Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “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.

  CHAPTER XXI. — HELENA

  Whilst they were at breakfast the next morning in Lady Delacour’s dressing-room, Marriott knocked at the door, and immediately opening it, exclaimed in a joyful tone, “Miss Portman, they’re eating it! Ma’am, they’re eating it as fast as ever they can!”

  “Bring them in; your lady will give you leave, Marriott, I fancy,” said Miss Portman. Marriott brought in her gold fishes; some green leaves were floating on the top of the water in the glass globe.

  “See, my lady,” said she, “what Miss Portman has been so good as to bring from Oakly-park for my poor gold fishes, who, I am sure, ought to be much obliged to her, as well as myself.” Marriott set the globe beside her lady, and retired.

  “From Oakly-park! And by what name impossible to pronounce must I call these green leaves, to please botanic ears?” said Lady Delacour.

  “This,” replied Belinda, “is what

  ‘Th’unlearned, duckweed — learned, lemna, call;

  and it is to be found in any ditch or standing pool.”

  “And what possessed you, my dear, for the sake of Marriott and her gold fishes, to trouble yourself to bring such stuff a hundred and seventy miles?”

  “To oblige little Charles Percival,” said Miss Portman. “He was anxious to keep his promise of sending it to your Helena. She found out in some book that she was reading with him last summer, that gold fishes are fond of this plant; and I wish,” added Belinda, in a timid voice, “that she were here at this instant to see them eat it.”

  Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes, and kept her eye steadily upon the gold fishes. At length she said, “I never shall forget how well the poor little creature behaved about those gold fishes. I grew amazingly fond of her whilst she was with me. But you know, circumstanced as I was, after you left me, I could not have her at home.”

  “But now I am here,” said Belinda, “will she he any trouble to you? And will she not make your home more agreeable to you, and to Lord Delacour, who was evidently very fond of her?”

  “Ah, my dear!” said Lady Delacour, “you forget, and so do I at times, what I have to go through. It is in vain to talk, to think of making home, or any place, or any thing, or any person, agreeable to me now. What am I? The outside rind is left — the sap is gone. The tree lasts from day to day by miracle — it cannot last long. You would not wonder to hear me talk in this way, if you knew the terrible time I had last night after we parted. But I have these nights constantly now. Let us talk of something else. What have you there — a manuscript?”

  “Yes, a little journal of Edward Percival’s, which he sent for the entertainment of Helena.”

  Lady Delacour stretched out her hand for it. “The boy will write as like his father as possible,” said she, turning over the leaves. “I wish to have this poor girl with me — but I have no spirits. And you know, whenever Lord Delacour can find a house that will suit us, we shall leave town, and I could not take Helena with me. But this may be the last opportunity I may ever have of seeing her; and I can refuse you nothing, my dear. So will you
go for her? She can stay with us a few days. Lady Boucher, that most convenient dowager, who likes going about, no matter where, all the morning, will go with you to Mrs. Dumont’s academy in Sloane-street. I would as soon go to a bird-fancier’s as to a boarding-school for young ladies: indeed, I am not well enough to go any where. So I will throw myself upon a sofa, and read this child’s journal. I wonder how that or any thing else can interest me now.”

  Belinda, who had been used to the variations of Lady Delacour’s spirits, was not much alarmed by the despondent strain in which she now spoke, especially when she considered that the thoughts of the dreadful trial this unfortunate woman was soon to go through must naturally depress her courage. Rejoiced at the permission that she had obtained to go for Helena, Miss Portman sent immediately to Lady Boucher, who took her to Sloane-street.

  “Now, my dear, considerate Miss Portman,” said Lady Boucher, “I must beg, and request that you will hurry Miss Delacour into the carriage as fast as possible. I have not a moment to spare; for I am to be at a china auction at two, that I would not miss for the whole world. Well, what’s the matter with the people? Why does not James knock at the door? Can’t the man read? Can’t the man see?” cried the purblind dowager. “Is not that Mrs. Dumont’s name on the door before his eyes?”

  “No, ma’am, I believe this name is Ellicot,” said Belinda.

