“Do not expect that I should pretend to be sorry for Mr. Vincent,” said Lady Delacour. “Let him be as generous and as penitent as he pleases, I am heartily glad that he is on his way to Germany. I dare say he will find in the upper or lower circles of the empire some heroine in the Kotzebue taste, who will alternately make him miserable till he is happy, and happy till he is miserable. He is one of those men who require great emotions: fine lovers these make for stage effect—but the worst husbands in the world!

“I hope, Belinda, you give me credit, for having judged better of Mr. Vincent than Lady Anne Percival did?”

“For having judged worse of him, you mean? Lady Anne always judges as well as possible of every body.”

“I will allow you to play upon words in a friend’s defence, but do not be alarmed for the reputation of Lady Anne’s judgment. If it will be any satisfaction to you, I can with thorough sincerity assure you that I never liked her so well in my life as since I have detected her in a mistake. It saves her, in my imagination, from the odium of being a perfect character.”

“And there was something so handsome in her manner of writing to me, when she found out her error,” said Belinda.

“Very true, and my friend Mr. Percival behaved handsomely. Where friendships clash, it is not every man who has clearness of head sufficient to know his duty to his neighbour. Mr. Percival said no more than just the thing he ought, for his ward. You have reason to be obliged to him: and as we are returning thanks to all persons concerned in our deliverance from this imminent danger, Juba, the dog, and Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew, ought to come in for their share; for without that wrestling match of theirs, the truth might never have been dragged to light, and Mr. Vincent would have been in due course of time your lord and master. But the danger is over; you need not look so terrified: do not be like the man who dropped down dead with terror, when he was shown by daylight the broken bridge which he had galloped over in the dark.”

Lady Delacour was in such high spirits that, without regard to connexion, she ran on from one subject to another.

“You have proved to me, my dear,” said she, “that you are not a girl to marry, because the day was fixed, or because things had gone so far. I give you infinite credit for your civil courage, as Dr. X—— calls it: military courage, as he said to me yesterday—military courage, that seeks the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth, may be had for sixpence a day. But civil courage, such as enabled the Princess Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, to go straight up the hill to her object, though the magical multitude of advising and abusive voices continually called to her to turn back, is one of the rarest qualities in man or woman, and not to be had for love, money, or admiration.”

“You place admiration not only above money, but above love, in your climax, I perceive,” said Belinda, smiling.

“I will give you leave to be as philosophically sarcastic as you please, my dear, if you will only smile, and if you will not look as pale as Seneca’s Paulina, whose story we heard—from whom?”

“From Mr. Hervey, I believe.”

“His name was ready upon your lips; I hope he was not far from your thoughts?”

“No one could be farther from my thoughts,” said Belinda.

“Well, very likely—I believe it, because you say it; and because it is impossible.”

“Rally me as much as you please, my dear Lady Delacour, I assure you that I speak the simple truth.”

“I cannot suspect you of affectation, my dear. Therefore honestly tell me, if Clarence Hervey were at your feet this instant, would you spurn him from you?”

“Spurn him! no—I would neither spurn him, nor motion him from me; but without using any of the terms in the heroine’s dictionary——”

“You would refuse him?” interrupted Lady Delacour, with a look of indignation—“you would refuse him?”

“I did not say so, I believe.”

“You would accept him?”

“I did not say so, I am sure.”

“Oh, you would tell him that you were not accustomed to him?”

“Not exactly in those words, perhaps.”

“Well, we shall not quarrel about words,” said Lady Delacour; “I only beg you to remember your own principles; and if ever you are put to the trial, be consistent. The first thing in a philosopher is to be consistent.”

“Fortunately, for the credit of my philosophy, there is no immediate danger of its being put to the test.”

“Unfortunately, you surely mean; unless you are afraid that it might not stand the test. But I was going, when I spoke of consistency, to remind you that all your own and Mr. Percival’s arguments about first loves may now, with equal propriety, be turned against you.”

“How against me?”

“They are evidently as applicable to second as to first loves, I think.”

“Perhaps they are,” said Belinda; “but I really and truly am not inclined to think of love at present; particularly as there is no necessity that I should.”

