Aware that her remaining in town at such an unusual season of the year would appear unaccountable to her fashionable acquaintance, Lady Delacour contrived for herself a characteristic excuse; she declared that there was no possibility of finding pleasure in any thing but novelty, and that the greatest novelty to her would be to remain a whole summer in town. Most of her friends, amongst whom she had successfully established a character for caprice, were satisfied that this was merely some new whim, practised to signalize herself by singularity. The real reason that detained her was her dependence upon the empiric, who had repeatedly visited and constantly prescribed for her. Convinced, however, by the dreadful situation to which his prescriptions had lately reduced her that he was unworthy of her confidence, she determined to dismiss him: but she could not do this, as she had a considerable sum to pay him, till Marriott’s return, because she could not trust any one but Marriott to let him up the private staircase into the boudoir.

During Marriott’s absence, her ladyship suffered no one to attend her but a maid who was remarkable for her stupidity. She thought that she could have nothing to fear from this girl’s spirit of inquiry, for never was any human being so destitute of curiosity. It was about noon when Belinda and Marriott arrived. Lady Delacour, who had passed a restless night, was asleep. When she awoke, she found Marriott standing beside her bed.

“Then it is all in vain, I see,” cried her ladyship: “Miss Portman is not with you?—Give me my laudanum.”

“Miss Portman is come, my lady,” said Marriott; “she is in the dressing-room: she would not come in here with me, lest she should startle you.”

“Belinda is come, do you say? Admirable Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour, and she clasped her hands with ecstasy.

“Shall I tell her, my lady, that you are awake?”

“Yes—no—stay—Lord Delacour is at home. I will get up immediately. Let my lord be told that I wish to speak with him—that I beg he will breakfast with me in my dressing-room half an hour hence. I will dress immediately.”

Marriott in vain represented that she ought not to hurry herself in her present weak state. Intent upon her own thoughts, she listened to nothing that was said, but frequently urged Marriott to be expeditious. She put on an unusual quantity of rouge: then looking at herself in the glass, she said, with a forced smile, “Marriott, I look so charmingly, that Miss Portman, perhaps, will be of Lord Delacour’s opinion, and think that nothing is the matter with me. Ah! no; she has been behind the scenes—she knows the truth too well!—Marriott, pray did she ask you many questions about me?—Was not she very sorry to leave Oakly-park?—Were not they all extremely concerned to part with her?—Did she ask after Helena?—Did you tell her that I insisted upon my lord’s parting with Champfort?”

At the word Champfort, Marriott’s mouth opened eagerly, and she began to answer with her usual volubility. Lady Delacour waited not for any reply to the various questions which, in the hurry of her mind, she had asked; but, passing swiftly by Marriott, she threw open the door of her dressing-room. At the sight of Belinda she stopped short; and, totally overpowered, she would have sunk upon the floor, had not Miss Portman caught her in her arms, and supported her to a sofa. When she came to herself, and heard the soothing tone of Belinda’s voice, she looked up timidly in her face for a few moments without being able to speak.

“And are you really here once more, my dear Belinda?” cried she at last; “and may I still call you my friend?—and do you forgive me?—Yes, I see you do—and from you I can endure the humiliation of being forgiven. Enjoy the noble sense of your own superiority.”

“My dear Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, “you see all this in too strong a light: you have done me no injury—I have nothing to forgive.”

“I cannot see it in too strong a light.—Nothing to forgive!—Yes, you have; that which it is the most difficult to forgive—injustice. Oh, how you must have despised me for the folly, the meanness of my suspicions! Of all tempers that which appears to me, and I am sure to you, the most despicable, the most intolerable, is a suspicious temper. Mine was once open, generous as your own—you see how the best dispositions may be depraved—what am I now? Fit only

a mismatched, misplaced, miserable, perverted being.”

“And now you have abused yourself till you are breathless, I may have some chance,” said Belinda, “of being heard in your defence. I perfectly agree with you in thinking that a suspicious temper is despicable and intolerable; but there is a vast difference between an acute fit of jealousy, as our friend Dr. X—— would say, and a chronic habit of suspicion. The noblest natures may be worked up to suspicion by designing villany; and then a handkerchief, or a hammercloth, ‘trifles as light as air’—”

“Oh, my dear, you are too good. But my folly admits of no excuse, no palliation,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “mine was jealousy without love.”

“That indeed would admit of no excuse,” said Belinda; “therefore you will pardon me if I think it incredible—especially as I have detected you in feeling something like affection for your little daughter, after you had done your best, I mean your worst, to make me believe that you were a monster of a mother.”

“That was quite another affair, my dear. I did not know Helena was worth loving. I did not imagine my little daughter could love me. When I found my mistake, I changed my tone. But there is no hope of mistake with my poor husband. Your own sense must show you, that Lord Delacour is not a man to beloved.”

