As this intelligence did not seem to make the expected impression upon Miss Belinda Portman, Sir Philip had recourse again to his little stick, with which he went through the sword exercise. After a silence of some minutes, and after walking to the window, and back again, as if to look for sense, he exclaimed, “How is Mrs. Stanhope now, pray, Miss Portman? and your sister, Mrs. Tollemache? she was the finest woman, I thought, the first winter she came out, that ever I saw, damme. Have you ever been told that you’re like her?”
“Never, sir.”
“Oh, damn it then, but you are; only ten times handsomer.”
“Ten times handsomer than the finest woman you ever saw, Sir Philip?” said Belinda, smiling.
“Than the finest woman I had ever seen then,” said Sir Philip; “for, damme, I did not know what it was to be in love then” (here the baronet heaved an audible sigh): “I always laughed at love, and all that, then, and marriage particularly. I’ll trouble you for Mrs. Stanhope’s direction, Miss Portman; I believe, to do the thing in style, I ought to write to her before I speak to you.”
Belinda looked at him with astonishment; and laying down the pencil with which she had just begun to write a direction to Mrs. Stanhope, she said, “Perhaps, Sir Philip, to do the thing in style, I ought to pretend at this instant not to understand you; but such false delicacy might mislead you: permit me, therefore, to say, that if I have any concern in the letter which you, are going to write to my aunt Stanhope — —”
“Well guessed!” interrupted Sir Philip: “to be sure you have, and you’re a charming girl — damn me if you aren’t — for meeting my ideas in this way, which will save a cursed deal of trouble,” added the polite lover, seating himself on the sofa, beside Belinda.
“To prevent your giving yourself any further trouble then, sir, on my account,” said Miss Portman ——
“Nay, damme, don’t catch at that unlucky word, trouble, nor look so cursed angry; though it becomes you, too, uncommonly, and I like pride in a handsome woman, if it was only for variety’s sake, for it’s not what one meets with often, now-a-days. As to trouble, all I meant was, the trouble of writing to Mrs. Stanhope, which of course I thank you for saving me; for to be sure, I’d rather (and you can’t blame me for that) have my answer from your own charming lips, if it was only for the pleasure of seeing you blush in this heavenly sort of style.”
“To put an end to this heavenly sort of style, sir,” said Belinda, withdrawing her hand, which the baronet took as if he was confident of its being his willing prize, “I must explicitly assure you, that it is not in my power to encourage your addresses. I am fully sensible,” added Miss Portman, “of the honour Sir Philip Baddely has done me, and I hope he will not be offended by the frankness of my answer.”
“You can’t be in earnest, Miss Portman!” exclaimed the astonished baronet.
“Perfectly in earnest, Sir Philip.”
“Confusion seize me,” cried he, starting up, “if this isn’t the most extraordinary thing I ever heard! Will you do me the honour, madam, to let me know your particular objections to Sir Philip Baddely?”
“My objections,” said Belinda, “cannot be obviated, and therefore it would be useless to state them.”
“Nay, pray, ma’am, do me the favour — I only ask for information sake — is it to Sir Philip Baddely’s fortune, 15,000l. a year, you object, or to his family, or to his person? — Oh, curse it!” said he, changing his tone, “you’re only quizzing me to see how I should look — damn me, you did it too well, you little coquet!”
Belinda again assured him that she was entirely in earnest, and that she was incapable of the sort of coquetry which he ascribed to her.
“Oh, damme, ma’am, then I’ve no more to say — a coquet is a thing I understand as well as another, and if we had been only talking in the air, it would have been another thing; but when I come at once to a proposal in form, and a woman seriously tells me she has objections that cannot be obviated, damme, what must I, or what must the world conclude, but that she’s very unaccountable, or that she’s engaged — which last I presume to be the case, and it would have been a satisfaction to me to have known it sooner — at any rate, it is a satisfaction to me to know it now.”
