Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “From my own judgment and knowledge of your character, in which I hope — I am not — I cannot be mistaken,” said Belinda, looking at her with a mixture of doubt and astonishment.

  “No — you calculated admirably—’twas the best, the only thing you could do. Only,” said her ladyship, falling back in her chair with an hysteric laugh, “only the blunder of Champfort, and the entrance of my Lord Delacour, and the hammercloth with the orange and black fringe — forgive me, my dear; for the soul of me I can’t help laughing — it was rather unlucky; so awkward, such a contretemps! But you,” added she, wiping her eyes, as if recovering from laughter, “you have such admirable presence of mind, nothing disconcerts you! You are equal to all situations, and stand in no need of such long letters of advice from your aunt Stanhope,” pointing to the two folio sheets which lay at Belinda’s feet.

  The rapid, unconnected manner in which Lady Delacour spoke, the hurry of her motions, the quick, suspicious, angry glances of her eye, her laugh, her unintelligible words, all conspired at this moment to give Belinda the idea that her intellects were suddenly disordered. She was so firmly persuaded of her ladyship’s utter indifference to Lord Delacour, that she never conceived the possibility of her being actuated by the passion of jealousy — by the jealousy of power — a species of jealousy which she had never felt, and could not comprehend. But she had sometimes seen Lady Delacour in starts of passion that seemed to border on insanity, and the idea of her losing all command of her reason now struck Belinda with irresistible force. She felt the necessity of preserving her own composure; and with all the calmness that she could assume, she took up her aunt Stanhope’s letter, and looked for the passage in which Mrs. Luttridge and Harriot Freke were mentioned. If I can turn the course of Lady Delacour’s mind, thought she, or catch her attention, perhaps she will recover herself. “Here is a message to you, my dear Lady Delacour,” cried she, “from my aunt Stanhope, about — about Mrs. Luttridge.”

  Miss Portman’s hand trembled as she turned over the pages of the letter. “I am all attention,” said Lady Delacour, with a composed voice; “only take care, don’t make a mistake: I’m in no hurry; don’t read any thing Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to garble letters, almost as dangerous as to snatch them out of a friend’s hand, as I once did, you know — but you need not now be under the least alarm.”

  Conscious that this letter was not fit for her ladyship to see, Belinda neither offered to show it to her, nor attempted any apology for her reserve and embarrassment, but hastily began to read the message relative to Mrs. Luttridge; her voice gaining confidence as she went on, as she observed that she had fixed Lady Delacour’s attention, who now sat listening to her, calm and motionless. But when Miss Portman came to the words, “Do not forget to tell Lady D —— , that I have a charming anecdote for her about another friend of hers, who lately went over to the enemy,” her ladyship exclaimed with great vehemence, “Friend! — Harriot Freke! — Yes, like all other friends — Harriot Freke! — What was she compared to? ’Tis too much for me — too much!” and she put her hand to her head.

  “Compose yourself, my dear friend,” said Belinda, in a calm, gentle tone; and she went toward her with an intention of soothing her by caresses; but, at her approach, Lady Delacour pushed the table on which she had been writing from her with violence, started up, flung back the veil which fell over her face as she rose, and darted upon Belinda a look, which fixed her to the spot where she stood. It said, “Come not a step nearer, at your peril!” Belinda’s blood ran cold — she had no longer any doubt that this was insanity. She shut the penknife which lay upon the table, and put it into her pocket.

  “Cowardly creature!” cried Lady Delacour, and her countenance changed to the expression of ineffable contempt; “what is it you fear?”

  “That you should injure yourself. Sit down — for Heaven’s sake listen to me, to your friend, to Belinda!”

  “My friend! my Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour, and she turned from her, and walked away some steps in silence; then suddenly clasping her hands, she raised her eyes to heaven with a fervent but wild expression of devotion, and exclaimed, “Great God of heaven, my punishment is just! the death of Lawless is avenged. May the present agony of my soul expiate my folly! Of guilt — deliberate guilt — of hypocrisy — treachery — I have not — oh, never may I have — to repent!”

  She paused — her eyes involuntarily returned upon Belinda. “Oh, Belinda! You, whom I have so loved — so trusted!”