“That could not always have been your ladyship’s opinion,” said Belinda, with an arch smile.

“Lord! my dear,” said Lady Delacour, a little embarrassed, “in the highest paroxysm of my madness, I never suspected that you could love Lord Delacour; I surely only hinted that you were in love with his coronet. That was absurd enough in all conscience—don’t make me more absurd than I am.”

“Is it then the height of absurdity to love a husband?”

“Love! Nonsense!—Impossible!—Hush! here he comes, with his odious creaking shoes. What man can ever expect to be loved who wears creaking shoes?” pursued her ladyship, as Lord Delacour entered the room, his shoes creaking at every step; and assuming an air of levity, she welcomed him as a stranger to her dressing-room. “No speeches, my lord! no speeches, I beseech you,” cried she, as he was beginning to speak to Miss Portman. “Believe me, that explanations always make bad worse. Miss Portman is here, thank Heaven! and her; and Champfort is gone, thank you—or your boots. And now let us sit down to breakfast, and forget as soon as possible every thing that is disagreeable.”

When Lady Delacour had a mind to banish painful recollections, it was scarcely possible to resist the magical influence of her conversation and manners; yet her lord’s features never relaxed to a smile during this breakfast. He maintained an obstinate silence, and a profound solemnity—till at last, rising from table, he turned to Miss Portman, and said, “Of all the caprices of fine ladies, that which surprises me the most is the whim of keeping their beds without being sick. Now, Miss Portman, you would hardly suppose that my Lady Delacour, who has been so lively this morning, has kept her bed, as I am informed, a fortnight—is not this astonishing?”

“Prodigiously astonishing, that my Lord Delacour, like all the rest of the world, should be liable to be deceived by appearances,” cried her ladyship. “Honour me with your attention for a few minutes, my lord, and perhaps I may increase your astonishment.”

His lordship, struck by the sudden change of her voice from gaiety to gravity, fixed his eyes upon her and returned to his seat. She paused—then addressing herself to Belinda, “My incomparable friend,” said she, “I will now give you a convincing proof of the unlimited power you have over my mind. My lord, Miss Portman has persuaded me to the step which I am now going to take. She has prevailed upon me to make a decisive trial of your prudence and kindness. She has determined me to throw myself on your mercy.”

“Mercy!” repeated Lord Delacour; and a confused idea, that she was now about to make a confession of the justice of some of his former suspicions, took possession of his mind: he looked aghast.

“I am going, my lord, to confide to you a secret of the utmost importance—a secret which is known to but three people in the world—Miss Portman, Marriott, and a man whose name I cannot reveal to you.”

“Stop, Lady Delacour!” cried his lordship, with a degree of emotion and energy which he had never shown till now: “stop, I conjure, I command you, madam! I am not sufficiently master of myself—I once loved you too well to hear such a stroke. Trust me with no such secret—say no more—you have said enough—too much. I forgive you, that is all I can do: but we must part, Lady Delacour!” said he, breaking from her with agony expressed in his countenance.

“The man has a heart, a soul, I protest! You knew him better than I did, Miss Portman. Nay, you are not gone yet, my lord! You really love me, I find.”

“No, no, no,” cried he, vehemently: “weak as you take me to be, Lady Delacour, I am incapable of loving a woman who has disgraced me, disgraced herself, her family, her station, her high endowments, her—” His utterance failed.

“Oh, Lady Delacour!” cried Belinda, “how can you trifle in this manner?”

“I meant not,” said her ladyship, “to trifle: I am satisfied. My lord, it is time that you should be satisfied. I can give you the most irrefragable proof, that whatever may have been the apparent levity of my conduct, you have had no serious cause for jealousy. But the proof will shock—disgust you. Have you courage to know more?—Then follow me.”

He followed her.—Belinda heard the boudoir door unlocked.—In a few minutes they returned.—Grief, and horror, and pity, were painted in Lord Delacour’s countenance, as he passed hastily through the room.

“My dearest friend, I have taken your advice: would to Heaven I had taken it sooner!” said Lady Delacour to Miss Portman. “I have revealed to Lord Delacour my real situation. Poor man! he was shocked beyond expression. He behaved incomparably well. I am convinced that he would, as he said, let his hand be cut off to save my life. The moment his foolish jealousy was extinguished, his love for me revived in full force. Would you believe it? he has promised me to break with odious Mrs. Luttridge. Upon my charging him to keep my secret from her, he instantly, in the handsomest manner in the world, declared he would never see her more, rather than give me a moment’s uneasiness. How I reproach myself for having been for years the torment of this man’s life!”

“You may do better than reproach yourself, my dear Lady Delacour,” said Belinda; “you may yet live for years to be the blessing and pride of his life. I am persuaded that nothing but your despair of obtaining domestic happiness has so long enslaved you to dissipation; and now that you find a friend in your husband, now that you know the affectionate temper of your little Helena, you will have fresh views and fresh hopes; you will have the courage to live for yourself, and not for what is called the world.”