“I am sorry to deprive you of so much satisfaction,” said Miss Portman, “by assuring you, that I am not engaged to any one.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Delacour, who came to inquire of Miss Portman how his lady did. The baronet, after twisting his little black stick into all manner of shapes, finished by breaking it, and then having no other resource, suddenly wished Miss Portman a good morning, and decamped with a look of silly ill-humour. He was determined to write to Mrs. Stanhope, whose influence over her niece he had no doubt would be decisive in his favour. “Sir Philip seems to be a little out of sorts this morning,” said Lord Delacour: “I am afraid he’s angry with me for interrupting his conversation; but really I did not know he was here, and I wanted to catch you a moment alone, that I might, in the first place, thank you for all your goodness to Lady Delacour. She has had a tedious sprain of it; these nervous fevers and convulsions — I don’t understand them, but I think Dr. X — —’s prescriptions seem to have done her good, for she is certainly better of late, and I am glad to hear music and people again in the house, because I know all this is what my Lady Delacour likes, and there is no reasonable indulgence that I would not willingly allow a wife; but I think there is a medium in all things. I am not a man to be governed by a wife, and when I have once said a thing, I like to be steady and always shall. And I am sure Miss Portman has too much good sense to think me wrong: for now, Miss Portman, in that quarrel about the coach and horses, which you heard part of one morning at breakfast — I must tell you the beginning of that quarrel.”
“Excuse me, my lord, but I would rather hear of the end than of the beginning of quarrels.”
“That shows your good sense as well as your good nature. I wish you could make my Lady Delacour of your taste — she does not want sense — but then (I speak to you freely of all that lies upon my mind, Miss Portman, for I know — I know you have no delight in making mischief in a house,) between you and me, her sense is not of the right kind. A woman may have too much wit — now too much is as bad as too little, and in a woman, worse; and when two people come to quarrel, then wit on either side, but more especially on the wife’s, you know is very provoking—’tis like concealed weapons, which are wisely forbidden by law. If a person kill another in a fray, with a concealed weapon, ma’am, by a sword in a cane, for instance, ’tis murder by the law. Now even if it were not contrary to law, I would never have such a thing in my cane to carry about with me; for when a man’s in a passion he forgets every thing, and would as soon lay about him with a sword as with a cane: so it is better such a thing should not be in his power. And it is the same with wit, which would be safest and best out of the power of some people.”
“But is it fair, my lord, to make use of wit yourself to abuse wit in others?” said Belinda with a smile, which put his lordship into perfect good-humour with both himself and his lady.
“Why, really,” said he, “there would be no living with Lady Delacour, if I did not come out with a little sly bit of wit now and then; but it is what I am not in the habit of doing, I assure you, except when very hard pushed. But, Miss Portman, as you like so much to hear the end of quarrels, here’s the end of one which you have a particular right to hear something of,” continued his lordship, taking out his pocket-book and producing some bank-notes: “you should have received this before, madam, if I had known of the transaction sooner — of your part of it, I mean.”
“Milord, de man call to speak about de burgundy you order, milord,” said Champfort, who came into the room with a sly, inquisitive face.
“Tell him I’ll see him immediately — show him into the parlour, and give him a newspaper to read.”
“Yes, milord — milord has it in his pocket si
nce he dress.”
“Here it is,” said his lordship; and as Champfort came forward to receive the newspaper, his eye glanced at the bank-notes, and then at Miss Portman.
“Here,” continued Lord Delacour, as Champfort had left the room, “here are your two hundred guineas, Miss Portman; and as I am going to this man about my burgundy, and shall be out all the rest of the day, let me trouble you the next time you see Lady Delacour to give her this pocket-book from me. I should be sorry that Miss Portman, from any thing that has passed, should run away with the idea that I am a niggardly husband, or a tyrant, though I certainly like to be master in my own house. What are you doing, madam? — that is your note, that does not go into the pocket-book, you know.”
“Permit me to put it in, my lord,” said Belinda, returning the pocket-book to him, “and to beg you will give Lady Delacour the pleasure of seeing you: she has inquired several times whether your lordship were at home. I will run up to her dressing-room, and tell her that you are here.”
