 Chapter 14, Part 1, The Exhibition Two hours after her ladyship had retired to her room, as Belinda was passing by the door to go to her own bed-chamber, she heard Lady Delacour call to her. Belinda, you need not walk so softly, I am not asleep. Come in, will you, my dear? I have something of consequence to say to you. Is all the world gone? Yes, and I thought that you were asleep, I hope you're not in pain. Not just at present, thank you, but—that was a terrible embrace of poor little Helena's. You see to what accidents I should be continually exposed if I had that child always about me, and yet she seems of such an affectionate disposition that I wish it were possible to keep her at home. Sit down by my bed-side, my dear Belinda, and I will tell you what I have resolved upon. Belinda sat down, and Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes. I am resolved, said she, to make one desperate effort for my life. New plans, new hopes of happiness have opened to my imagination. And with my hopes of being happy, my courage rises, I am determined to submit to the dreadful operation which alone can radically cure me. You understand me, but it must be kept a profound secret. I know of a person who could be got to perform this operation with the utmost secrecy. But surely, said Belinda, safety must be your first object. No, secrecy is my first object. Nay, don't reason with me. It is a subject on which I cannot, will not reason. Hear me. I will keep Helena with me for a few days. She was surprised by what passed in the library this evening. I must remove all suspicion from her mind. There is no suspicion in her mind, said Belinda. So much the better. She shall go immediately to school or to Oakley Park. I will then stand my trial for life or death. And if I live I will be, when I have never yet been, a mother to Helena. If I die you and Clarence Hervey will take care of her. I know you will. That young man is worthy of you, Belinda. If I die I charge you to tell him that I knew his value, that I had a soul capable of being touched by the eloquence of virtue. Lady Delacorte, after a pause, said in an altered tone, Do you think, Belinda, that I shall survive this operation? The opinion of Dr. X, said Belinda, must certainly be more satisfactory than mine. And she repeated what the doctor had left with her in writing upon this subject. You see, said Belinda, that Dr. X is by no means certain that you have the complaint which you dread. I am certain of it, said Lady Delacorte, with a deep sigh. Then after a pause she resumed. So it is in the doctor's opinion that I shall inevitably destroy myself if, from a vain hope of secrecy, I put myself into ignorant hands. These are his own words, are they? Very strong. And he is prudent to leave that opinion in writing. Now whatever happens he cannot be answerable for measures which he does not guide. Nor you either, my dear, you have done all that is prudent and proper. But I must beg you to recollect that I am neither a child nor a fool, that I am come to years of discretion, and that I am not now in the delirium of a fever. Consequently there can be no pretense for managing me. In this particular I must insist upon managing myself. I have confidence in the skill of the person whom I shall employ, Dr. X very likely would have none, because the man may not have a diploma for killing or curing in form. That is nothing to the purpose. It is I that I am going to undergo the operation. It is my health, my life that is risked. And if I am satisfied that is enough. Secrecy, as I told you before, is my first object. And cannot you, said Belinda, depend with more security upon the honour of a surgeon who is at the head of his profession, and who has a high reputation at stake, than upon a vague promise of secrecy from some obscure quack who has no reputation to lose? No, said Lady Delacour, I tell you, my dear, that I cannot depend upon any of these honourable men. I have taken means to satisfy myself upon this point. Their honour and foolish delicacy would not allow them to perform such an operation for a wife without the knowledge, privity, consent, etc., etc., etc., of her husband. Now Lord Delacour is knowing the thing is quite out of the question. Why, my Lady Delacour, why? said Belinda, with great earnestness. Surely a husband has the strongest claim to be consulted upon such an occasion. Let me entreat you to tell Lord Delacour your intention, and then all will be right. Say yes, my dear friend, let me prevail upon you. Said Belinda, taking her ladyship's hand and pressing it between both of hers with the most affectionate eagerness. Lady Delacour made no answer but fixed her eyes upon Belinda's. Lord Delacour, continued Miss Portman, deserves this from you by the great interest, the increasing interest that he has shown of late about your health. His kindness and