“The world!” cried Lady Delacour, with a tone of disdain: “how long has that word enslaved a soul formed for higher purposes!” She paused, and looked up towards heaven with an expression of fervent devotion, which Belinda had once, and but once, before seen in her countenance. Then, as if forgetful even that Belinda was present, she threw herself upon a sofa, and fell, or seemed to fall, into a profound reverie. She was roused by the entrance of Marriott, who came into the room to ask whether she would now take her laudanum. “I thought I had taken it,” said she in a feeble voice; and as she raised her eyes and saw Belinda, she added, with a faint smile, “Miss Portman, I believe, has been laudanum to me this morning: but even that will not do long, you see; nothing will do for me now but this,” and she stretched out her hand for the laudanum. “Is not it shocking to think,” continued she, after she had swallowed it, “that in laudanum alone I find the means of supporting existence?”

She put her hand to her head, as if partly conscious of the confusion of her own ideas: and ashamed that Belinda should witness it, she desired Marriott to assist her to rise, and to support her to her bedchamber. She made a sign to Miss Portman not to follow her. “Do not take it unkindly, but I am quite exhausted, and wish to be alone; for I am grown fond of being alone some hours in the day, and perhaps I shall sleep.”

Marriott came out of her lady’s room about a quarter of an hour afterward, and said that her lady seemed disposed to sleep, but that she desired to have her hook left by her bedside. Marriott searched among several which lay upon the table, for one in which a mark was put. Belinda looked over them along with Marriott, and she was surprised to find that they had almost all methodistical titles. Lady Delacour’s mark was in the middle of Wesley’s Admonitions. Several pages in other books of the same description Miss Portman found marked in pencil, with reiterated lines, which she knew to be her ladyship’s customary mode of distinguishing passages that she particularly liked. Some were highly oratorical, but most of them were of a mystical cast, and appeared to Belinda scarcely intelligible. She had reason to be astonished at meeting with such books in the dressing-room of a woman of Lady Delacour’s character. During the solitude of her illness, her ladyship had first begun to think seriously on religious subjects, and the early impressions that had been made on her mind in her childhood, by a methodistical mother, recurred. Her understanding, weakened perhaps by disease, and never accustomed to reason, was incapable of distinguishing between truth and error; and her temper, naturally enthusiastic, hurried her from one extreme to the other—from thoughtless scepticism to visionary credulity. Her devotion was by no means steady or permanent; it came on by fits usually at the time when the effect of opium was exhausted, or before a fresh dose began to operate. In these intervals she was low-spirited—bitter reflections on the manner in which she had thrown away her talents and her life obtruded themselves; the idea of the untimely death of Colonel Lawless, of which she reproached herself as the cause, returned; and her mind, from being a prey to remorse, began to sink in these desponding moments under the most dreadful superstitious terrors—terrors the more powerful as they were secret. Whilst the stimulus of laudanum lasted, the train of her ideas always changed, and she was amazed at the weak fears and strange notions by which she had been disturbed; yet it was not in her power entirely to chase away these visions of the night, and they gained gradually a dominion over her, of which she was heartily ashamed. She resolved to conceal this weakness, as in her gayer moments she thought it, from Belinda, from whose superior strength of understanding she dreaded ridicule or contempt. Her experience of Miss Portman’s gentleness and friendship might reasonably have prevented or dispelled such apprehensions; but Lady Delacour was governed by pride, by sentiment, by whim, by enthusiasm, by passion—by any thing but reason.

When she began to revive after her fit of languor, and had been refreshed by opium and sleep, she rang for Marriott, and inquired for Belinda. She was much provoked when Marriott, by way of proving to her that Miss Portman could not have been tired of being left alone, told her that she had been in the dressing-room rummaging over the books.

“What books?” cried Lady Delacour. “I forgot that they were left there. Miss Portman is not reading them still, I suppose? Go for them, and let them be locked up in my own bookcase, and bring me the key.”

Her ladyship appeared in good spirits when she saw Belinda again. She rallied her upon the serious studies she had chosen for her morning’s amusements. “Those methodistical books, with their strange quaint titles,” said she, “are, however, diverting enough to those who, like myself, can find diversion in the height of human absurdity.”

Deceived by the levity of her manner, Belinda concluded that the marks of approbation in these books were ironical, and she thought no more of the matter; for Lady Delacour suddenly gave a new turn to the conversation by exclaiming, “Now we talk of the height of human absurdity, what are we to think of Clarence Hervey?”

“Why should we think of him at all?” said Belinda.