“How lightly she goes on the wings of good-nature!” said Lord Delacour. “I can do no less than follow her; for though I like to be treated with respect in my own house, there is a time for every thing. I would not give Lady Delacour the trouble of coming down here to me with her sprained ankle, especially as she has inquired for me several times.”
His lordship’s visit was not of unseasonable length; for he recollected that the man who came about the burgundy was waiting for him. But, perhaps, the shortness of the visit rendered it the more pleasing, for Lady Delacour afterward said to Belinda, “My dear, would you believe it, my Lord Delacour was absolutely a perfect example of the useful and agreeable this morning — who knows but he may become the sublime and beautiful in time? En attendant here are your two hundred guineas, my dear Belinda: a thousand thanks for the thing, and a million for the manner — manner is all in all in conferring favours. My lord, who, to do him justice, has too much honesty to pretend to more delicacy than he really possesses, told me that he had been taking a lesson from Miss Portman this morning in the art of obliging; and really, for a grown gentleman, and for the first lesson, he comes on surprisingly. I do think, that by the time he is a widower his lordship will be quite another thing, quite an agreeable man — not a genius, not a Clarence Hervey — that you cannot expect. Apropos, what is the reason that we have seen so little of Clarence Hervey lately? He has certainly some secret attraction elsewhere. It cannot be that girl Sir Philip mentioned; no, she’s nothing new. Can it be at Lady Anne Percival’s? — or where can it be? Whenever he sees me, I think he asks when we go to Harrowgate. Now Oakly-park is within a few miles of Harrowgate. I will not go there, that’s decided. Lady Anne is an exemplary matron, so she is out of the case; but I hope she has no sister excellence, no niece, no cousin, to entangle our hero.”
“Ours!” said Belinda.
“Well, yours, then,” said Lady Delacour.
“Mine!”
“Yes, yours: I never in my life saw a better struggle between a sigh and a smile. But what have you done to poor Sir Philip Baddely? My Lord Delacour told me — you know all people who have nothing else to say, tell news quicker than others — my Lord Delacour told me, that he saw Sir Philip part from you this morning in a terrible bad humour. Come, whilst you tell your story, help me to string these pearls; that will save you from the necessity of looking at me, and will conceal your blushes: you need not be afraid of betraying Sir Philip’s secrets; for I could have told you long ago, that he would inevitably propose for you — the fact is nothing new or surprising to me, but I should really like to hear how ridiculous the man made himself.”
“And that,” said Belinda, “is the only thing which I do not wish to tell your ladyship.”
“Lord, my dear, surely it is no secret that Sir Philip Baddely is ridiculous; but you are so good-natured that I can’t be out of humour with you. If you won’t gratify my curiosity, will you gratify my taste, and sing for me once more that charming song which none but you can sing to please me? — I must learn it from you, absolutely.”
Just as Belinda was beginning to sing, Marriott’s macaw began to scream, so that Lady Delacour could not hear any thing else.
“Oh, that odious macaw!” cried her ladyship, “I can endure it no longer” (and she rang her bell violently): “it kept me from sleeping all last night — Marriott must give up this bird. Marriott, I cannot endure that macaw — you must part with it for my sake, Marriott. It cost you four guineas: I am sure I would give five with the greatest pleasure to get rid of it, for it is the torment of my life.”
“Dear, my lady! I can assure you it is only because they will not shut the doors after them below, as I desire. I am certain Mr. Champfort never shut a door after him in his life, nor never will if he was to live to the days of Methuselah.”
“That is very little satisfaction to me, Marriott,” said Lady Delacour.
“And indeed, my lady, it is very little satisfaction to me, to hear my macaw abused as it is every day of my life, for Mr. Champfort’s fault.”
“But it cannot be Champfort’s fault that I have ears.”
“But if the doors were shut, my lady, you wouldn’t or couldn’t hear — as I’ll prove immediately,” said Marriott, and she ran directly and shut, according to her own account, “eleven doors which were stark staring wide open.”—”Now, my lady, you can’t hear a single syllable of the macaw.”
“No, but one of the eleven doors will open presently,” said Lady Delacour: “you will observe it is always more than ten to one against me.”
A door opened, and the macaw was heard to scream. “The macaw must go, Marriott, that is certain,” said her ladyship, firmly.
