"I remember the time," said Mr. Percival, "when you thought it impossible that your taste should ever change; when you told me that taste, whether for the beauties of animate or inanimate nature, was immutable."

"You and Miss Portman have taught me better sense. First loves are generally silly things," added he, colouring a little. Belinda coloured also.

"First loves," continued Mr. Percival, "are not necessarily more foolish than others; but the chances are certainly against them. From poetry or romance, young people usually form their earlier ideas of love, before they have actually felt the pa.s.sion; and the image which they have in their own minds of the _beau ideal_ is cast upon the first objects they afterward behold. This, if I may be allowed the expression, is Cupid's Fata Morgana. Deluded mortals are in ecstasy whilst the illusion lasts, and in despair when it vanishes."

Mr. Percival appeared to be unconscious that what he was saying was any way applicable to Belinda. He addressed himself to Mr. Vincent solely, and she listened at her ease.

"But," said she, "do not you think that this prejudice, as I am willing to allow it to be, in favour of first loves, may _in our s.e.x_ be advantageous? Even when a woman may be convinced--that she ought not to indulge a _first_ love, should she not be prevented by delicacy from thinking of a second?"

"Delicacy, my dear Miss Portman, is a charming word, and a still more charming thing, and Mrs. Freke has probably increased our affection for it; but even delicacy, like all other virtues, must be judged of by the test of utility. We should run into romance, and error, and misery, if we did not constantly refer to this standard. Our reasonings as to the conduct of life, as far as moral prudence is concerned, must depend ultimately upon facts. Now, of the numbers of people in this world, how many do you think have married their _first loves?_ Probably not one out of ten. Then, would you have nine out of ten pine all their lives in celibacy, or fret in matrimony, because they cannot have the persons who first struck their _fancy?_"

"I acknowledge this would not add to the happiness of society," said Belinda.

"Nor to its virtue," said Mr. Percival. "I scarcely know an idea more dangerous to domestic happiness than this belief in the unextinguishable nature of a first flame. There are people who would persuade us that, though it may be smothered for years, it must break out at last, and blaze with destructive fury. Pernicious doctrine! false as it is pernicious!--The struggles between duty and pa.s.sion may be the charm of romance, but must be the misery of real life. The woman who marries one man, and loves another, who, in spite of all that an amiable and estimable husband can do to win her confidence and affection, nourishes in secret a _fatal_ prepossession for her first love, may perhaps, by the eloquence of a fine writer, be made an interesting heroine;--but would any man of sense or feeling choose to be troubled with such a wife?--Would not even the idea that women admired such conduct necessarily tend to diminish our confidence, if not in their virtue, at least in their sincerity? And would not this suspicion destroy our happiness? Husbands may sometimes have delicate feelings as well as their wives, though they are seldom allowed to have any by these unjust novel writers. Now, could a husband who has any delicacy be content to possess the person without the mind?--the duty without the love?--Could he be perfectly happy, if, in the fondest moments, he might doubt whether he were an object of disgust or affection?--whether the smiles of apparent joy were only the efforts of a suffering martyr?--Thank Heaven! I am not married to one of these charming martyrs. Let those live with them who admire them. For my part, I admire and love the wife, who not only seems but is happy--as I," added Mr. Percival smiling, "have the fond credulity to believe. If I have spoken too long or too warmly upon the chapter of _first loves_, I have at least been a perfectly disinterested declaimer; for I can a.s.sure you, Miss Portman, that I do not suspect Lady Anne Percival of sighing in secret for some vision of perfection, any more than she suspects me of pining for the charming Lady Delacour, who, perhaps, you may have heard was my _first love_. In these days, however, so few people marry with even the pretence to love of any sort, that you will think I might have spared this tirade. No; there are ingenuous minds which will never be enslaved by fashion or interest, though they may be exposed to be deceived by romance, or by the _delicacy_ of their own imaginations."

"I hear," said Belinda, smiling, "I hear and understand the emphasis with which you p.r.o.nounce that word _delicacy_. I see you have not forgotten that I used it improperly half an hour ago, as you have convinced me."

"Happy they," said Mr. Percival, "who can be convinced in half an hour!