Belinda took up a book, and Lady Delacour for one half hour abstained from any farther raillery. But longer than half an hour she could not be silent on the subject uppermost in her thoughts.

“If Clarence Hervey,” cried she, “were not the most honourable of blockheads, he might be the most happy of men. This Virginia!—oh, how I hate her!—I am sure poor Clarence cannot love her.”

“Because you hate her—or because you hate her without having ever seen her?” said Belinda.

“Oh, I know what she must be,” replied Lady Delacour: “a soft, sighing, dying damsel, who puts bullfinches into her bosom. Smile, smile, my dear; you cannot help it; in spite of all your generosity, I know you must think as I do, and wish as I do, that she were at the bottom of the Black Sea this instant.”

Lady Delacour stood for some minutes musing, and then exclaimed, “I will move heaven and earth to break off this absurd match.”

“Good Heavens! my dear Lady Delacour, what do you mean?”

“Mean! my dear—I mean what I say, which very few people do: no wonder I should surprise you.”

“I conjure you,” cried Belinda, “if you have the least regard for my honour and happiness—”

“I have not the least, but the greatest; and depend upon it, my dear, I will do nothing that shall injure that dignity of mind and delicacy of character, which I admire and love, as much as Clarence Hervey did, and does. Trust to me: not Lady Anne Percival herself can be more delicate in her notions of propriety than I am for my friends, and, since my reformation, I hope I may add, for myself. Fear nothing.” As she finished these words, she rang for her carriage. “I don’t ask you to go out with me, my dear Belinda; I give you leave to sit in this armchair till I come back again, with your feet upon the fender, a book in your hand, and this little table beside you, like Lady S.‘s picture of Comfort.”

Lady Delacour spent the rest of the morning abroad; and when she returned home, she gave no account of what she had been doing, or of what or whom she had seen. This was so unusual, that Belinda could not avoid taking notice of it. Notwithstanding her ladyship’s eulogium upon her own delicate sense of propriety, Miss Portman could not confide, with perfect resignation, in her prudence.

“Your ladyship reproached me once,” said she, in a playful tone, “for my provoking want of curiosity: you have completely cured me of this defect, for never was woman more curious than I am, at this instant, to know the secret scheme that you have in agitation.”

“Have patience a little longer, and the mystery will be unravelled. In the mean time, trust that every thing I do is for the best. However, as you have behaved pretty well, I will give you one leading hint, when you have explained to me what you meant by saying that your heart is not at present inclined to love. Pray, have you quarrelled with love for ever?”

“No; but I can exist without it.”

“Have you a heart?”

“I hope so.”

“And it can exist without love? I now understand what was once said to me by a foolish lordling:—’ Of what use is the sun to the dial?’” 10

Company came in, and relieved Belinda from any further raillery. Lady Boucher and Mrs. Margaret Delacour were, amongst a large party, to dine at Lady Delacour’s. At dinner, the dowager seized the first auspicious moment of silence to announce a piece of intelligence, which she flattered herself would fix the eyes of all the world upon her.

“So Mr. Clarence Hervey is married at last!”

“Married!” cried Lady Delacour: she had sufficient presence of mind not to look directly at Belinda; but she fixed the dowager’s eyes, by repeating, “Married! Are you sure of it?”

“Positive—positive! He was privately married yesterday at his aunt, Lady Almeria’s apartments, at Windsor, to Miss Hartley. I told you it was to be, and now it is over; and a very extraordinary match Mr. Hervey has made of it, after all. Think of his going at last, and marrying a girl who has been his mistress for years! Nobody will visit her, to be sure. Lady Almeria is excessively distressed; she did all she could to prevail on her brother, the bishop, to marry his nephew, but he very properly refused, giving it as a reason, that the girl’s character was too well known.”

“I thought the bishop was at Spa,” interposed a gentleman, whilst the dowager drew breath.