handsome conduct the other morning certainly pleased you, and you have now an opportunity of showing that confidence in him, which his affection and constant attachment to you merit. I trouble myself very little about the constancy of Lord Delacour's attachment to me, said her ladyship Cooley, withdrawing her hand from Belinda. Whether his lordship's affection for me has of late increased or diminished is an object of perfect indifference to me. But if I were inclined to reward him for his late attentions, I should apprehend that we might hit upon some better reward than you have pitched upon. Unless you imagine that Lord Delacour has a peculiar taste for surgical operations, I cannot conceive how his becoming my confidant upon this occasion could have an immediate tendency to increase his affection for me. About which affection I don't care a straw as you, better than anyone else must know, for I am no hypocrite, I have laid open my whole heart to you, Belinda. For that very reason, said Miss Portman, I am eager to use the influence which I know I have in your heart for your happiness. I am convinced that it will be absolutely impossible that you should carry on this scheme in the house with your husband, without it being discovered. If he discover it by accident, he will feel very differently from what he would do if he were trusted by you. For heaven's sake, my dear, cried Lady Delacour, let me hear no more about Lord Delacour's feelings. But allow me then to speak of my own, said Belinda. I cannot be concerned in this affair if it is to be concealed from your husband. You will do about that, as you think proper, said Lady Delacour haughtily. Your sense of propriety towards Lord Delacour is, I observe, stronger than your sense of honour towards me, but I make no doubt that you act upon principle, just principle. You promised never to abandon me, but when I most want your assistance you refuse it, from consideration for Lord Delacour. A scruple of delicacy absolves a person of nice feelings I find from a positive promise, a new and convenient code of morality. Belinda, though much hurt by the sarcastic tone in which her ladyship spoke, mildly answered that the promise she had made to stay with her ladyship during her illness was very different from an engagement to assist her in such a scheme as she had now in contemplation. Lady Delacour suddenly drew the curtain between her and Belinda, saying, Well, my dear, at all events I'm glad to hear you don't forget your promise of staying with me. You are perhaps prudent to refuse me your assistance, all circumstances considered. Good night, I have kept you up too long. Good night. Good night, said Belinda, drawing aside the curtain. You will not be displeased with me when you reflect coolly. The light blinds me, said Lady Delacour, and she turned her face away from Miss Portman and added, in a drowsy voice. I will think of what has been said some time or other, but just now I would rather go to sleep than say or hear any more, for I am more than half asleep already. Belinda closed the curtains and left the room. But Lady Delacour, notwithstanding the drowsy tone in which she pronounced these last words, was not in the least inclined to sleep. A passion had taken possession of her mind, which kept her broad awake the remainder of the night, the passion of jealousy. The extreme eagerness with which Belinda had urged her to consult Lord Delacour and to trust him with her secret displeased her, not merely as an opposition to her will and undue attention to his Lordship's things, but as confirmation strong of a hint which had been dropped by Sir Philip badly, but which never till now had appeared to her worthy of a moment's consideration. Sir Philip had observed that, if a lady had any hopes of being of his countess, it is no wonder she thought a baronette beneath her notice. Now, thought Lady Delacour, this is not impossible. In the first place Belinda Portman is niced to Mrs. Stanhope. She may have all her aunt's art and the still greater art to conceal it under the mask of openness and simplicity. Volto siolto pensieri stracci is the grand maxim of the Stanhope school. The moment Lady Delacour's mind turned to suspicion, her ingenuity rapidly supplied her with circumstances and arguments to confirm and justify her doubts. Miss Portman fears that my husband is growing too fond of me. She says he has been very attentive to me of late. Yes, so he has, and on purpose, to disgust him with me, she immediately urges me to tell him that I have a loathsome disease and that I am about to undergo a horrid operation. How my eyes have been blinded by her artifice! This less stroke was rather too bold and has opened them effectually, and now I see a thousand things that escaped me before. Even tonight, the sortes Virgilianae, the Myrtleleaf, Miss Portman's mark, left in the book