There are some people who cannot be convinced in a whole life, and who end where they began, with saying--'This is my opinion--I always thought so, and always shall.'"

Mr. Vincent at all times loved Mr. Percival; but he never felt so much affection for him as he did this evening, and his arguments appeared to him unanswerable. Though Belinda had never mentioned to Mr. Vincent the name of Clarence Hervey till this day, and though he did not in the least suspect from her manner that this gentleman ever possessed any interest in her heart; yet, with her accustomed sincerity, she had confessed to him that an impression had been made upon her mind before she came to Oakly-park.

After this conversation with Mr. Percival, Mr. Vincent perceived that he gained ground more rapidly in her favour; and his company grew every day more agreeable to her taste: he was convinced that, as he possessed her esteem, he should in time secure her affections.

"In time," repeated Lady Anne Percival: "you must allow her time, or you will spoil all."

It was with some difficulty that Mr. Vincent restrained his impatience, even though he was persuaded of the prudence of his friend's advice.

Things went on in this happy, but as he thought slow, state of progression till towards the latter end of September.

One fine morning Lady Anne Percival came into Belinda's room with a bridal favour in her hand. "Do you know," said she, "that we are to have a wedding to-day? This favour has just been sent to my maid. Lucy, the pretty girl whom you may remember to have seen some time ago with that prettily turned necklace, is the bride, and James Jackson is the bridegroom. Mr. Vincent has let them a very pretty little farm in the neighbourhood, and--hark! there's the sound of music."

They looked out of the window, and they saw a troop of villagers, gaily dressed, going to the wedding. Lady Anne, who was always eager to promote innocent festivity, sent immediately to have a tent pitched in the park; and all the rural company were invited to a dance in the evening: it was a very cheerful spectacle. Belinda heard from all sides praises of Mr. Vincent's generosity; and she could not be insensible to the simple but enthusiastic testimony which Juba bore to his master's goodness. Juba had composed, in his broken dialect, a little song in honour of his master, which he sang to his banjore with the most touching expression of joyful grat.i.tude. In some of the stanzas Belinda could distinguish that her own name was frequently repeated. Lady Anne called him, and desired to have the words of this song. They were a mixture of English and of his native language; they described in the strongest manner what had been his feelings whilst he was under the terror of Mrs. Freke's fiery obeah-woman, then his joy on being relieved from these horrors, with the delightful sensations of returning health;--and thence he suddenly pa.s.sed to his grat.i.tude to Belinda, the person to whom he owed his recovery. He concluded with wishing her all sorts of happiness, and, above all, that she might be fortunate in her love; which Juba thought the highest degree of felicity. He had no sooner finished his song, which particularly touched and pleased Miss Portman, than he begged his master to offer to her the little instrument, which he had made with much pains and ingenuity. She accepted the banjore with a smile that enchanted Mr. Vincent; but at this instant they were startled by the sound of a carriage driving rapidly into the park. Belinda looked up, and between the heads of the dancers she just caught a glimpse of a well-known livery. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "Lady Delacour's carriage!--Can it be Lady Delacour?"

The carriage stopped, and Marriott hastily jumped out of it. Belinda pressed forward to meet her; poor Marriott was in great agitation:--"Oh, Miss Portman! my poor lady is very ill--very ill, indeed. She has sent me for you--here's her letter. Dear Miss Portman, I hope you won't refuse to come; she _has_ been very ill, and is very ill; but she would be better, if she could see you again. But I'll tell every thing, ma'am, when we are by ourselves, and when you have read your letter."

Miss Portman immediately accompanied Marriott towards the house; and as they walked thither, she learned that Lady Delacour had applied to the quack-doctor in whom she had such implicit faith, and had in vain endeavoured to engage him to perform for her the operation to which she had determined to submit. He was afraid to hazard it, and he prevailed upon her to give up the scheme, and to try some new external remedy from which he promised wonders. No one knew what his medicines were, but they affected her head in the most alarming manner.

In her delirium she called frequently upon Miss Portman; sometimes accusing her of the basest treachery, sometimes addressing her as if she were present, and pouring forth the warmest expressions of friendship.

"In her lucid intervals, ma'am," continued Marriott, "she for some weeks scarcely ever mentioned your name, nor could bear to hear me mention it. One day, when I was saying how much I wished that you were with her again, she darted at me the most terrible look that ever I beheld.

