them. I easily concluded in my own mind, that my lord was glad of the pretence of the boots, to give up handsomely after his standing out so long. To be sure, my lord’s mightily jealous of being master, and mighty fond of his own way; but I forgive him everything for doing as I would have him at last, and dismissing that prince of mischief-makers, Mr. Champfort. My lady called for her writing desk directly, and sat up in her bed, and with her trembling hand, as you see by the writing, ma’am, wrote a letter to you as fast as ever she could, and the postchaise was ordered. I don’t know what fancy seized her—but if you remember, ma’am, the hammercloth to her new carriage had orange and black fringe at first: she would not use it, till this had been changed to blue and white. Well, ma’am, she recollected this on a sudden, as I was getting ready to come for you; and she set the servants at work directly to take off the blue and white, and put on the black and orange fringe again, which she said must be done before your coming. And my lady ordered her own footman to ride along with me; and I have come post, and have travelled night and day, and will never rest till I get back. But, ma’am, I won’t keep you any longer from reading your letter, only to say, that I hope to Heaven you will not refuse to return to my poor lady, if it be only to put her mind at ease before she dies. She cannot have long to live.”
As Marriott finished these words they reached the house, and Belinda went to her own room to read Lady Delacour’s letter. It contained none of her customary ‘éloquence du billet,’ no sprightly wit, no real, no affected gaiety; her mind seemed to be exhausted by bodily suffering, and her high spirit subdued. She expressed the most poignant anguish for having indulged such unjust suspicions and intemperate passions. She lamented having forfeited the esteem and affection of the only real friend she had ever possessed—a friend of whose forbearance, tenderness, and fidelity, she had received such indisputable proofs. She concluded by saying, “I feel my end fast approaching, and perhaps, Belinda, your humanity will induce you to grant my last request, and to let me see you once more before I die.”
Belinda immediately decided to return to Lady Delacour—though it was with real regret that she thought of leaving Lady Anne Percival, and the amiable and happy family to whom she had become so much attached. The children crowded round her when they heard that she was going, and Mr. Vincent stood in silent sorrow—but we spare our readers this parting scene Miss Portman promised to return to Oakly Park as soon as she possibly could. Mr. Vincent anxiously requested permission to follow her to town: but this she positively refused; and he submitted with as good a grace as a lover can submit to anything that crosses his passion.