“For two excellent reasons, my dear: because we cannot help it, and because he deserves it. Yes, he deserves it, believe me, if it were only for having written these charming letters,” said Lady Delacour, opening a cabinet, and taking out a small packet of letters, which she put into Belinda’s hands. “Pray, read them; you will find them amazingly edifying, as well as entertaining. I protest I am only puzzled to know whether I shall bind them up with Sterne’s Sentimental Journey or Fordyce’s Sermons for Young Women. Here, my love, if you like description,” continued her ladyship, opening one of the letters, “here is a Radcliffean tour along the picturesque coasts of Dorset and Devonshire. Why he went this tour, unless for the pleasure and glory of describing it, Heaven knows! Clouds and darkness rest over the tourist’s private history: but this, of course, renders his letters more piquant and interesting. All who have a just taste either for literature or for gallantry, know how much we are indebted to the obscure for the sublime; and orators and lovers feel what felicity there is in the use of the fine figure of suspension.”

“Very good description, indeed!” said Belinda, without raising her eyes from the letter, or seeming to pay any attention to the latter part of Lady Delacour’s speech; “very good description, certainly!”

“Well, my dear; but here is something better than pure description—here is sense for you: and pray mark the politeness of addressing sense to a woman—to a woman of sense, I mean—and which of us is not? Then here is sentiment for you,” continued her ladyship, spreading another letter before Belinda; “a story of a Dorsetshire lady, who had the misfortune to be married to a man as unlike Mr. Percival, and as like Lord Delacour, as possible; and yet, oh, wonderful! they make as happy a couple as one’s heart could wish. Now, I am truly candid and good-natured to admire this letter; for every word of it is a lesson to me, and evidently was so intended. But I take it all in good part, because, to do Clarence justice, he describes the joys of domestic Paradise in such elegant language, that he does not make me sick. In short, my dear Belinda, to finish my panegyric, as it has been said of some other epistles, if ever there were letters calculated to make you fall in love with the writer of them, these are they.”

“Then,” said Miss Portman, folding up the letter which she was just going to read, “I will not run the hazard of reading them.”

“Why, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, with a look of mingled concern, reproach, and raillery, “have you actually given up my poor Clarence, merely on account of this mistress in the wood, this Virginia St. Pierre? Nonsense! Begging your pardon, my dear, the man loves you. Some entanglement, some punctilio, some doubt, some delicacy, some folly, prevents him from being just at this moment, where, I confess, he ought to be—at your feet; and you, out of patience, which a young lady ought never to be if she can help it, will go and marry—I know you will—some stick of a rival, purely to provoke him.”

“If ever I marry,” said Belinda, with a look of proud humility, “I shall certainly marry to please myself, and not to provoke any body else; and, at all events, I hope I shall never marry a stick.”

“Pardon me that word,” said Lady Delacour. “I am convinced you never will—but one is apt to judge of others by one’s self. I am willing to believe that Mr. Vincent——”

“Mr. Vincent! How did you know——” exclaimed Belinda.

“How did I know? Why, my dear, do you think I am so little interested about you, that I have not found out some of your secrets? And do you think that Marriott could refrain from telling me, in her most triumphant tone, that ‘Miss Portman has not gone to Oakly-park for nothing; that she has made a conquest of a Mr. Vincent, a West Indian, a ward, or lately a ward, of Mr. Percival’s, the handsomest man that ever was seen, and the richest, &c. &c. &c.?’ Now simple I rejoiced at the news; for I took it for granted you would never seriously think of marrying the man.”

“Then why did your ladyship rejoice?”

“Why? Oh, you novice at Cupid’s chess-board! do not you see the next move? Check with your new knight, and the game is your own. Now, if your aunt Stanhope saw your look at this instant, she would give you up for ever—if she have not done that already. In plain, unmetaphorical prose, then, cannot you comprehend, my straight-forward Belinda, that if you make Clarence Hervey heartily jealous, let the impediments to your union be what they may, he will acknowledge himself to be heartily in love with you? I should make no scruple of frightening him within an inch of his life, for his good. Sir Philip Baddely was not the man to frighten him; but this Mr. Vincent, by all accounts, is just the thing.”

“And do you imagine that I could use Mr. Vincent so ill?—And can you think me capable of such double dealing?”

“Oh! in love and war, you know, all stratagems are allowable. But you take the matter so seriously, and you redden with such virtuous indignation, that I dare not say a word more—only—may I ask—are you absolutely engaged to Mr. Vincent?”

“No. We have had the prudence to avoid all promises, all engagements.”

“There’s my good girl!” cried Lady Delacour, kissing her: “all may yet turn out well. Read those letters—take them to your room, read them, read them; and depend upon it, my dearest Belinda! you are not the sort of woman that will, that can be happy, if you make a mere match of convenience. Forgive me—I love you too well not to speak the truth, though it may offend for a moment.”

“You do not offend, but you misunderstand me,” said Belinda. “Have patience with me, and you shall find that I am incapable of making a mere match of convenience.”