"'When I am in my grave, Marriott,' cried my lady, 'it will be time enough for Miss Portman again to visit this house, and you may then express your attachment to her with more propriety than at present.'

These were my lady's own words--I shall never forget them: they struck and astonished me, ma'am, so much, I stood like one stupified, and then left the room to think them over again by myself, and make sense of them, if I could. Well, ma'am, to be sure, it then struck me like a flash of lightning, that my lady was jealous--and, begging your pardon, ma'am--of you. This seemed to me the most unnatural thing in the world, considering how easy my lady had always seemed to be about my lord; but it was now clear to me, that this was the cause of your leaving us so suddenly, ma'am. Well, I was confident that Mr. Champfort was at the bottom of the business from the first; and now that I knew what scent to go upon, I went to work with fresh spirit to find him out, which was a thing I was determined upon--and what I'm determined upon, I generally do, ma'am. So I put together things about Miss Portman and my lord, that had dropped at odd times from Sir Philip Baddely's gentleman; and I, partly serious and partly flirting, which in a good cause is no sin, drew from him (for he pretends to be a little an admirer of mine, ma'am, though I never gave him the smallest encouragement) all he knew or suspected, or had heard reported, or whispered; and out it came, ma'am, that Mr. Champfort was the original of all; and that he had told a heap of lies about some bank-notes that my lord had given you, and that you and my lord were to be married as soon as my lady was dead; and I don't know what, which he maliciously circulated through Sir Philip's gentleman to Sir Philip himself, and so round again to my lady. Now, Sir Philip's man behaved like a gentleman upon the occasion, which I shall ever be free to acknowledge and remember: and when I represented things properly, and made him sensible of the mischief, which, he a.s.sured me, was done purely with an eye to serve Sir Philip, his master, he very candidly offered to a.s.sist me to unmask that villain Champfort, which he could easily do with the a.s.sistance of a few bottles of claret, and a few fair words; which, though I can't abide hypocrisy, I thought quite allowable upon such an occasion. So, ma'am, when Mr. Champfort was thrown off his guard by the claret, Sir Philip's gentleman began to talk of my lord and my lady, and Miss Portman; and he observed that my lord and my lady were coming together more than they used to be since Miss Portman left the house. To which Champfort replied with an oath, like an unmannered reprobate as he is, and in his gibberish, French and English, which I can't speak; but the sense of it was this:--'My lord and lady shall never come together, if I can help it. It was to hinder this I got Miss Portman banished; for my lord was quite another man after she got Miss Helena into the house; and I don't doubt but he might have been brought to leave off his burgundy, and set up for a sober, regular man; which would not suit me at all. If my lady once was to get power over him again, I might go whistle--so (with another reprobate oath) my lord and my lady shall never come together again whilst I live.'