  “Ellicot, is it? Ay, true. But what’s the man stopping for, then? Mrs. Dumont’s is the next door, tell the blind dunce. Mercy on us! To waste one’s time in this way! I shall, as sure as fate, be too late for the china auction. What upon earth stops us?”

  “Nothing but a little covered cart, which stands at Mrs. Dumont’s door. There, now it is going; an old man is drawing it out of the way as fast as he can.”

  “Open the coach-door, James!” cried Lady Boucher the moment that they had drawn up. “Now, my dear, considerate Miss Portman, remember the auction, and don’t let Miss Delacour stay to change her dress or any thing.”

  Belinda promised not to detain her ladyship a minute. The door at Mrs. Dumont’s was open, and a servant was assisting an old man to carry in some geraniums and balsams out of the covered cart which had stopped the way. In the hall a crowd of children were gathered round a high stand, on which they were eagerly arranging their flower-pots; and the busy hum of voices was so loud, that when Miss Portman first went in, she could neither hear the servant, nor make him hear her name. Nothing was to be heard but “Oh, how beautiful! Oh, how sweet! That’s mine! That’s yours! The great rose geranium for Miss Jefferson! The white Provence rose for Miss Adderly! No, indeed, Miss Pococke, that’s for Miss Delacour; the old man said so.”

  “Silence, silence, mesdemoiselles!” cried the voice of a French woman, and all was silence. The little crowd looked towards the hall door; and from the midst of her companions, Helena Delacour, who now caught a glimpse of Belinda, sprang forward, throwing down her white Provence rose as she passed.

  “Lady Boucher’s compliments, ma’am,” said the servant to Mrs. Dumont; “she’s in indispensable haste, and she begs you won’t let Miss Delacour think of changing her dress.”

  It was the last thing of which Miss Delacour was likely to think at this instant. She was so much overjoyed, when she heard that Belinda was come by her mamma’s desire to take her home, that she would scarcely stay whilst Mrs. Dumont was tying on her straw hat, and exhorting her to let Lady Delacour know how it happened that she was “so far from fit to be seen.”

  “Yes, ma’am; yes, ma’am, I’ll remember; I’ll be sure to remember,” said Helena, tripping down the steps. But just as she was getting into the carriage she stopped at the sight of the old man, and exclaimed, “Oh, good old man! I must not forget you.”

  “Yes, indeed, you must, though, my dear Miss Delacour,” said Lady Boucher, pulling her into the carriage: “’tis no time to think of good old men now.”

  “But I must. Dear Miss Portman, will you speak for me? I must pay — I must settle — and I have a great deal to say.”

  Miss Portman desired the old man to call in Berkley-square at Lady Delacour’s; and this satisfying all parties, they drove away.

  When they arrived in Berkley-square, Marriott told them that her lady was just gone to lie down. Edward Percival’s little journal, which she had been reading, was left on the sofa, and Belinda gave it to Helena, who eagerly began to look over it.

  “Thirteen pages! Oh, how good he has been to write so much for me!” said she; and she had almost finished reading it before her mother came into the room.

  Lady Delacour shrunk back as her daughter ran towards her; for she recollected too well the agony she had once suffered from an embrace of Helena’s. The little girl appeared more grieved than surprised at this; and after kissing her mother’s hand, without speaking, she again looked down at the manuscript.

  “Does that engross your attention so entirely, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, “that you can neither spare one word nor one look for your mother?”

  “Oh, mamma! I only tried to read, because I thought you were angry with me.”

  “An odd reason for trying to read, my dear!” said Lady Delacour with a smile: “have you any better reason for thinking I was angry with you?”

  “Ah, I know you are not angry now, for you smile,” said Helena; “but I thought at first that you were, mamma, because you gave me only your hand to kiss.”

  “Only my hand! The next time, simpleton, I’ll give you only my foot to kiss,” said her ladyship, sitting down, and holding out her foot playfully.

  Her daughter threw aside the book, and kneeling down kissed her foot, saying, in a low voice, “Dear mamma, I never was so happy in my life; for you never looked so very, very kindly at me before.”