Then Miss Portman gave Lady Delacour a simple but full account of all that had passed at Oakly-park relative to Mr. Vincent. She repeated the arguments by which Lady Anne Percival had first prevailed upon her to admit of Mr. Vincent’s addresses. She said, that she had been convinced by Mr. Percival, that the omnipotence of a first love was an idea founded in error, and realized only in romance; and that to believe that none could be happy in marriage, except with the first object of their fancy or their affections, would be an error pernicious to individuals and to society. When she detailed the arguments used by Mr. Percival on this subject, Lady Delacour sighed, and observed that Mr. Percival was certainly right, judging from his own experience, to declaim against the folly of first loves; “and for the same reason,” added she, “perhaps I may be pardoned if I retain some prejudice in their favour.” She turned aside her head to hide a starting tear, and here the conversation dropped. Belinda, recollecting the circumstances of her ladyship’s early history, reproached herself for having touched on this tender subject, yet at the same time she felt with increased force, at this moment, the justice of Mr. Percival’s observations; for, evidently, the hold which this prejudice had kept in Lady Delacour’s mind had materially injured her happiness, by making her neglect, after her marriage, all the means of content that were in her reach. Her incessant comparisons between her first love and her husband excited perpetual contempt and disgust in her mind for her wedded lord, and for many years precluded all perception of his good qualities, all desire to live with him upon good terms, and all idea of securing that share of domestic happiness that was actually in her power. Belinda resolved at some future moment, whenever she could, with propriety and with effect, to suggest these reflections to Lady Delacour, and in the mean time she was determined to turn them to her own advantage. She perceived that she should have need of all her steadiness to preserve her judgment unbiassed by her ladyship’s wit and persuasive eloquence on the one hand, and on the other by her own high opinion of Lady Anne Percival’s judgment, and the anxious desire she felt to secure her approbation. The letters from Clarence Hervey she read at night, when she retired to her own room; and they certainly raised not only Belinda’s opinion of his talents, but her esteem for his character. She saw that he had, with great address, made use of the influence he possessed over Lady Delacour, to turn her mind to every thing that could make her amiable, estimable, and happy—she saw that Clarence, so far from attempting, for the sake of his own vanity, to retain his pre-eminence in her ladyship’s imagination, used on the contrary “his utmost skill” to turn the tide of her affections toward her husband and her daughter. In one of his letters, and but in one, he mentioned Belinda. He expressed great regret in hearing from Lady Delacour that her friend, Miss Portman, was no longer with her. He expatiated on the inestimable advantages and happiness of having such a friend—but this referred to Lady Delacour, not to himself. There was an air of much respect and some embarrassment in all he said of Belinda, but nothing like love. A few words at the end of this paragraph were cautiously obliterated, however; and, without any obvious link of connexion, the writer began a new sentence with a general reflection upon the folly and imprudence of forming romantic projects. Then he enumerated some of the various schemes he had formed in his early youth, and humorously recounted how they had failed, or how they had been abandoned. Afterward, changing his tone from playful wit to serious philosophy, he observed the changes which these experiments had made in his own character.

“My friend, Dr. X——,” said he, “divides mankind into three classes: those who learn from the experience of others—they are happy men; those who learn from their own experience—they are wise men; and, lastly, those who learn neither from their own nor from other people’s experience—they are fools. This class is by far the largest. I am content,” continued Clarence, “to be in the middle class—perhaps you will say because I cannot be in the first: however, were it in my power to choose my own character, I should, forgive me the seeming vanity of the speech, still be content to remain in my present station upon this principle—the characters of those who are taught by their own experience must be progressive in knowledge and virtue. Those who learn from the experience of others may become stationary, because they must depend for their progress on the experiments that we brave volunteers, at whose expense they are to live and learn, are pleased to try. There may be much safety in thus snugly fighting, or rather seeing the battle of life, behind the broad shield of a stouter warrior; yet it seems to me to be rather an ignominious than an enviable situation.

“Our friend, Dr. X——, would laugh at my insisting upon being amongst the class of learners by their own experience. He would ask me, whether it be the ultimate end of my philosophy to try experiments, or to be happy. And what answer should I make? I have none ready. Common sense stares me in the face, and my feelings, even at this instant, alas! confute my system. I shall pay too dear yet for some of my experiments. ‘Sois grand homme, et sois malheureux,’ is, I am afraid, the law of nature, or rather the decree of the world. Your ladyship will not read this without a smile; for you will immediately infer, that I think myself a great man; and as I detest hypocrisy yet more than vanity, I shall not deny the charge. At all events, I feel that I am at present—however gaily I talk of it—in as fair a way to be unhappy for life, as if I were, in good earnest, the greatest man in Europe.

“Your ladyship’s most respectful admirer, and sincere friend,

“CLARENCE HERVEY.”

