Exhausted by the vehemence with which she had spoken, Lady Delacour paused; but Vincent, who sympathized in her enthusiasm, kept his eyes fixed upon her, in hopes that she had yet more to say.
“I might, perhaps, you will think,” continued she, smiling, “have spared you this history of myself, and of my own affairs, Mr. Vincent; but I thought it necessary to tell you the plain facts, which malice has distorted into the most odious form. This is the quarrel, this is the reconciliation, of which your anonymous friend has been so well informed. Now, as to Clarence Hervey.”
“I have explained to Mr. Vincent,” interrupted Belinda, “every thing that he could wish to know on that subject, and I now wish you to tell him that I faithfully remembered my promise to return to Oakly-park, and that we were actually preparing for the journey.”
“Look here, sir,” cried Lady Delacour, opening the door of her dressing-room, in which Marriott was upon her knees, locking a trunk, “here’s dreadful note of preparation.”
“You are a happier man than you yet know, Mr. Vincent,” continued Lady Delacour; “for I can tell you, that some persuasion, some raillery, and some wit, I flatter myself, have been used, to detain Miss Portman from you.”
“From Oakly-park,” interrupted Belinda.
“From Oakly-park, &c. a few days longer. Shall I be frank with you, Mr. Vincent? — Yes, for I cannot help it — I am not of the nature of anonymous letter-writers; I cannot, either secretly or publicly, sign or say myself a sincere friend, without being one to the utmost extent of my influence. I never give my vote without my interest, nor my interest without my vote. Now Clarence Hervey is my friend. Start not at all, sir, — you have no reason; for if he is my friend, Miss Portman is yours: which has the better bargain? But, as I was going to tell you, Mr. Clarence Hervey is my friend, and I am his. My vote, interest, and influence, have consequently been all in his favour. I had reason to believe that he has long admired the dignity of Miss Portman’s mind, and the simplicity of her character,” continued her ladyship, with an arch look at Belinda; “and though he was too much a man of genius to begin with the present tense of the indicative mood, ‘I love,’ yet I was, and am, convinced, that he does love her.”
“Can you, dear Lady Delacour,” cried Belinda, “speak in this manner, and recollect all we heard from Marriott this morning? And to what purpose all this?”
“To what purpose, my dear? To convince your friend, Mr. Vincent, that I am neither fool nor knave; but that I deal fairly by you, by him, and by all the world. Mr. Hervey’s conduct towards Miss Portman has, I acknowledge, sir, been undecided. Some circumstances have lately come to my knowledge which throw doubts upon his honour and integrity — doubts which, I firmly believe, he will clear up to my satisfaction at least, as soon as I see him, or as soon as it is in his power; with this conviction, and believing, as I do, that no man upon earth is so well suited to my friend, — pardon me, Mr. Vincent, if my wishes differ from yours: though my sincerity may give you present, it may save you from future, pain.”
“Your ladyship’s sincerity, whatever pain it may give me, I admire,” said Mr. Vincent, with some pride in his manner; “but I see that I must despair of the honour of your ladyship’s congratulations.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Lady Delacour; “there you are quite mistaken: the man of Belinda’s choice must receive my congratulations; he must do more — he must become my friend I would never rest till I had won his regard, nor should I in the least be apprehensive that he would not have sufficient greatness of mind to forgive my having treated him with a degree of sincerity which the common forms of politeness cannot justify, and at which common souls would be scandalized past recovery.”
Mr. Vincent’s pride was entirely vanquished by this speech; and with that frankness by which his manners were usually characterized, he thanked her for having distinguished him from common souls; and assured her that such sincerity as hers was infinitely more to his taste than that refined politeness of which he was aware no one was more perfect mistress than Lady Delacour.
Here their conversation ended, and Mr. Vincent, as it was now late, took his leave.
“Really, my dear Belinda,” said Lady Delacour, when he was gone, “I am not surprised at your impatience to return to Oakly-park; I am not so partial to my knight, as to compare him, in personal accomplishments, with your hero. I acknowledge, also, that there is something vastly prepossessing in the frankness of his manners; he has behaved admirably well about this abominable letter; but, what is better than all in a lady’s eyes he is éperdument amoureux.”