exactly at the place where Marmantel gives a receipt for managing a husband of Lord Delacour's character. Ah! Ah! By her own confession she had been reading this! Yes, and she has studied it to some purpose. She has made that poor weak lord of mine think her an angel. How he ran on in her praise the other day when he honoured me with a morning visit! That morning visit, too, was of her suggestion. And the bank notes, as he, like a simpleton led out in the course of the conversation, had been offered to her first. She, with a delicacy that charmed my short-sighted folly, begged that they might go through my hands. How artfully managed! Mrs. Danhope herself could not have done better. So she can make Lord Delacour do whatever she pleases. And she condescends to make him behave pridly to me, and desires him to bring me peace-offerings of bank-notes. She is, in fact, become my banker, mistress of my house, my husband, and myself. Ten days I have been confined to my room. Truly she has made good use of her time, and I, fool that I am, have been thanking her for all her disinterested kindness. Then her attention to my daughter, disinterested, too, as I thought. But good heavens, what an idiot I have been! She looks forward to be the step-mother of Helena. She would win the simple child's affections even before my face, and show Lord Delacour what a charming wife and mother she would make. He said some such thing to me as well as I remember the other day. Given her extreme prudence, she never co-cats, not she, with any of the young men who come here on purpose to see her. Is this natural? Absolutely unnatural! Artifice! Artifice! To contrast herself with me in Lord Delacour's opinion is certainly her object. Even to Clarence Hervey, with whom she was, or pretended to be, smitten, how cold and reserved she has grown of late. And how heartily she rejected my advice when I hinted that she was not taking the way to win him. I could not comprehend her. She had no designs on Clarence Hervey, she assured me. Immaculate purity! I believe you. Then her refusal of Sir Philip Battley, a baronet with fifteen thousand a year to be refused by a girl who has nothing, and merely because he is a fool. How could I be such a fool as to believe it? Were the niece of Mrs. Stanhope, I know you now. And now I recollect that extraordinary letter of Mrs. Stanhope's which I snatched out of Miss Portman's hands some months ago, full of blanks and innuendos, and references to some letter which Belinda had written about my disputes with my husband. From that moment to this Miss Portman has never let me see another of her aunt's letters. So I may conclude they are all in the same style, and I make no doubt that she has instructed her niece all this time how to proceed. Now I know why she always puts Mrs. Stanhope's letters into her pocket the moment she receives them, and never opens them in my presence. And I have been laying open my whole heart, telling my whole history, confessing all my faults and follies to this girl, and I have told her that I am dying. I have taught her to look forward with joy and certainty to the coronet on which she has fixed her heart. On my knees I conjured her to stay with me to receive my last breath, oh, dupe, miserable dupe that I am, could nothing warn me? In the moment that I discovered the treachery of one friend, I went and prostrated myself to the artifices of another, of another a thousand times more dangerous, ten thousand times more beloved. For what was Harriet Freck in comparison with Belinda Portman? Harriet Freck, even whilst she diverted me most, I half despised. But Belinda, oh Belinda, how entirely I have loved, trusted, admired, adored, respected, revered you! Exhausted by the emotions to which she had worked herself up by the force of her powerful imagination, Lady Delacour, after passing several restless hours in bed, fell asleep late in the morning. And when she awaked, Belinda was standing by her bedside. What could you be dreaming of? said Belinda, smiling. You started and looked at me with such horror when you opened your eyes as if I had been your evil genius. It is not in human nature, thought Lady Delacour, suddenly overcome by the sweet smile and friendly tone of Belinda. It is not in human nature to be so treacherous. And she stretched out both her arms to Belinda, saying, You, my evil genius, no! My guardian angel! My dearest Belinda, kiss me, and forgive me. Forgive you for what? said Belinda. I believe you are dreaming still, and I am sorry to awaken you, but I have come to tell you a wonderful thing. That Lord Delacour is up and dressed, and actually in the breakfast room, and that he has been talking to me this half-hour, of what do you think? Of Helena! He was quite surprised, he said, to see her grown such a fine girl. And he declares that he no longer regrets that she was not a