  The tears rolled fast down her painted cheeks; she wiped them hastily away, and so roughly, that her face became a strange and ghastly spectacle. Unconscious of her disordered appearance, she rushed past Belinda, who vainly attempted to stop her, threw up the sash, and stretching herself far out of the window, gasped for breath. Miss Portman drew her back, and closed the window, saying, “The rouge is all off your face, my dear Lady Delacour; you are not fit to be seen. Sit down upon this sofa, and I will ring for Marriott, and get some fresh rouge. Look at your face in this glass — you see—”

  “I see,” interrupted Lady Delacour, looking full at Belinda, “that she who I thought had the noblest of souls has the meanest! I see that she is incapable of feeling. Rouge! not fit to be seen! — At such a time as this, to talk to me in this manner! Oh, niece of Mrs. Stanhope! — dupe! — dupe that I am!” She flung herself upon the sofa, and struck her forehead with her hand violently several times. Belinda catching her arm, and holding it with all her force, cried in a tone of authority, “Command yourself, Lady Delacour, I conjure you, or you will go out of your senses; and if you do, your secret will be discovered by the whole world.”

  “Hold me not — you have no right,” cried Lady Delacour, struggling to free her hand. “All-powerful as you are in this house, you have no longer any power over me! I am not going out of my senses! You cannot get me into Bedlam, all-powerful, all-artful as you are. You have done enough to drive me mad — but I am not mad. No wonder you cannot believe me — no wonder you are astonished at the strong expression of feelings that are foreign to your nature — no wonder that you mistake the writhings of the heart, the agony of a generous soul, for madness! Look not so terrified; I will do you no injury. Do not you hear that I can lower my voice? — do not you see that I can be calm? Could Mrs. Stanhope herself — could you, Miss Portman, speak in a softer, milder, more polite, more proper tone than I do now? Are you pleased, are you satisfied?”

  “I am better satisfied — a little better satisfied,” said Belinda.

  “That’s well; but still you tremble. There’s not the least occasion for apprehension — you see I can command myself, and smile upon you.”

  “Oh, do not smile in that horrid manner!”

  “Why not?—’Horrid! — Don’t you love deceit?”

  “I detest it from my soul.”

  “Indeed!” said Lady Delacour, still speaking in the same low, soft, unnatural voice: “then why do you practise it, my love?”

  “I never practised it for a moment — I am incapable of deceit. When you are really calm, when you can really command yourself, you will do me justice, Lady Delacour; but now it is my business, if I can, to bear with you.”

  “You are goodness itself, and gentleness, and prudence personified. You know perfectly how to manage a friend, whom you fear you have driven just to the verge of madness. But tell me, good, gentle, prudent Miss Portman, why need you dread so much that I should go mad? You know, if I went mad, nobody would mind, nobody would believe whatever I say — I should be no evidence against you, and I should be out of your way sufficiently, shouldn’t I? And you would have all the power in your own hands, would not you? And would not this be almost as well as if I were dead and buried? No; your calculations are better than mine. The poor mad wife would still be in your way, would yet stand between you and the fond object of your secret soul — a coronet!”

  As she pronounced the word coronet, she pointed to a coronet set in diamonds on her
watch-case, which lay on the table. Then suddenly seizing the watch, she dashed it upon the marble hearth with all her force—”Vile bauble!” cried she; “must I lose my only friend for such a thing as you? Oh, Belinda! do you see that a coronet cannot confer happiness?”

  “I have seen it long: I pity you from the bottom of my soul,” said Belinda, bursting into tears.

  “Pity me not. I cannot endure your pity, treacherous woman!” cried Lady Delacour, and she stamped with a look of rage—”most perfidious of women!”

  “Yes, call me perfidious, treacherous — stamp at me — say, do what you will; I can and will bear it all — all patiently; for I am innocent, and you are mistaken and unhappy,” said Belinda. “You will love me when you return to your senses; then how can I be angry with you?”

  “Fondle me not,” said Lady Delacour, starting back from Belinda’s caresses: “do not degrade yourself to no purpose — I never more can be your dupe. Your protestations of innocence are wasted on me — I am not so blind as you imagine — dupe as you think me, I have seen much in silence. The whole world, you find, suspects you now. To save your reputation, you want my friendship — you want—”

  “I want nothing from you, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda. “You have suspected me long in silence! then I have mistaken your character — I can love you no longer. Farewell for ever! Find another — a better friend.”

  She walked away from Lady Delacour with proud indignation; but, before she reached the door, she recollected her promise to remain with this unfortunate woman.

  Is a dying woman, in the paroxysm of insane passion, a fit object of indignation? thought Belinda, and she stopped short. “No, Lady Delacour,” cried she, “I will not yield to my humour — I will not listen to my pride. A few words said in the heat of passion shall not make me forget myself or you. You have given me your confidence; I am grateful for it. I cannot, will not desert you: my promise is sacred.”