"Well, ma'am," continued Marriott, "as soon as I was in possession of this precious speech, I carried it and a letter of Sir Philip Baddely's gentleman vouching it to my lady. My lady was thunderstruck, and so vexed to have been, as she said, a dupe, that she sent for my lord directly, and insisted upon his giving up Mr. Champfort. My lord demurred, because my lady spoke so high, and said _insist_. He would have done it, I'm satisfied, of his own accord with the greatest pleasure, if my lady had not, as it were, commanded it. But he answered at last, 'My Lady Delacour, I'm not a man to be governed by a wife--I shall keep or part with my own servants in my own house, according to my own pleasure;' and saying so, he left the room. I never saw my lady so angry as she was at this refusal of my lord to part with him. The house was quite in a state of distraction for some days. I never would sit down to the same table, ma'am, with Mr. Champfort, nor speak to him, nor look at him, and parties ran high above and below stairs. And at last my lady, who had been getting better, took to her bed again with a nervous fever, which brought her almost to death's door; she having been so much weakened before by the quack medicines and convulsions, and all her sufferings in secret. She would not see my lord on no account, and Champfort persuaded him her illness was pretence, to bring him to her purpose; which was the more readily believed, because n.o.body was ever let into my lady's bedchamber but myself. All this time she never mentioned your name, ma'am; but once, when I was sitting by her bedside, as she was asleep, she started suddenly, and cried out, 'Oh, my dearest Belinda! are you come back to me?'--She awakened herself with the start; and raising herself quite up in her bed, she pulled back the curtains, and looked all round the room. I'm sure she expected to see you; and when she found it was a dream, she gave a heavy sigh, and sank down upon her pillow. I then could not forbear to speak, and this time my lady was greatly touched when I mentioned your name:--she shed tears, ma'am; and you know it is not a little thing that can draw tears from my lady. But when I said something about sending for you, she answered, she was sure you would not return to her, and that she would never condescend to ask a favour in vain, even from you. Then I replied that I was sure you loved her still, and as well as ever: and that the proof of that was, that Mrs. Luttridge and Mrs. Freke together, by all their wiles, could not draw you over to their party at Harrowgate, and that you had affronted Mrs. Freke by defending her ladyship. My lady was all surprise at this, and eagerly asked how I came to know it. Now, ma'am, I had it all by a post letter from Mrs. Luttridge's maid, who is my cousin, and knows every thing that's going on. My lady from this moment forward could scarce rest an instant without wishing for you, and fretting for you as I knew by her manner. One day my lord met me on the stairs as I was coming down from my poor lady's room, and he asked me how she was, and why she did not send for a physician. 'The best physician, my lord, she could send for,' said I, 'would be Miss Portman; for she'll never be well till that good young lady comes back again, in my humble opinion.'

"'And what should prevent that good young lady from coming back again?

Not I, surely,' rejoined my lord, 'for I wish she were here with all my heart.'

"'It is not easy to suppose, my lord,' said I, 'after all that has pa.s.sed, that the young lady would choose to return, or that my lady would ask her, whilst Mr. Champfort remains paramount in the house.'

'If that's all,' cried my lord, 'tell your lady I'll part with Champfort upon the spot; for the rascal has just had the insolence to insist upon it, that a pair of new boots are not too tight for me, when I said they were. I'll show him I can be master, and will, in my own house.' Ma'am, my heart leaped for joy within me at hearing these words, and I ran up to my lady with them. I easily concluded in my own mind, that my lord was glad of the pretence of the boots, to give up handsomely after his standing out so long. To be sure, my lord's mightily jealous of being master, and mighty fond of his own way; but I forgive him every thing for doing as I would have him at last, and dismissing that prince of mischief-makers, Mr. Champfort. My lady called for her writing-desk directly, and sat up in her bed, and with her trembling hand, as you see by the writing, ma'am, wrote a letter to you as fast as ever she could, and the postchaise was ordered. I don't know what fancy seized her--but if you remember, ma'am, the hammercloth to her new carriage had orange and black fringe at first: she would not use it, till this had been changed to blue and white. Well, ma'am, she recollected this on a sudden, as I was getting ready to come for you; and she set the servants at work directly to take off the blue and white, and put on the black and orange fringe again, which she said must be done before your coming.

And my lady ordered her own footman to ride along with me; and I have come post, and have travelled night and day, and will never rest till I get back. But, ma'am, I won't keep you any longer from reading your letter, only to say, that I hope to Heaven you will not refuse to return to my poor lady, if it be only to put her mind at ease before she dies.

She cannot have long to live."

As Marriott finished these words they reached the house, and Belinda went to her own room to read Lady Delacour's letter. It contained none of her customary '_eloquence du billet_,' no sprightly wit, no real, no affected gaiety; her mind seemed to be exhausted by bodily suffering, and her high spirit subdued. She expressed the most poignant anguish for having indulged such unjust suspicions and intemperate pa.s.sions.

She lamented having forfeited the esteem and affection of the only real friend she had ever possessed--a friend of whose forbearance, tenderness, and fidelity, she had received such indisputable proofs.

She concluded by saying, "I feel my end fast approaching, and perhaps, Belinda, your humanity will induce you to grant my last request, and to let me see you once more before I die."

Belinda immediately decided to return to Lady Delacour--though it was with real regret that she thought of leaving Lady Anne Percival, and the amiable and happy family to whom she had become so much attached. The children crowded round her when they heard that she was going, and Mr.