boy, and he says that he will dine at home to-day, on purpose to drink Helena's health in his new burgundy, and, in short, I never saw him in such good spirits or so agreeable. I always thought he was one of the best-natured men I had ever seen. Will you not get up to breakfast? Lord Delacour has asked for you ten times within these five minutes. Indeed, said Lady Delacour, rubbing her eyes. All this is vastly wonderful, but I wish you had not awakened me so soon. Nay, nay, said Belinda, I know by the tone of your voice that you do not mean what you say. I know you will get up, and come down to us directly, so I will send Marriott. Let it Delacour got up and went down to breakfast, in much uncertainty what to think of Miss Portman, but a shame to let her into her mind, and still more afraid that Lord Delacour should suspect her of doing him the honour to be jealous. Belinda had not the least guessed of what was really passing in her ladyship's heart. She implicitly believed her expressions of complete indifference to her Lord. And jealousy was the last feeling which Miss Portman would have attributed to Lady Delacour, because she, unfortunately, was not sufficiently aware that jealousy can exist without love. The idea of Lord Delacour as an object of attachment, or of a coronet as an object of ambition, or of her friend's death as an object of joy, were so foreign to Belinda's innocent mind that it was scarcely possible she could decipher Lady Delacour's thoughts. Her ladyship, affected to be in remarkable good spirits this morning, declared that she had never felt so well since her illness, ordered her carriage as soon as breakfast was over, and said she would take Helena to Maliardets to see the wonders of his little conjurer, and his singing bird. Nothing equal to Maliardets' singing bird has ever been seen or heard of, my dear Helena, since the days of Abel Kasem's peacock in the Persian tales, since Lady Anne Percival has not shown you these charming things I must. But I hope you won't tire yourself, Mama, said the little girl. I'm afraid you will, said Belinda. And you know, my dear, added Lord Delacour, that Miss Portman, who is so very obliging and good-natured, could go just as well with Helena. And I am sure would, rather than that you should tire yourself or give yourself an unnecessary trouble. Miss Portman is very good, answered Lady Delacour hastily. But I think it no unnecessary trouble to give my daughter any pleasure in my power, as to its tiring me I'm neither dead nor dying yet. For the rest, Miss Portman, who understands what its proper blusher is for you as you see my lord, when you propose that she, who is not yet a married woman, should chaperone a young lady, it is quite out of rule. And Mrs. Danhope would be shocked if her niece could or would do such a thing to oblige anybody. Lord Delacour was too much in the habit of hearing sarcastic and to him uncomprehensible speeches from her ladyship to take any extraordinary notice of this. And if Belinda blushed, it was merely from the confusion into which she was thrown by the piercing glance of Lady Delacour's black eyes, a glance which neither guilt nor innocence could withstand. Belinda imagined that her ladyship still retains some displeasure from the conversation that had passed the preceding night, and the first time that she was alone with Lady Delacour she again touched upon the subject in hopes of softening or convincing her. At all events, my dear friend, says she, you will not, I hope, be offended by this sincerity with which I speak, I can have no object but your safety and happiness. Sincerity never offends me, was her ladyship's cold answer. And all the time that they were out together she was unusually ceremonious to Miss Portman, and there would have been but little conversation if Helena had not been present to whom her mother talked with fluent gaiety. When they got to Spring Gardens, Helena exclaimed, Oh, there's Lady Anne Percival's carriage, and Charles and Edward with her. They are going to the same place that we are, I daresay, for I heard Charles ask Lady Anne to take him to see Maliardette's little bird. Mr. Herbie mentioned it to us, and he said it was a curious piece of machinery. I wish you had told me sooner that Lady Anne was likely to be there. I don't wish to meet her so awkwardly. I'm not well enough yet, indeed, to go to these odious, hot, close places, and besides, I hate seeing sights. Helena, with much good humour, said that she would rather give up seeing the sight than be troublesome to her mother. When they came to Maliardette's, however, Lady Delcor saw Mrs. Blank getting out of her carriage, and to her she can sign Helena and Miss Portman, saying that she would take a turn or two in the part, and call for them in half an hour. When the half hour was over, and her lady ship returned, she carelessly