“O dear, no, sir; you have been misinformed,” resumed she. “The bishop has been returned from Spa this great while, and he has refused to see his nephew, to my certain knowledge. After all, I cannot but pity poor Clarence for being driven into this match. Mr. Hartley has a prodigious fine fortune, to be sure, and he hurried things forward at an amazing rate, to patch up his daughter’s reputation. He said, as I am credibly informed, yesterday morning, that if Clarence did not marry the girl before night, he would carry her and her fortune off the next day to the West Indies. Now the fortune was certainly an object.”

“My dear Lady Boucher,” interrupted Lord Delacour, “you must be misinformed in that particular: fortune is no object to Clarence Hervey; he is too generous a fellow to marry for fortune. What do you think—what do you say, Lady Delacour?”

“I say, and think, and feel, as you do, my lord,” said Lady Delacour.

“You say, and think, and feel the same as my lord.—Very extraordinary indeed!” said the dowager. “Then if it were not for the sake of the fortune, pray why did Mr. Hervey marry at all? Can any body guess?”

“I should guess because he was in love,” said Lord Delacour “for I remember that was the reason I married myself.”

“My dear good lord—but when I tell you the girl had been his mistress, till he was tired of her—”

“My Lady Boucher,” said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who had hitherto listened in silence, “my Lady Boucher, you have been misinformed; Miss Hartley never was Clarence Hervey’s mistress.”

“I’m mighty glad you think so, Mrs. Delacour; but I assure you nobody else is so charitable. Those who live in the world hear a great deal more than those who live out of the world. I can promise you, nobody will visit the bride, and that is the thing by which we are to judge.”

Then the dowager and the rest of the company continued to descant upon the folly of the match. Those who wished to pay their court to Lady Delacour were the loudest in their astonishment at his throwing himself away in this manner. Her ladyship smiled, and kept them in play by her address, on purpose to withdraw all eyes from Miss Portman, whilst, from time to time, she stole a glance at Belinda, to observe how she was affected by what passed: she was provoked by Belinda’s self-possession. At last, when it had been settled that all the Herveys were odd, but that this match of Clarence’s was the oddest of all the odd things that any of the family had done for many generations, Mrs. Delacour calmly said, “Are you sure, Lady Boucher, that Mr. Hervey is married?”

“Positive! as I said before, positive! Madam, my woman had it from Lady Newland’s Swiss, who had it from Lady Singleton’s Frenchwoman, who had it from Longueville, the hairdresser, who had it from Lady Almeria’s own woman, who was present at the ceremony, and must know if any body does.”

“The report has come to us zigzag as quick as lightning, yet it does not flash conviction upon me,” said Lady Delacour.

“Nor upon me,” said Mrs. Delacour, “for this simple reason. I have seen Miss Hartley within these two hours, and I had it from herself that she is not married.”

“Not married!” cried the dowager with terror.

“I rather think not; she is now with her father, at my house at dinner, I believe, and Clarence Hervey is at Lady Almeria’s, at Windsor: her ladyship is confined by a fit of the gout, and sent for her nephew yesterday. If people who live out of the world hear less, they sometimes hear more correctly than those who live in it.”

“Pray when does Mr. Hervey return from Windsor?” said the incorrigible dowager.

“To-morrow, madam,” said Mrs. Delacour. “As your ladyship is going to several parties this evening, I think it but charitable to set you right in these particulars, and I hope you will be so charitable as to contradict the report of Miss Hartley’s having been Clarence’s mistress.”

“Why, as to that, if the young lady is not married, we must presume there are good reasons for it,” said the dowager. “Pray, on which side was the match broken off?”

“On neither side,” answered Mrs. Delacour.

“The thing goes on then; and what day is the marriage to take place?” said Lady Boucher.

“On Monday—or Tuesday—or Wednesday—or Thursday—or Friday—or Saturday—-or Sunday, I believe,” replied Mrs. Delacour, who had the prudent art of giving answers effectually baffling to the curiosity of gossips.

