Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  About this time Sir Philip Baddely began to pay a sort of lounging attention to Belinda: he knew that Clarence Hervey liked her, and this was the principal cause of his desire to attract her attention. “Belinda Portman” became his favourite toast, and amongst his companions he gave himself the air of talking of her with rapture.

  “Rochfort,” said he, one day, to his friend, “damme, if I was to think of Belinda Portman in any way — you take me — Clary would look damned blue — hey? — damned blue, and devilish small, and cursed silly too — hey?”

  “‘Pon honour, I should like to see him,” said Rochfort: “‘pon honour, he deserves it from us, Sir Phil, and I’ll stand your friend with the girl, and it will do no harm to give her a hint of Clary’s Windsor flame, as a dead secret—’pon honour, he deserves it from us.”

  Now it seems that Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort, during the time of Clarence Hervey’s intimacy with them, observed that he paid frequent visits at Windsor, and they took it into their heads that he kept a mistress there. They were very curious to see her: and, unknown to Clarence, they made several attempts for this purpose: at last one evening, when they were certain that he was not at Windsor, they scaled the high garden wall of the house which he frequented, and actually obtained a sight of a beautiful young girl and an elderly lady, whom they took for her gouvernante. This adventure they kept a profound secret from Clarence, because they knew that he would have quarrelled with them immediately, and would have called them to account for their intrusion. They now determined to avail themselves of their knowledge, and of his ignorance of this circumstance: but they were sensible that it was necessary to go warily to work, lest they should betray themselves. Accordingly they began by dropping distant mysterious hints about Clarence Hervey to Lady Delacour and Miss Portman. Such for instance as—”Damme, we all know Clary’s a perfect connoisseur in beauty — hey, Rochfort? — one beauty at a time is not enough for him — hey, damme? And it is not fashion, nor wit, nor elegance, and all that, that he looks for always.”

  These observations were accompanied with the most significant looks. Belinda heard and saw all this in painful silence, but Lady Delacour often used her address to draw some farther explanation from Sir Philip: his regular answer was, “No, no, your ladyship must excuse me there; I can’t peach, damme-hey, Rochfort?”

  He was in hopes, from the reserve with which Miss Portman began to treat Clarence, that he should, without making any distinct charge, succeed in disgusting her with his rival. Mr. Hervey was about this time less assiduous than formerly in his visits at Lady Delacour’s; Sir Philip was there every day, and often for Miss Portman’s entertainment exerted himself so far as to tell the news of the town. One morning, when Clarence Hervey happened to be present, the baronet thought it incumbent upon him to eclipse his rival in conversation, and he began to talk of the last fête champêtre at Frogmore.

  “What a cursed unlucky overturn that was of yours, Lady Delacour, with those famous young horses! Why, what with this sprain, and this nervous business, you’ve not been able to stir out since the birthday, and you’ve missed the breakfast, and all that, at Frogmore — why, all the world stayed broiling in town on purpose for it, and you that had a card too — how damned provoking!”

  “I regret extremely that my illness prevented me from being at this charming fête; I regret it more on Miss Portman’s account than on my own,” said her ladyship. Belinda assured her that she felt no mortification from the disappointment.

  “O, damme! but I would have driven you in my curricle,” said Sir Philip: “it was the finest sight and best conducted I ever saw, and only wanted Miss Portman to make it complete. We had gipsies, and Mrs. Mills the actress for the queen of the gipsies; and she gave us a famous good song, Rochfort, you know — and then there was two children upon an ass — damme, I don’t know how they came there, for they’re things one sees every day — and belonged only to two of the soldiers’ wives — for we had the whole band of the Staffordshire playing at dinner, and we had some famous glees — and Fawcett gave us his laughing song, and then we had the launching of the ship, and only it was a boat, it would have been well enough — but damme, the song of Polly Oliver was worth the whole — except the Flemish Hercules, Ducrow, you know, dressed in light blue and silver, and — Miss Portman, I wish you had seen this — three great coach-wheels on his chin, and a ladder and two chairs and two children on them — and after that, he sported a musquet and bayonet with the point of the bayonet on his chin — faith! that was really famous! But I forgot the Pyrrhic dance, Miss Portman, which was damned fine too — danced in boots and spurs by those Hungarian fellows — they jump and turn about, and clap their knees with their hands, and put themselves in all sorts of ways — and then we had that song of Polly Oliver, as I told you before, and Mrs. Mills gave us — no, no — it was a drummer of the Staffordshire dressed as a gipsy girl, gave us the cottage on the moor, the most charming thing, and would suit your voice, Miss Portman — damme, you’d sing it like an angel —— But where was I? — Oh, then they had tea — and fireplaces built of brick, out in the air — and then the entrance to the ball-room was all a colonnade done with lamps and flowers, and that sort of thing — and there was some bon-mot (but that was in the morning) amongst the gipsies about an orange and the stadtholder — and then there was a Turkish dance, and a Polonese dance, all very fine, but nothing to come up to the Pyrrhic touch, which was a great deal the most knowing, in boots and spurs — damme, now, I can’t describe the thing to you, ’tis a cursed pity you weren’t there, damme.”