“P. S.—Is there any hope that your friend, Miss Portman, may spend the winter in town?”

Though Lady Delacour had been much fatigued by the exertion of her spirits during the day, she sat up at night to write to Mr. Hervey. Her love and gratitude to Miss Portman interested her most warmly for her happiness, and she was persuaded that the most effectual way to secure it would be to promote her union with her first love. Lady Delacour, who had also the best opinion of Clarence Hervey, and the most sincere friendship for him, thought she was likewise acting highly for his interest; and she felt that she had some merit in at once parting with him from the train of her admirers, and urging him to become a dull, married man. Besides these generous motives, she was, perhaps, a little influenced by jealousy of the superior power which Lady Anne Percival had in so short a time acquired over Belinda’s mind. “Strange,” thought she, “if love and I be not a match for Lady Anne Percival and reason!” To do Lady Delacour justice, it must be observed, that she took the utmost care in her letter not to commit her friend; she wrote with all the delicate address of which she was mistress. She began by rallying her correspondent on his indulging himself so charmingly in the melancholy of genius; and she prescribed as a cure to her malheureux imaginaire, as she called him, those joys of domestic life which he so well knew how to paint.

“PrÉcepte commence, exemple achÈve,” said her ladyship. “You will never see me la femme comme il y en a peu, till I see you le bon mari. Belinda Portman has this day returned to me from Oakly-park, fresh, blooming, wise, and gay, as country air, flattery, philosophy, and love can make her. It seems that she has had full employment for her head and heart. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne, by right of science and reason, have taken possession of the head, and a Mr. Vincent, their ci-devant ward and declared favourite, has laid close siege to the heart, of which he is in a fair way, I think, to take possession, by the right of conquest. As far as I can understand—for I have not yet seen le futur—he deserves my Belinda; for besides being as handsome as any hero of romance, ancient or modern, he has a soul in which neither spot nor blemish can be found, except the amiable weakness of being desperately in love—a weakness which we ladies are apt to prefer to the most philosophic stoicism: apropos of philosophy—we may presume, that notwithstanding Mr. V—— is a creole, he has been bred up by his guardian in the class of men who learn by the experience of others. As such, according to your system, he has a right to expect to be a happy man, has not he? According to Mrs. Stanhope’s system, I am sure that he has: for his thousands and tens of thousands, as I am credibly informed, pass the comprehension of the numeration table.

“But these will weigh not a grain in the estimation of her truly disinterested and noble-minded niece. Mrs. Stanhope knows nothing of Mr. Vincent’s proposals; and it is well for him she does not, for her worldly good word would mar the whole. Not so as to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival’s approbation—their opinion is all in all with my friend. How they have contrived it, I know not, but they have gained over Belinda’s mind a degree of power almost equal to parental authority; so you may guess that the doubtful beam will not much longer nod from side to side: indeed it seems to me scarcely necessary to throw in the sword of authority to turn the scale.

“If you can persuade yourself to finish your picturesque tour before the ides of the charming month of November, do, my dear Clarence! make haste and come back to us in time for Belinda’s wedding—and do not forget my commission about the Dorsetshire angel; bring me one in your right hand with a gold ring upon her taper finger—so help you, Cupid! or never more expect a smile

“From your sincere friend and admirer,

“T.C.H. DELACOUR.”

“P.S. Observe, my good sir, that I am not in such a desperate hurry to congratulate you on your marriage, that I should be satisfied with an ordinary Mrs. Hervey: so do not, under pretence of obliging me, or for any other consideration, yoke yourself to some damsel that you will be ashamed to produce. For one woman worthy to be Clarence Hervey’s wife, I have seen, at a moderate computation, a hundred fit to be his mistress. If he should, on this subject, mistake the fitness of things or of persons, he would indeed be in a fair way to be unhappy for life.

“The substance of a lady’s letter, it has been said, always is comprised in the postscript.”

After Lady Delacour had finished this letter, which she had no doubt would bring Clarence immediately to town, she left it with Marriott, with orders to have it sent by the next post. Much fatigued, she then retired to rest, and was not visible the next day till near dinner-time. When Miss Portman returned the packet of Mr. Hervey’s letters, her ladyship was dissatisfied with the measured terms of Belinda’s approbation, and she said, with a sarcastic smile, “So, they have made a complete philosopher of you at Oakly-park! You are perfect in the first lesson—not to admire. And is the torch of Cupid to be extinguished on the altar of Reason?”

“Rather to be lighted there, if possible,” said Belinda; and she endeavoured to turn the conversation to what she thought must be more immediately interesting to Lady Delacour—her own health. She assured her, with perfect truth, that she was at present more intent upon her situation than upon Cupid or his torch.

“I believe you, my generous Belinda!” said Lady Delacour; “and for that very reason I am interested in your affairs, I am afraid, even to the verge of impertinence. May I ask why this preux chevalier of yours did not attend you, or follow you to town?”