  “Your promise!” said Lady Delacour, contemptuously. “I absolve you from your promise. Unless you find it convenient to yourself to remember it, pray let it be forgotten; and if I must die—”

  At this instant the door opened suddenly, and little Helena came in singing —

  “‘Merrily, merrily shall we live now,

  Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’

  What comes next, Miss Portman?”

  Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face, and rushed out of the room.

  “What is the matter? — Is mamma ill?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Belinda. But at this instant she heard the sound of Lord Delacour’s voice upon the stairs; she broke from the little girl, and with the greatest precipitation retreated to her own room.

  She had not been alone above an hour before Marriott knocked at the door.

  “Miss Portman, you don’t know how late it is. Lady Singleton and the Miss Singletons are come. But, merciful heaven!” exclaimed Marriott, as she entered the room, “what is all this packing up? What is this trunk?”

  “I am going to Oakly-park with Lady Anne Percival,” said Belinda, calmly.

  “I thought there was something wrong; my mind misgave me all the time I was dressing my lady, — she was in such a flutter, and never spoke to me. I’d lay my life this is, some way or other, Mr. Champfort’s doings. But, good dear Miss Portman, can you leave my poor lady when she wants you so much; and I’ll take upon me to say, ma’am, loves you so much at the bottom of her heart? Dear me, how your face is flushed! Pray let me pack up these things, if it must be. But I do hope, if it be possible, that you should stay. However, I’ve no business to speak. I beg pardon for being so impertinent: I hope you won’t take it ill, — it is only from regard to my poor lady I ventured to speak.”

  “Your regard to your lady deserves the highest approbation, Marriott,” said Belinda. “It is impossible that I should stay with her any longer. When I am gone, good Marriott, and when her health and strength decline, your fidelity and your services will be absolutely necessary to your mistress; and from what I have seen of the goodness of your heart, I am convinced that the more she is in want of you, the more respectful will be your attention.”

  Marriott answered only by her tears, and went on packing up in a great hurry.

  Nothing could equal Lady Delacour’s astonishment when she learnt from Marriott that Miss Portman was actually preparing to leave the house. After a moment’s reflection, however, she persuaded herself that this was only a new artifice to work upon her affections; that Belinda did not mean to leave her; but that she would venture all lengths, in hopes of being at the last moment pressed to stay. Under this persuasion, Lady Delacour resolved to disappoint her expectations: she determined to meet her with that polite coldness which would best become her own dignity, and which, without infringing the laws of hospitality, would effectually point out to the world that Lady Delacour was no dupe, and that Miss Portman was an unwelcome inmate in her house.

  The power of assuming gaiety when her heart was a prey to the most poignant feelings, she had completely acquired by long practice. With the promptitude of an actress, she could instantly appear upon the stage, and support a character totally foreign to her own. The loud knocks at the door, which announced the arrival of company, were signals that operated punctually upon her associations; and to this species of conventional necessity her most violent passions submitted with magical celerity. Fresh rouged, and beautifully dressed, she was performing her part to a brilliant audience in her drawing-room when Belinda entered. Belinda beheld her with much astonishment, but more pity.

  “Miss Portman,” said her ladyship, turning carelessly towards her, “where do you buy your rouge? — Lady Singleton, would you rather at this moment be mistress of the philosopher’s stone, or have a patent for rouge that will come and go like Miss Portman’s? — Apropos! have you read St. Leon?” Her ladyship was running on to a fresh train of ideas, when a footman announced the arrival of Lady Anne Percival’s carriage; and Miss Portman rose to depart.

  “You dine with Lady Anne, Miss Portman, I understand? — My compliments to her ladyship, and my duty to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and her macaw. Au revoir! Though you talk of running away from me to Oakly-park, I am sure you will do no such cruel thing. I am, with all due humility, so confident of the irresistible attractions of this house, that I defy Oakly-park and all its charms. So, Miss Portman, instead of adieu, I shall only say, au revoir!”

  “Adieu, Lady Delacour!” said Belinda, with a look and tone which struck her ladyship to the heart. All her suspicions, all her pride, all her affected gaiety vanished; her presence of mind forsook her, and for some moments she stood motionless and powerless. Then recollecting herself, she flew after Miss Portman, abruptly stopped her at the head of the stairs, and exclaimed, “My dearest Belinda, are you gone? — My best, my only friend! — Say you are not gone for ever! — Say you will return!”

  “Adieu!” repeated Belinda. It was all she could say; she broke from Lady Delacour, and hurried out of the house with the strongest feeling of compassion for this unhappy woman, but with an unaltered sense of the propriety and necessity of her own firmness.

  CHAPTER XVI. — DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

  There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda, that was peculiarly agreeable to her agitated and harassed mind.