“Not éperdument, I hope,” said Belinda.
“Then, as you do not think it necessary for your hero to be éperdument amoureux, I presume,” said Lady Delacour, “you do not think it necessary that a heroine should be in love at all. So love and marriage are to be separated by philosophy, as well as by fashion. This is Lady Anne Percival’s doctrine! I give Mr. Percival joy. I remember the time, when he fancied love essential to happiness.”
“I believe he not only fancies, but is sure of it now, from experience,” said Belinda.
“Then he interdicts love only to his friends? He does not think it essential that you should know any thing about the matter. You may marry his ward, and welcome, without being in love with him.”
“But not without loving him,” said Belinda.
“I am not casuist enough in these matters to understand the subtle distinction you make, with the true Percival emphasis, between loving and falling in love. But I suppose I am to understand by loving, loving as half the world do when they marry.”
“As it would be happy for half the world if they did,” replied Belinda, mildly, but with a firmness of tone that her ladyship felt. “I should despise myself and deserve no pity from any human being, if, after all I have seen, I could think of marrying for convenience or interest.”
“Oh! pardon me; I meant not to insinuate such an idea: even your worst enemy, Sir Philip Baddely, would acquit you there. I meant but to hint, my dear Belinda, that a heart such as yours is formed for love in its highest, purest, happiest state.”
A pause ensued.
“Such happiness can be secured only,” resumed Belinda, “by a union with a man of sense and virtue.”
“A man of sense and virtue, I suppose, means Mr. Vincent,” said Lady Delacour: “no doubt you have lately learned in the same sober style that a little love will suffice with a great deal of esteem.”
“I hope I have learned lately that a great deal of esteem is the best foundation for a great deal of love.”
“Possibly,” said Lady Delacour; “but we often see people working at the foundation all their lives without getting any farther.”
“And those who build their castles of happiness in the air,” said Belinda, “are they more secure, wiser, or happier?”
“Wiser! I know nothing about that,” said Lady Delacour; “but happier I do believe they are; for the castle-building is always a labour of love, but the foundation of drudgery is generally love’s labour lost. Poor Vincent will find it so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Belinda; “for already his solid good qualities—”
“Solid good qualities!” interrupted Lady Delacour: “I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, my dear, you know we never fall in love with good qualities, except, indeed, when they are joined to an aquiline nose — oh! that aquiline nose of Mr. Vincent’s! I am more afraid of it than of all his solid good qualities. He has again, I acknowledge it, much the advantage of Clarence Hervey in personal accomplishments. But you are not a woman to be decided by personal accomplishments.”
“And you will not allow me to be decided by solid good qualities,” said Belinda. “So by what must I be determined?”
“By your heart, my dear; by your heart: trust your heart only.”
“Alas!” said Belinda, “how many, many women have deplored their having trusted to their hearts only.”
“Their hearts! but I s
aid your heart: mind your pronouns, my dear; that makes all the difference. But, to be serious, tell me, do you really and bona fide, as my old uncle the lawyer used to say, love Mr. Vincent?”
“No,” said Belinda, “I do not love him yet.”
“But for that emphatic yet, how I should have worshipped you! I wish I could once clearly understand the state of your mind about Mr. Vincent, and then I should be able to judge how far I might indulge myself in raillery without being absolutely impertinent. So without intruding upon your confidence, tell me whatever you please.”
“I will tell you all I know of my own mind,” replied Belinda, looking up with an ingenuous countenance. “I esteem Mr. Vincent; I am grateful to him for the proofs he has given me of steady attachment, and of confidence in my integrity. I like his manners and the frankness of his temper; but I do not yet love him, and till I do, no earthly consideration could prevail upon me to marry him.”
“Perfectly satisfactory, my dear Belinda; and yet I cannot be quite at ease whilst Mr. Vincent is present, and my poor Clarence absent: proximity is such a dangerous advantage even with the wisest of us. The absent lose favour so quickly in Cupid’s court, as in all other courts; and they are such victims to false reports and vile slanderers!”
Belinda sighed.