“Mr. Vincent?—He knew that I came to attend your ladyship. I told him that you had been confined by a nervous fever, and that it would be impossible for me to see him at present; but I promised, when you could spare me, to return to Oakly-park.”

Lady Delacour sighed, and opened Clarence Hervey’s letters one after another, looking over them without seeming well to know what she was about. Lord Delacour came into the room whilst these letters were still in her hand. He had been absent since the preceding morning, and he now seemed as if he were just come home, much fatigued. He began in a tone of great anxiety to inquire after Lady Delacour’s health. She was piqued at his having left home at such a time, and, merely bowing her head to him, she went on reading. His eyes glanced upon the letters which she held in her hand; and when he saw the well-known writing of Clarence Hervey, his manner immediately altered, and, stammering out some common-place phrases, he threw himself into an arm-chair by the fireside, protesting that he was tired to death—that he was half dead—that he had been in a post-chaise for three hours, which he hated—had ridden fifty miles since yesterday; and he muttered that he was a fool for his pains—an observation which, though it reached her ladyship’s ears, she did not think proper to contradict.

His lordship had then recourse to his watch, his never-failing friend in need, which he always pulled out with a particular jerk when he was vexed.

“It is time for me to be gone—I shall be late at Studley’s.”

“You dine with his lordship then?” said Lady Delacour, in a careless tone.

“Yes; and his good burgundy, I hope, will wind me up again,” said he, stretching himself, “for I am quite down.”

“Quite down? Then we may conclude that my friend Mrs. Luttridge is not yet come to Rantipole. Rantipole, my dear,” continued Lady Delacour, turning to Miss Portman, “is the name of Harriot Freke’s villa in Kent. However strange it may sound to your ears and mine, I can assure you the name has made fortune amongst a certain description of wits. And candour must allow that, if not elegant, it is appropriate; it gives a just idea of the manners and way of life of the place, for every thing at Rantipole is rantipole. But I am really concerned, my lord, you should have ridden yourself down in this way for nothing. Why did not you get better intelligence before you set out? I am afraid you feel the loss of Champfort. Why did not you contrive to learn for certain, my dear good lord, whether the Luttridge was at Rantipole, before you set out on this wild goose chase?”

“My dear good lady,” replied Lord Delacour, assuming a degree of spirit which startled her as much as it became him, “why do you not get better intelligence before you suspect me of being a brute and a liar? Did not I promise you yesterday, that I would break with the Luttridge, as you call her? and how could you imagine that the instant afterwards, just at the time I was wrung to the soul, as you know I was—how could you imagine I would leave you to go to Rantipole, or to any woman upon earth?”

“Oh, my lord! I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon a thousand times,” cried Lady Delacour, rising with much emotion; and, going towards him with a sudden impulse, she kissed his forehead.

“And so you ought to beg my pardon,” said Lord Delacour, in a faltering voice, but without moving his posture.

“You will acknowledge you left me, however, my lord? That is clear.”

“Left you! Yes, so I did; to ride all over the country in search of a house that would suit you. For what else did you think I could leave you at such a time as this?”

Lady Delacour again stooped, and leaned her arm upon his shoulder.

“I wish to Heaven, my dear,” said his lordship, shrinking as he put away her hand, which still held Clarence Hervey’s letters, “I wish to Heaven, my dear, you would not hold those abominable perfumed papers just under my very nose. You know I cannot stand perfumes.”

“Are they perfumed? Ay; so every thing is that I keep in that cabinet of curiosities. Thank you, my dear Miss Portman,” said her ladyship, as Belinda rose to take the letters from her hand. “Will you have the goodness to put them back into their cabinet, if you can endure to touch them, if the perfume has not overcome you as well as my lord? After all, it is only ottar of roses, to which few people’s olfactory nerves have an antipathy.”

“I have the honour to be one of the few,” said his lordship, rising from his seat with so sudden a motion as to displace Lady Delacour’s arm which leaned upon him. “For my part,” continued he, taking down one of the Argand lamps from the chimney-piece, and trimming it, “I would rather a hundred to one snuff up the oil of this cursed lamp.”

Whilst his lordship applied himself to trimming the lamp with great earnestness, Lady Delacour negligently walked away to the farthest end of the room, where stood the cabinet, which Belinda was trying to unlock.

“Stay, my love; it has a secret lock, which I alone can manage.”

“Oh, my dear Lady Delacour!” whispered Belinda, holding her hand as she gave her the key, “I never can love or esteem you if you use Lord Delacour ill now.”

“Ill now? ill now? This lock is spoilt, I do believe,” said she aloud.

“Nay, you understand me, Lady Delacour! You see what is passing in his mind.”

“To be sure: I am not a fool, though he is. I see he is jealous, though he has had such damning proof that all’s right—the man’s a fool, that’s all. Are you sure this is the key I gave you, my dear?”