The dowager consoled herself in her utmost need with a full plate of brandy peaches, and spoke not a word more during the second course. When the ladies retired after the dessert, she again commenced hostilities: she dared not come to open war with Mrs. Delacour; but in a bye-battle, in a corner, she carried every thing before her; and she triumphantly whispered, “We shall see, ma’am, that it will turn out, as I told you, that Miss Rachel, or Virginia, or whatever he pleases to call her, has been what I said; and, as I said, nobody will visit her, not a soul: fifty people I can count who have declared to me they’ve made up their minds; and my own’s made up, I candidly confess; and Lady Delacour, I am sure by her silence and looks, is of my way of thinking, and has no opinion of the young lady: as to Miss Portman, she is, poor thing, of course, so wrapped up in her own affairs, no wonder she says nothing. That was a sad business of Mr. Vincent’s! I am surprised to see her look even so well as she does after it. Mr. Percival, I am told,” said the well-informed dowager, lowering her voice so much that the lovers of scandal were obliged to close their heads round her—“Mr. Percival, I am informed, refused his consent to his ward (who is not of age) on account of an anonymous letter, and it is supposed Mr. Vincent desired it for an excuse to get off handsomely. Fighting that duel about her with Sir Philip Baddely settled his love—so he is gone to Germany, and she is left to wear the willow, which, you see, becomes her as well as everything else. Did she eat any dinner, ma’am? you sat next her.”

“Yes; more than I did, I am sure.”

“Very extraordinary! Then perhaps Sir Philip Baddely’s on again—Lord bless me, what a match would that be for her! Why, Mrs. Stanhope might then, indeed, deserve to be called the match-maker general. The seventh of her nieces this. But look, there’s Mrs. Delacour leading Miss Portman off into the trictrac cabinet, with a face full of business—her hand in hers—Lord, I did not know they were on that footing! I wonder what’s going forward. Suppose old Hartley was to propose for Miss Portman—there would be a dÉnouement! and cut his daughter off with a shilling! Nothing’s impossible, you know. Did he ever see Miss Portman? I must go and find out, positively.”

In the mean time, Mrs. Delacour, unconscious of the curiosity she had excited, was speaking to Belinda in the trictrac cabinet.

“My dear Miss Portman,” said she, “you have a great deal of good-nature, else I should not venture to apply to you on the present occasion. Will you oblige me, and serve a friend of mine—a gentleman who, as I once imagined, was an admirer of yours?”

“I will do any thing in my power to oblige any friend of yours, madam,” said Belinda; “but of whom are you speaking?”

“Of Mr. Hervey, my dear young lady.”

“Tell me how I can serve him as a friend,” said Belinda, colouring deeply.

“That you shall know immediately,” said Mrs. Delacour, rummaging and rustling for a considerable time amongst a heap of letters, which she had pulled out of the largest pockets that ever woman wore, even in the last century.

“Oh, here it is,” continued she, opening and looking into them. “May I trouble you just to look over this letter? It is from poor Mr. Hartley; he is, as you will see, excessively fond of his daughter, whom he has so fortunately discovered after his long search: he is dreadfully nervous, and has been terribly annoyed by these idle gossiping stories. You find, by what Lady Boucher said at dinner, that they have settled it amongst them that Virginia is not a fit person to be visited; that she has been Clarence’s mistress instead of his pupil. Mr. Hartley, you see by this letter, is almost out of his senses with the apprehension that his daughter’s reputation is ruined. I sent my carriage to Twickenham, the moment I received this letter, for the poor girl and her gouvernante. They came to me this morning; but what can I do? I am only one old woman against a confederacy of veteran gossips; but if I could gain you and Lady Delacour for my allies, I should fear no adversaries. Virginia is to stay with me for some days; and Lady Delacour, I see, has a great mind to come to see her; but she does not like to come without you, and she says that she does not like to ask you to accompany her. I don’t understand her delicacy about the matter—I have none; believing, as I do, that there is no foundation whatever for these malicious reports, which, entre nous, originated, I fancy, with Mrs. Marriott. Now, will you oblige me? If you and Lady Delacour will come and see Virginia to-morrow, all the world would follow your example the next day. It’s often cowardice that makes people ill-natured: have you the courage, my good Miss Portman, to be the first to do a benevolent action? I do assure you,” continued Mrs. Delacour with great earnestness, “I do assure you I would as soon put my hand into that fire, this moment, as ask you to do any thing that I thought improper. But forgive me for pressing this point; I am anxious to have your suffrage in her favour: Miss Belinda Portman’s character for prudence and propriety stands so high, and is fixed so firmly, that she may venture to let us cling to it; and I am as well convinced of the poor girl’s innocence as I am of yours; and when you see her, you will be of my opinion.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Delacour,” said Belinda, “that you have wasted a great deal of eloquence upon this occasion, for—”