  Lady Delacour assured Sir Philip that she had been more entertained by the description than she could have been by the reality.—”Clarence, was not it the best description you ever heard? But pray favour us with a touch of the Pyrrhic dance, Sir Philip.”

  Lady Delacour spoke with such polite earnestness, and the baronet had so little penetration and so much conceit, that he did not suspect her of irony: he eagerly began to exhibit the Pyrrhic dance, but in such a manner that it was impossible for human gravity to withstand the sight — Rochfort laughed first, Lady Delacour followed him, and Clarence Hervey and Belinda could no longer restrain themselves.

  “Damme, now I believe you’ve all been quizzing me,” cried the baronet, and he fell into a sulky silence, eyeing Clarence Hervey and Miss Portman from time to time with what he meant for a knowing look. His silence and sulkiness lasted till Clarence took his leave. Soon afterward Belinda retired to the music-room. Sir Philip then begged to speak a few words to Lady Delacour, with a face of much importance: and after a preamble of nonsensical expletives, he said that his regard for her ladyship and Miss Portman made him wish to explain hints which had been dropped from him at times, and which he could not explain to her satisfaction, without a promise of inviolable secresy. “As Hervey is or was a sort of a friend, I can’t mention this sort of thing without such a preliminary.” — Lady Delacour gave the preliminary promise, and Sir Philip informed her, that people began to take notice that Hervey was an admirer of Miss Portman, and that it might be a disadvantage to the young lady, as Mr. Hervey could have no serious intentions, because he had an attachment, to his certain knowledge, elsewhere.

  “A matrimonial attachment?” said Lady Delacour.

  “Why, damme, as to matrimony, I can’t say; but the girl’s so famously beautiful, and Clary has been constant to her so many years — —”

  “Many years! then she is not young?”

  “Oh, damme, yes, she is not more than seventeen, — and, let her be what else she will, she’s a famous fine girl. I had a sight of her once at Windsor, by stealth.”

  And then the baronet described her after his manner.—”Where Clary keeps her now, I can’t make out; but he has taken her away from Windsor. She was then with a gouvernante, and is as proud as the devil, which smells like matrimony for Clary.”

  “And do you know this peerless damsel’s name?”

  “I think the old Jezeb
el called her Miss St. Pierre — ay, damme, it was Virginia too — Virginia St. Pierre.”

  “Virginia St. Pierre, a pretty romantic name,” said Lady Delacour: “Miss Portman and I are extremely obliged by your attention to the preservation of our hearts, and I promise you we shall keep your counsel and our own.”

  Sir Philip then, with more than his usual complement of oaths, pronounced Miss Portman to be the finest girl he had ever seen, and took his leave.

  When Lady Delacour repeated this story to Belinda, she concluded by saying, “Now, my dear, you know Sir Philip Baddely has his own views in telling us all this — in telling you, all this; for evidently he admires you, and consequently hates Clarence. So I believe only half the man says; and the other half, though it has made you turn so horribly pale, my love, I consider as a thing of no manner of consequence to you.”

  “Of no manner of consequence to me, I assure your ladyship,” said Belinda; “I have always considered Mr. Hervey as—”

  “Oh, as a common acquaintance, no doubt — but we’ll pass over all those pretty speeches: I was going to say that this ‘mistress in the wood’ can be of no consequence to your happiness, because, whatever that fool Sir Philip may think, Clarence Hervey is not a man to go and marry a girl who has been his mistress for half a dozen years. Do not look so shocked, my dear — I really cannot help laughing. I congratulate you, however, that the thing is no worse — it is all in rule and in course — when a man marries, he sets up new equipages, and casts off old mistresses; or if you like to see the thing as a woman of sentiment rather than as a woman of the world, here is the prettiest opportunity for your lover’s making a sacrifice. I am sorry I cannot make you smile, my dear; but consider, as nobody knows this naughty thing but ourselves, we are not called upon to bristle up our morality, and the most moral ladies in the world do not expect men to be as moral as themselves: so we may suit the measure of our external indignation to our real feelings. Sir Philip cannot stir in the business, for he knows Clarence would call him out if his secret viz to Virginia were to come to light. I advise you d’aller votre train with Clarence, without seeming to suspect him in the least; there is nothing like innocence in these cases, my dear: but I know by the Spanish haughtiness of your air at this instant, that you would sooner die the death of the sentimental-than follow my advice.”