“Thank you for that sigh, my dear,” said Lady Delacour. “May I ask, would you, if you discovered that Mr. Vincent had a Virginia, discard him for ever from your thoughts?”
“If I discovered that he had deceived and behaved dishonourably to any woman, I certainly should banish him for ever from my regard.”
“With as much ease as you banished Clarence Hervey?”
“With more, perhaps.”
“Then you acknowledge — that’s all I want — that you liked Clarence better than you do Vincent?”
“I acknowledge it,” said Belinda, colouring up to her temples; “but that time is entirely past, and I never look back to it.”
“But if you were forced to look back to it, my dear, — if Clarence Hervey proposed for you, — would not you cast a lingering look behind?”
“Let me beg of you, my dear Lady Delacour, as my friend,” cried Belinda, speaking and looking with great earnestness; “let me beg of you to forbear. Do not use your powerful influence over my heart to make me think of what I ought not to think, or do what I ought not to do. I have permitted Mr. Vincent to address me. You cannot imagine that I am so base as to treat him with duplicity, or that I consider him only as a pis-aller; no — I have treated, I will treat him honourably. He knows exactly the state of my mind. He shall have a fair trial whether he can win my love; the moment I am convinced that he cannot succeed, I will tell him so decidedly: but if ever I should feel for him that affection which is necessary for my happiness and his, I hope I shall without fear, even of Lady Delacour’s ridicule or displeasure, avow my sentiments, and abide by my choice.”
“My dear, I admire you,” said Lady Delacour; “but I am incorrigible; I am not fit to hear myself convinced. After all, I am impelled by the genius of imprudence to tell you, that, in spite of Mr. Percival’s cure for first loves, I consider love as a distemper that can be had but once.”
“As you acknowledge that you are not fit to hear yourself convinced,” said Belinda, “I will not argue this point with you.”
“But you will allow,” said Lady Delacour, “as it is said or sung in Cupid’s calendar, that —
‘Un peu d’amour, un peu de soin,
Menent souvent un coeur bien loin;’”
and she broke off the conversation by singing that beautiful French air.
CHAPTER XXV. — LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG.
The only interest that honest people can take in the fate of rogues is in their detection and punishment; the reader, then, will be so far interested in the fate of Mr. Champfort, as to feel some satisfaction at his being safely lodged in Newgate. The circumstance which led to this desirable catastrophe was the anonymous letter to Mr. Vincent. From the first moment that Marriott saw or heard of the letter, she was convinced, she said, that “Mr. Champfort was at the bottom of it.” Lady Delacour was equally convinced that Harriot Freke was the author of the epistle; and she supported her opinion by observing, that Champfort could neither write nor spell English. Marriott and her lady were both right. It was a joint, or rather a triplicate performance. Champfort, in conjunction with the stupid maid, furnished the intelligence, which Mrs. Freke manufactured; and when she had put the whole into proper style and form, Mr. Champfort got her rough draught fairly copied at his leisure, and transmitted his copy to Mr. Vincent. Now all this was discovered by a very slight circumstance. The letter was copied by Mr. Champfort upon a sheet of mourning paper, off which he thought that he had carefully cut the edges; but one bit of the black edge remained, which did not escape Marriott’s scrutinizing eye. “Lord bless my stars! my lady,” she exclaimed, “this must be the paper — I mean may be the paper — that Mr. Champfort was cutting a quire of, the very day before Miss Portman left town. It’s a great while ago, but I remember it as well as if it was yesterday. I saw a parcel of black jags of paper littering the place, and asked what had been going on? and was told, that it was only Mr. Champfort who had been cutting some paper; which, to be sure, I concluded my lord had given to him, having no further occasion for, — as my lord and you, my lady, were just going out of mourning at that time, as you may remember.”