  “Do not judge always of the kindness people feel for you, child, by their looks; and remember that it is possible a person might have felt more than you could guess by their looks. Pray now, Helena, you are such a good judge of physiognomy, should you guess that I was dying, by my looks?”

  The little girl laughed, and repeated “Dying? Oh, no, mamma.”

  “Oh, no! because I have such a fine colour in my cheeks, hey?”

  “Not for that reason, mamma,” said Helena, withdrawing her eyes from her mother’s face.

  “What, then you know rouge already when you see it? — You perceive some difference, for instance, between Miss Portman’s colour and mine? Upon my word, you are a nice observer. Such nice observers are sometimes dangerous to have near one.”

  “I hope, mother,” said Helena, “that you do not think I would try to find out any thing that you wish, or that I imagined you wished, I should not know.”

  “I do not understand you, child,” cried Lady Delacour, raising herself suddenly upon the sofa, and looking full in her daughter’s face.

  Helena’s colour rose to her temples; but, with a firmness that surprised even Belinda, she repeated what she had said nearly in the same words.

  “Do you understand her, Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour.

  “She expresses, I think,” said Belinda, “a very honourable sentiment, and one that is easily understood.”

  “Ay, in general, certainly,” said Lady Delacour, checking herself; “but I thought that she meant to allude to something in particular — that was what I did not understand. Undoubtedly, my dear, you have just expressed a very honourable sentiment, and one that I should scarcely have expected from a child of your age.

  “Helena, my dear,” said her mother, after a silence of some minutes, “did you ever read the Arabian Tales?—’Yes, mamma,’ I know must be the answer. But do you remember the story of Zobeide, who carried the porter home with her on condition that, let him hear or see what he might, he would ask no questions?”

  “Yes, mamma.”

  “On the same conditions should you like to stay with me for a few days?”

  “Yes. On any conditions, mamma, I should like to stay with you.”

  “Agreed,
then, my dear!” said Lady Delacour. “Now let us go to the gold fishes, and see them eat lemna, or whatever you please to call it.”

  While they were looking at the gold fishes, the old man, who had been desired by Miss Portman to call, arrived. “Who is this fine, gray-haired old man?” said Lady Delacour. Helena, who did not know the share which Belinda’s aunt and her own mother had in the transaction, began with great eagerness to tell the history of the poor gardener, who had been cheated by some fine ladies out of his aloe, &c. She then related how kind Lady Anne Percival and her Aunt Margaret had been to him; that they had gotten him a place as a gardener at Twickenham; and that he had pleased the family to whom he was recommended so much by his good behaviour, that, as they were leaving their house, and obliged to part with him, they had given him all the geraniums and balsams out of the green-house of which he had the care, and these he had been this day selling to the young ladies at Mrs. Dumont’s. “I received the money for him, and I was just going to pay him,” said Helena, “when Miss Portman came; and that put every thing else out of my head. May I go and give him his money now, mamma?”

  “He can wait a few minutes,” said Lady Delacour, who had listened to this story with much embarrassment and impatience. “Before you go, Helena, favour us with the names of the fine ladies who cheated this old gardener out of his aloe.”

  “Indeed, mamma, I don’t know their names.”

  “No! — Did you never ask Lady Anne Percival, or your aunt Margaret? — Look in my face, child! Did they never inform you?”

  “No, ma’am, never. I once asked Lady Anne, and she said that she did not choose to tell me; that it would be of no use to me to know.”

  “I give Lady Anne Percival more credit and more thanks for this,” cried Lady Delacour, “than for all the rest. I see she has not attempted to lower me in my child’s opinion. I am the fine lady, Helena — I was the cause of his being cheated — I was intent upon the noble end of outshining a certain Mrs. Luttridge — the noble means I left to others, and the means have proved worthy of the end. I deserve to be brought to shame for my folly; yet my being ashamed will do nobody any good but myself. Restitution is in these cases the best proof of repentance. Go, Helena, my love! settle your little affairs with this old man, and bid him call here again to-morrow. I will see what we can do for him.”