  “You see, Lady Anne,” said Belinda, “that I come to you at last, after having so often refused your kind invitations.”

  “So you surrender yourself at discretion, just when I was going to raise the siege in despair,” said Lady Anne: “now I may make my own terms; and the only terms I shall impose are, that you will stay at Oakly-park with us, as long as we can make it agreeable to you, and no longer. Whether those who cease to please, or those who cease to be pleased, are most to blame,6 it may sometimes be difficult to determine; so difficult, that when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps had better part tha
n venture upon the discussion.”

  Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something disagreeable had passed between Lady Delacour and Belinda; but she was not troubled with the disease of idle curiosity, and her example prevailed upon Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who dined with her, to refrain from all questions and comments.

  The prejudice which this lady had conceived against our heroine, as being a niece of Mrs. Stanhope’s, had lately been vanquished by the favourable representations of her conduct which she had heard from her nephew, and by the kindness that Belinda had shown to little Helena.

  “Madam,” said Mrs. Delacour, addressing herself to Miss Portman with some formality, but much dignity, “permit me, as one of my Lord Delacour’s nearest relations now living, to return you my thanks for having, as my nephew informs me, exerted your influence over Lady Delacour for the happiness of his family. My little Helena, I am sure, feels her obligations towards you, and I rejoice that I have had an opportunity of expressing, in person, my sense of what our family owes to Miss Portman. As to the rest, her own heart will reward her. The praise of the world is but an inferior consideration. However, it deserves to be mentioned, as an instance of the world’s candour, and for the singularity of the case, that every body agrees in speaking well even of so handsome a young lady as Miss Portman.”

  “She must have had extraordinary prudence,” said Lady Anne; “and the world does justly to reward it with extraordinary esteem.”

  Belinda, with equal pleasure and surprise, observed that all this was said sincerely, and that the report, which she had feared was public, had never reached Mrs. Delacour or Lady Anne Percival.

  In fact, it was known and believed only by those who had been prejudiced by the malice or folly of Sir Philip Baddely. Piqued by the manner in which his addresses had been received by Belinda, he readily listened to the comfortable words of his valet de chambre, who assured him that he had it from the best possible authority (Lord Delacour’s own gentleman, Mr. Champfort), that his lordship was deeply taken with Miss Portman — that the young lady managed every thing in the house — that she had been very prudent, to be sure, and had refused large presents — but that there was no doubt of her becoming Lady Delacour, if ever his lordship should be at liberty. Sir Philip was the person who mentioned this to Clarence Hervey, and Sir Philip was the person who hinted it to Mrs. Stanhope, in the very letter which he wrote to implore her influence in favour of his own proposal. This manoeuvring lady represented this report as being universally known and believed, in hopes of frightening her niece into an immediate match with the baronet. In the whole extent of Mrs. Stanhope’s politic imagination, she had never foreseen the possibility of her niece’s speaking the simple truth to Lady Delacour, and she had never guarded against this danger. She never thought of Belinda’s mentioning this report to her ladyship, because she would never have dealt so openly, had she been in the place of her niece. Thus her art and falsehood operated against her own views, and produced consequences diametrically opposite to her expectations. It was her exaggerations that made Lady Delacour believe, when Belinda repeated what she had said, that this report was universally known and credited; her own suspicions were by these means again awakened, and her jealousy and rage were raised to such a pitch, that, no longer mistress of herself, she insulted her friend and guest. Miss Portman was then obliged to do the very thing that Mrs. Stanhope most dreaded — to leave Lady Delacour’s house and all its advantages. As to Sir Philip Baddely, Belinda never thought of him from the moment she read her aunt’s letter, till after she had left her ladyship; her mind was firmly decided upon this subject; yet she could not help fearing that her aunt would not understand her reasons, or approve her conduct. She wrote to Mrs. Stanhope in the most kind and respectful manner; assured her that there had been no foundation whatever for the report which had produced so much uneasiness; that Lord Delacour had always treated her with politeness and good-nature, but that such thoughts or views as had been attributed to him, she was convinced had never entered his lordship’s mind; that hearing of the publicity of this report had, however, much affected Lady D —— . “I have, therefore,” said Belinda, “thought it prudent to quit her ladyship, and to accept of an invitation from Lady Anne Percival to Oakly-park. I hope, my dear aunt, that you will not be displeased by my leaving town without seeing Sir Philip Baddely again. Our meeting could indeed answer no purpose, as it is entirely out of my power to return his partiality. Of his character, temper, and manners, I know enough to be convinced, that our union could tend only to make us both miserable. After what I have seen, nothing can ever tempt me to marry from any of the common views of interest or ambition.”