Lord Delacour, when the paper was shown to him, recognized it immediately by a private mark which he had put on the outside sheet of a division of letter paper, which, indeed, he had never given to Champfort, but which he had missed about the time Marriott mentioned. Between the leaves of this paper his lordship had put, as it was often his practice, some bank notes: they were notes but of small value, and when he missed them he was easily persuaded by Champfort that, as he had been much intoxicated the preceding night, he had thrown them away with some useless papers. He rummaged through his writing-desk in vain, and then gave up the search. It was true that on this very occasion he gave Champfort the remainder of some mourning paper, which he made no scruple, therefore, of producing openly. Certain that he could swear to his own private mark, and that he could identify his notes by their numbers, &c., of which he had luckily a memorandum, Lord Delacour, enraged to find himself both robbed and duped by a favourite servant, in whom he had placed implicit confidence, was effectually roused from his natural indolence: he took such active and successful measures, that Mr. Champfort was committed to gaol, to take his trial for the robbery. To make peace for himself, he confessed that he had been instigated by Mrs. Freke to get the anonymous letter written. This lady was now suffering just punishment for her frolics, and Lady Delacour thought her fallen so much below indignation, that she advised Belinda to take no manner of notice of her conduct, except by simply returning the letter to her, with “Miss Portman’s, Mr. Vincent’s, and Lord and Lady Delacour’s, compliments and thanks to a sincere friend, who had been the means of bringing villany to justice.”
So much for Mrs. Freke and Mr. Champfort, who, both together, scarcely deserve an episode of ten lines.
Now to return to Mr. Vincent. Animated by fresh hope, he pressed his suit with Belinda with all the ardour of his sanguine temper. Though little disposed to fear any future evil, especially in the midst of present felicity, yet he was aware of the danger that might ensue to him from Clarence Hervey’s arrival; he was therefore impatient for the intermediate day to pass, and it was with heartfelt joy that he saw the carriages at last at the door, which were actually to convey them to Oakly-park. Mr. Vincent, who had all the West Indian love for magnificence, had upon this occasion an extremely handsome equipage. Lady Delacour, though she was disappointed by Clarence Hervey’s not appearing, did not attempt to delay their departure. She contented herself with leaving a note, to be delivered to him on his arrival, which, she still flattered herself, would induce him immediately to go to Harrowgate. The trunks were fastened upon the carr
iages, the imperial was carrying out, Marriott was full of a world of business, Lord Delacour was looking at his horses as usual, Helena was patting Mr. Vincent’s great dog, and Belinda was rallying her lover upon his taste for “the pomp, pride, and circumstance” of glorious travelling — when an express arrived from Oakly-park. It was to delay their journey for a few weeks. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne wrote word, that they were unexpectedly called from home by — . Lady Delacour did not stay to read by what, or by whom, she was so much delighted by this reprieve. Mr. Vincent bore the disappointment as well as could be expected; particularly when Belinda observed, to comfort him, that “the mind is its own place;” and that hers, she believed, would be the same at Twickenham as at Oakly-park. Nor did she give him any reason to regret that she was not immediately under the influence of his own friends. The dread of being unduly biassed by Lady Delacour, and the strong desire Belinda felt to act honourably by Mr. Vincent, to show him that she was not trifling with his happiness, and that she was incapable of the meanness of retaining a lover as a pis-aller, were motives which acted more powerfully in his favour than all that even Lady Anne Percival could have looked or said. The contrast between the openness and decision of his conduct towards her, and Clarence Hervey’s vacillation and mystery; the belief that Mr. Hervey was or ought to be attached to another woman; the conviction that Mr. Vincent was strongly attached to her, and that he possessed many of the good qualities essential to her happiness, operated every day more and more strongly upon Belinda’s mind.
Where was Clarence Hervey all this time? Lady Delacour, alas! could not divine. She every morning was certain that he would appear that day, and every night she was forced to acknowledge her mistake. No inquiries — and she had made all that could be made, by address and perseverance — no inquiries could clear up the mystery of Virginia and Mrs. Ormond; and her impatience to see her friend Clarence every hour increased. She was divided between her confidence in him and her affection for Belinda; unwilling to give him up, yet afraid to injure her happiness, or to offend her, by injudicious advice, and improper interference. One thing kept Lady Delacour for some time in spirits — Miss Portman’s assurance that she would not bind herself by any promise or engagement to Mr. Vincent, even when decided in his favour; and that she should hold both him and herself perfectly free till they were actually married. This was according to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival’s principles; and Lady Delacour was never tired of expressing directly or indirectly her admiration of the prudence and propriety of their doctrine.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 52