“And can you think him a fool,” pursued Belinda, in a still more earnest whisper, “for being more jealous of your mind than of your person? Fools have seldom so much penetration, or so much delicacy.”

“But, Lord! what would you have me do? what would you have me say? That Lord Delacour writes better letters than these?”

“Oh, no! but show him these letters, and you will do justice to him, to yourself, to Cla——, to every body.”

“I am sure I should be happy to do justice to every body.”

“Then pray do this very instant, my dearest Lady Delacour! and I shall love you for it all my life.”

“Done!—for who can withstand that offer?—Done!” said her ladyship. Then turning to Lord Delacour, “My lord, will you come here and tell us what can be the matter with this lock?”

“If the lock be spoiled, Lady Delacour, you had better send for a locksmith,” replied his lordship, who was still employed about the wick of the Argand: “I am no locksmith—I do not pretend to understand locks—especially secret locks.”

“But you will not desert us at our utmost need, I am sure, my lord,” said Belinda, approaching him with a conciliatory smile.

“You want the light, I believe, more than I do,” said his lordship, advancing with the lamp to meet her. “Well! what is the matter with this confounded lock of yours, Lady Delacour? I know I should be at Studley’s by this time—but how in the devil’s name can you expect me to open a secret lock when I do not know the secret, Lady Delacour?”

“Then I will tell you the secret, Lord Delacour—that there is no secret at all in the lock, or in the letters. Here, if you can stand the odious smell of ottar of roses, take these letters and read them, foolish man; and keep them till the shocking perfume is gone off.”

Lord Delacour could scarcely believe his senses; he looked in Lady Delacour’s eyes to see whether he had understood her rightly.

“But I am afraid,” said she, smiling, “that you will find the perfume too overcoming.”

“Not half so overcoming,” cried he, seizing her hand, and kissing it often with eager tenderness, “not half so overcoming as this confidence, this kindness, this condescension from you.”

“Miss Portman will think us both a couple of old fools,” said her ladyship, making a slight effort to withdraw her hand. “But she is almost as great a simpleton herself, I think,” continued she, observing that the tears stood in Belinda’s eyes.

“My lord,” said a footman who came in at this instant, “do you dress? The carriage is at the door, as you ordered, to go to Lord Studley’s.”

“I’d see Lord Studley at the devil, sir, and his burgundy along with him, before I’d go to him to-day; and you may tell him so, if you please,” cried Lord Delacour.

“Very well, my lord,” said the footman.

“My lord dines at home—they may put up the carriage—that’s all,” said Lady Delacour: “only let us have dinner directly,” added she, as the servant shut the door. “Miss Portman will be famished amongst us: there is no living upon sentiment.”

“And there is no living with such belles without being something more of a beau,” said Lord Delacour, looking at his splashed boots. “I will be ready for dinner before dinner is ready for me.” With activity very unusual to him, he hurried out of the room to change his dress.

“O day of wonders!” exclaimed Lady Delacour. “And, O night of wonders! if we can get him through the evening without the help of Lord Studley’s wine. You must give us some music, my good Belinda, and make him accompany you with his flute. I can tell you he has really a very pretty taste for music, and knows fifty times more of the matter than half the dilettanti, who squeeze the human face divine into all manner of ridiculous shapes, by way of persuading you that they are in ecstasy! And, my dear, do not forget to show us the charming little portfolio of drawings that you have brought from Oakly-park. Lord Delacour was with me at Harrowgate in the days of his courtship: he knows the charming views that you have been taking about Knaresborough and Fountain’s Abbey, and all those places. I will answer for it, he remembers them a hundred times better than I do. And, my love, I assure you he is a better judge of drawing than many whom we saw ogling Venus rising from the sea, in the Orleans gallery. Lord Delacour has let his talents go to sleep in a shameless manner; but really he has talents, if they could be wakened. By-the-by, pray make him tell you the story of Lord Studley’s original Titian: he tells that story with real humour. Perhaps you have not found it out, but Lord Delacour has a vast deal of drollery in his own way, and——”

“Dinner’s ready, my lady!”

“That is a pity!” whispered Lady Delacour; “for if they had let me go on in my present humour, I should have found out that my lord has every accomplishment under the sun, and every requisite under the moon, to make the marriage state happy.”

With the assistance of Belinda’s portfolio and her harp, and the good-humour and sprightliness of Lady Delacour’s wit, his lordship got through the evening much to his own satisfaction. He played on the flute, he told the story of Studley’s original Titian, and he detected a fault that had escaped Mr. Percival in the perspective of Miss Portman’s sketch of Fountain’s Abbey. The perception that his talents were called out, and that he appeared to unusual advantage, made him excellent company: he found that the spirits can be raised by self-complacency even more agreeably than by burgundy.