“Then I must go, my lady,” said Marriott, angrily, “that is certain; for to part with my macaw is a thing I cannot do to please any body.” Her eyes turned with indignation upon Belinda, from association merely; because the last time that she had been angry about her macaw, she had also been angry with Miss Portman, whom she imagined to be the secret enemy of her favourite.
“To stay another week in the house after my macaw’s discarded in disgrace is a thing nothing shall prevail upon me to do.” She flung out of the room in a fury.
“Good Heavens! am I reduced to this?” said Lady Delacour: “she thinks that she has me in her power. No; I can die without her: I have but a short time to live — I will not live a slave. Let the woman betray me, if she will. Follow her this moment, my dear generous friend; tell her never to come into this room again: take this pocket-book, pay her whatever is due to her in the first place, and give her fifty guineas — observe! — not as a bribe, but as a reward.”
It was a delicate and difficult commission. Belinda found Marriott at first incapable of listening to reason. “I am sure there is nobody in the world that would treat me and my macaw in this manner, except my lady,” cried she; “and somebody must have set her against me, for it is not natural to her: but since she can’t bear me about her any longer, ’tis time I should be gone.”
“The only thing of which Lady Delacour complained was the noise of this macaw,” said Belinda; “it was a pretty bird — how long have you had it?”
“Scarcely a month,” said Marriott, sobbing.
“And how long have you lived with your lady?”
“Six years! — And to part with her after all!—”
“And for the sake of a macaw! And at a time when your lady is so much in want of you, Marriott! You know she cannot live long, and she has much to suffer before she dies, and if you leave her, and if in a fit of passion you betray the confidence she has placed in you, you will reproach yourself for it ever afterward. This bird — or all the birds in the world — will not be able to console you; for you are of an affectionate disposition, I know, and sincerely attached to your poor lady.”
“That I am! — and to betray her! — Oh, Miss Portman, I would sooner cut off my hand than do it. And I have been tried more than my lady knows of, or you eit
her, for Mr. Champfort, who is the greatest mischief-maker in the world, and is the cause, by not shutting the door, of all this dilemma; for now, ma’am, I’m convinced, by the tenderness of your speaking, that you are not the enemy to me I supposed, and I beg your pardon; but I was going to say that Mr. Champfort, who saw the fracas between my lord and me, about the key and the door, the night of my lady’s accident, has whispered it about at Lady Singleton’s and every where — Mrs. Luttridge’s maid, ma’am, who is my cousin, has pestered me with so many questions and offers, from Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke, of any money, if I would only tell who was in the boudoir — and I have always answered, nobody — and I defy them to get any thing out of me. Betray my lady! I’d sooner cut my tongue out this minute! Can she have such a base opinion of me, or can you, ma’am?”
“No, indeed, I am convinced that you are incapable of betraying her, Marriott; but in all probability after you have left her — —”
“If my lady would let me keep my macaw,” interrupted Marriott, “I should never think of leaving her.”
“The macaw she will not suffer to remain in the house, nor is it reasonable that she should: it deprives her of sleep — it kept her awake three hours this morning.”
Marriott was beginning the history of Champfort and the doors again; but Miss Portman stopped her by saying, “All this is past now. How much is due to you, Mrs. Marriott? Lady Delacour has commissioned me to pay you every thing that is due to you.”
“Due to me! Lord bless me, ma’am, am I to go?”
“Certainly, it was your own desire — it is consequently your lady’s: she is perfectly sensible of your attachment to her, and of your services, but she cannot suffer herself to be treated with disrespect. Here are fifty guineas, which she gives you as a reward for your past fidelity, not as a bribe to secure your future secresy. You are at liberty, she desires me to say, to tell her secret to the whole world, if you choose to do so.”
“Oh, Miss Portman, take my macaw — do what you will with it — only make my peace with my lady,” cried Marriott, clasping her hands, in an agony of grief: “here are the fifty guineas, ma’am, don’t leave them with me — I will never be disrespectful again — take my macaw and all! No, I will carry it myself to my lady.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 31