Vincent stood in silent sorrow--but we spare our readers this parting scene Miss Portman promised to return to Oakly-park as soon as she possibly could. Mr. Vincent anxiously requested permission to follow her to town: but this she positively refused; and he submitted with as good a grace as a lover can submit to any thing that crosses his pa.s.sion.

CHAPTER XX.

RECONCILIATION.

Aware that her remaining in town at such an unusual season of the year would appear unaccountable to her fashionable acquaintance, Lady Delacour contrived for herself a characteristic excuse; she declared that there was no possibility of finding pleasure in any thing but novelty, and that the greatest novelty to her would be to remain a whole summer in town. Most of her friends, amongst whom she had successfully established a character for caprice, were satisfied that this was merely some new whim, practised to signalize herself by singularity. The real reason that detained her was her dependence upon the empiric, who had repeatedly visited and constantly prescribed for her. Convinced, however, by the dreadful situation to which his prescriptions had lately reduced her that he was unworthy of her confidence, she determined to dismiss him: but she could not do this, as she had a considerable sum to pay him, till Marriott's return, because she could not trust any one but Marriott to let him up the private staircase into the boudoir.

During Marriott's absence, her ladyship suffered no one to attend her but a maid who was remarkable for her stupidity. She thought that she could have nothing to fear from this girl's spirit of inquiry, for never was any human being so dest.i.tute of curiosity. It was about noon when Belinda and Marriott arrived. Lady Delacour, who had pa.s.sed a restless night, was asleep. When she awoke, she found Marriott standing beside her bed.

"Then it is all in vain, I see," cried her ladyship: "Miss Portman is not with you?--Give me my laudanum."

"Miss Portman is come, my lady," said Marriott; "she is in the dressing-room: she would not come in here with me, lest she should startle you."

"Belinda is come, do you say? Admirable Belinda!" cried Lady Delacour, and she clasped her hands with ecstasy.

"Shall I tell her, my lady, that you are awake?"

"Yes--no--stay--Lord Delacour is at home. I will get up immediately.

Let my lord be told that I wish to speak with him--that I beg he will breakfast with me in my dressing-room half an hour hence. I will dress immediately."

Marriott in vain represented that she ought not to hurry herself in her present weak state. Intent upon her own thoughts, she listened to nothing that was said, but frequently urged Marriott to be expeditious.

She put on an unusual quant.i.ty of rouge: then looking at herself in the gla.s.s, she said, with a forced smile, "Marriott, I look so charmingly, that Miss Portman, perhaps, will be of Lord Delacour's opinion, and think that nothing is the matter with me. Ah! no; she has been behind the scenes--she knows the truth too well!--Marriott, pray did she ask you many questions about me?--Was not she very sorry to leave Oakly-park?--Were not they all extremely concerned to part with her?--Did she ask after Helena?--Did you tell her that I insisted upon my lord's parting with Champfort?"

At the word Champfort, Marriott's mouth opened eagerly, and she began to answer with her usual volubility. Lady Delacour waited not for any reply to the various questions which, in the hurry of her mind, she had asked; but, pa.s.sing swiftly by Marriott, she threw open the door of her dressing-room. At the sight of Belinda she stopped short; and, totally overpowered, she would have sunk upon the floor, had not Miss Portman caught her in her arms, and supported her to a sofa. When she came to herself, and heard the soothing tone of Belinda's voice, she looked up timidly in her face for a few moments without being able to speak.

"And are you really here once more, my dear Belinda?" cried she at last; "and may I still call you my friend?--and do you forgive me?--Yes, I _see_ you do--and from you I can endure the humiliation of being forgiven. Enjoy the n.o.ble sense of your own superiority."

"My dear Lady Delacour," said Belinda, "you see all this in too strong a light: you have done me no injury--I have nothing to forgive."

"I _cannot_ see it in too strong a light.--Nothing to forgive!--Yes, you have; that which it is the most difficult to forgive--injustice. Oh, how you must have despised me for the folly, the meanness of my suspicions!

Of all tempers that which appears to me, and I am sure to you, the most despicable, the most intolerable, is a suspicious temper. Mine was once open, generous as your own--you see how the best dispositions may be depraved--what am I now? Fit only

'To point a moral, or adorn a tale'--

a mismatched, misplaced, miserable, perverted being."