“I am sorry for it,” interrupted Mrs. Delacour, rising from her seat, with a look of some displeasure. “I meant not to distress or offend you, Miss Portman, by my eloquence: I am only concerned that I should have so far mistaken your character as to expose myself to this refusal.”

“I have given no refusal,” said Belinda, mildly: “you did not let me finish my sentence.”

“I beg pardon; that is a foolish old trick of mine.”

“Mrs. Delacour, I was going to say, has wasted a great deal of eloquence: for I am entirely of her opinion, and I shall, with the greatest readiness, comply with her request.”

“You are a charming, generous girl, and I am a passionate old fool—thank you a thousand times.”

“You are not at all obliged to me,” said Belinda. “When I first heard this story, I believed it, as Lady Boucher now does—but I have had reason to alter my opinion, and perhaps the same means of information would have changed hers; once convinced, it is impossible to relapse into suspicion.”

“Impossible to you: the most truly virtuous women are always the least suspicious and uncharitable in their opinion of their own sex. Lady Anne Percival inspired me with this belief, and Miss Portman confirms it. I admire your courage in daring to come forward in the defence of innocence. I am very rude, alas! for praising you so much.”

“I have not a right to your admiration,” said Belinda; “for I must honestly confess to you that I should not have this courage if there were any danger in the case. I do not think that in doubtful cases it is the business of a young woman to hazard her own reputation by an attempt to preserve another’s: I do not imagine, at least, that I am of sufficient consequence in the world for this purpose; therefore I should never attempt it. It is the duty of such women as Mrs. Delacour, whose reputation is beyond the power of scandal, to come forward in the defence of injured innocence; but this would not be courage in Belinda Portman, it would be presumption and temerity.”

“Well, if you will not let me admire your courage, or your generosity, or your prudence,” said Mrs. Delacour laughing, “you must positively let me admire you altogether, and love you too, for I cannot help it. Farewell.”

After the company was gone, Lady Delacour was much surprised by the earnestness with which Belinda pressed the request that they might the next morning pay a visit to Virginia.

“My dear,” said Lady Delacour, “to tell you the truth, I am full of curiosity, and excessively anxious to go. I hesitated merely on your account: I fancied that you would not like the visit, and that if I went without you, it might be taken notice of; but I am delighted to find that you will come with me: I can only say that you have more generosity than I should have in the same situation.”

The next morning they went together to Mrs. Delacour’s. In their way thither, Belinda, to divert her own thoughts, and to rouse Lady Delacour from the profound and unnatural silence into which she had fallen, petitioned her to finish the history of Sir Philip Baddely, the dog, Miss Annabella Luttridge, and her billet-doux.

“For some of my high crimes and misdemeanours, you vowed that you would not tell me the remainder of the story till the whole week had elapsed; now will you satisfy my curiosity? You recollect that you left off just where you said that you were come to the best part of the story.”

“Was I? did I?—Very true, we shall have time enough to finish it by-and-by, my dear,” said Lady Delacour; “at present my poor head is running upon something else, and I have left off being an accomplished actress, or I could talk of one subject and think of another as well as the best of you.—Stop the carriage, my dear; I am afraid they have forgot my orders.”

“Did you carry what I desired this morning to Mrs. Delacour?” said her ladyship to one of the footmen.

“I did, my lady.”

“And did you say from me, that it was not to be opened till I came?’

“Yes, my lady.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“In Mrs. Delacour’s dressing-room, my lady:—she desired me to take it up there, and she locked the door, and said no one should go in till you came.”

“Very well—go on. Belinda, my dear, I hope that I have worked up your curiosity to the highest pitch.”