  Belinda, without any haughtiness, but with firm gentleness, replied, that she had no designs whatever upon Mr. Hervey, and that therefore there could be no necessity for any manoeuvring on her part; — that the ambiguity of his conduct towards her had determined her long since to guard her affections, and that she had the satisfaction to feel that they were entirely under her command.

  “That is a great satisfaction, indeed, my dear,” said Lady Delacour. “It is a pity that your countenance, which is usually expressive enough, should not at this instant obey your wishes and express perfect felicity. But though you feel no pain from disappointed affection, doubtless the concern that you show arises from the necessity you are under of withdrawing a portion of your esteem from Mr. Hervey — this is the style for you, is it not? After all, my dear, the whole maybe a quizzification of Sir Philip’s — and yet he gave me such a minute description of her person! I am sure the man has not invention or taste enough to produce such a fancy piece.”

  “Did he mention,” said Belinda, in a low voice, “the colour of her hair?”

  “Yes, light brown; but the colour of this hair seems to affect you more than all the rest.”

  Here, to Belinda’s great relief, the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Marriott. From all she had heard, but especially from the agreement between the colour of the hair which dropped from Hervey’s letter with Sir Philip’s description of Virginia’s, Miss Portman was convinced that Clarence had some secret attachment; and she could not help blaming him in her own mind for having, as she thought, endeavoured to gain her affections, whilst he knew that his heart was engaged to another. Mr. Hervey, however, gave her no farther reason to suspect him of any design to win her love; for about this time his manner towards her changed, — he obviously endeavoured to avoid her; his visits were short, and his attention was principally directed to Lady Delacour; when she retired, he took his leave, and Sir Philip Baddely had the field to himself. The baronet, who thought that he had succeeded in producing a coldness between Belinda and his rival, was surprised to find that he could not gain any advantage for himself; for some time he had not the slightest thoughts of any serious connexion with the lady, but at last he was piqued by her indifference, and by the raillery of his friend Rochfort.

  “‘Pon honour,” said Rochfort, “the girl must be in love with Clary, for she minds you no more than if you were nobody.”

  “I could make her sing to another tune, if I pleased,” said Sir Philip; “but, damme, it would cost me too much — a wife’s too expensive a thing, now-a-days. Why, a man could have twenty curricles, and a fine stud, and a pack of hounds, and as many mistresses as he chooses into the bargain, for what it would cost him to take a wife. Oh, damme, Belinda Portman’s a fine girl, but not worth so much as that comes to; and yet, confound me, if I should not like to see how blue Clary would look, if I were to propose for her in good earnest — hey, Rochfort? — I should like to pay him for the way he served us about that quiz of a doctor, hey?”

  “Ay,” said Rochfort, “you know he told us there was a tant pis and a tant mieux in every thing — he’s not come to the tant pis yet. ‘Pon honour, Sir Philip, the thing rests with you.”

  The baronet vibrated for some time between the fear of being taken in by one of Mrs. Stanhope’s nieces, and the hope of triumphing over Clarence Hervey. At last, what he called love prevailed over prudence, and he was resolved, cost him what it would, to have Belinda Portman. He had not the least doubt of being accepted, if he made a proposal of marriage; consequently, the moment that he came to this determination, he could not help assuming d’avance the tone of a favoured lover.

  “Damme,” cried Sir Philip, one night, at Lady Delacour’s concert, “I think that Mr. Hervey has taken out a patent for talking to Miss Portman; but damme if I give up this place, now I have got it,” cried the baronet, seating himself beside Belinda.

  Mr. Hervey did not contest his seat, and Sir Philip kept his post during the remainder of the concert; but, though he had the field entirely to himself, he could not think of any thing more interesting, more amusing, to whisper in Belinda’s ear, than, “Don’t you think the candles want snuffing famously?”

  CHAPTER XII. — THE MACAW.

  The baronet determined the next day upon the grand attack. He waited upon Miss Portman with the certainty of being favourably received; but he was, nevertheless, somewhat embarrassed to know how to begin the conversation, when he found himself alone with the lady.

  He twirled and twisted a short stick that he held in his hand, and put it into and out of his boot twenty times, and at last he began with—”Lady Delacour’s not gone to Harrowgate yet?”

  “No: her ladyship has not yet felt herself well enough to undertake the journey.”

  “That was a cursed unlucky overturn! She may thank Clarence Hervey for that: it’s like him, — he thinks he’s a better judge of horses, and wine, and every thing else, than any body in the world. Damme, now if I don’t believe he thinks nobody else but himself has eyes enough to see that a fine woman’s a fine woman; but I’d have him to know, that Miss Belinda Portman has been Sir Philip Baddely’s toast these two months.”