asked, as they were going home, whether they had been pleased with their visit to the bird and the conjurer. Oh, yes, Mama, said Helena, and do you know that one of the questions that the people ask the conjurer is, where is the happiest family to be found? And Charles and Edward immediately said, if he is a good conjurer, if he tells the truth, he'll answer at Oakley Park. Miss Portman had you any conversation with Lady Anne Percival? said Lady Delcor coldly. A great deal, said Belinda, and such as I am sure you would have liked, and so far from being a ceremonious person, I think I never saw anybody who had such easy, engaging manners. And did she ask you, Helena, again, to go with her to that place where the happiest family in the world is to be found? Oakley Park? No, Mama, she said that she was very glad that I was with you, but she asked Miss Portman to come to see her whenever it was in her power. And could Miss Portman withstand such a temptation? You know that I'm engaged to your lady ship, said Belinda. Lady Delcor bowed. But from what past last night, said she, I was afraid that you might repent your engagement to me, and if so, I give up my bond. I should be miserable if I apprehended that any one, but more especially Miss Portman, felt herself a prisoner in my house. Dear Lady Delcor, I do not feel myself a prisoner. I have always, till now, felt myself a friend in your house. But we'll talk of this another time. Do not look at me with so much coldness. Do not speak to me with so much politeness. I will not let you forget that I am your friend. I do not wish to forget, Belinda, said Lady Delcor with emotion. I am not ungrateful, though I may seem capricious. Bear with me. There, now, you look like yourself again, and I am satisfied, cried Belinda. As to going to Oakley Park, I give you my word. I have not the most distant thoughts of it. I stay with you from choice, and not from compulsion. Believe me. I do believe you, said Lady Delcor, and for a moment she was convinced that Belinda stayed with her for her own sake alone. But the next minute she suspected that Lord Delcor was this secret cause of her refusing to go to Oakley Park. His lordship dined at home this day, and two or three succeeding days, and he was not intoxicated from Monday till Thursday. These circumstances appeared to his lady very extraordinary. In fact he was pleased and amused with his little daughter, Helena, and while she was yet almost a stranger to him, he wished to appear to her in the most agreeable and respectable light possible. One day after dinner, Lord Delcor, who was in a remarkably good humour, said to her ladyship, My dear, you know that your new carriage was broken almost to pieces the night when you were overturned. Well, I have had it all said to rights again, and new painted, and it is all complete except the hammer-cloth, which must have new fringe. What colour would you have the fringe? What do you say, Miss Portman? said her ladyship. Black and orange would look well, I think, said Belinda, and would suit the lace of your liveries, would it not? Certainly, black and orange, then, said Lord Delcor. It shall be. If you ask my opinion, said Lady Delcor, I am for blue and white to match the cloth of the liveries. Blue and white, then it shall be, said Lord Delcor. No, Miss Portman has better taste than I have, and she says black and orange, my lord. Then you'll have it black and orange, will you, said Lord Delcor? Just as you please, said Lady Delcor, and no more past. End of Part 1 of Chapter 14. Chapter 14, Part 2 of Belinda. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Bellwest. Belinda by Maria Edgeworth. Chapter 14. Part 2. The Exhibition. Soon afterward a note came from Lady Anne Percival, with some trifles belonging to Helena for which her mother had sent. The note was for Belinda, another pressing invitation to Oakley Park, and a very civil message from Mrs. Margaret Delcor, and thanks to Lady Delcor for the macaw. I thought, Lady Delcor, Miss Portman wants to ingratiate herself in time with all of my husband's relations. Mrs. Margaret Delcor should have addressed these things to you, Miss Portman, for I had not the grace to think of sending her the macaw. Lord Delcor, who was very fond of his aunt, immediately joined his thanks, and observed that Miss Portman was always considerate, always obliging, always kind. Then he drank her health in a bumper of burgundy, and insisted upon his little Helena's drinking her health. I'm sure you ought. My dear, for Miss Portman is very good. Too good to you, child. Very good, not too good, I hope, said Lady Delcor. Miss Portman, your health. And, I hope, continued his lordship after swallowing his bumper, that my Lady Anne Percival does not mean to inveigle you away from us, Miss Portman. You don't think of leaving us, Miss Portman, I hope? Here's Helena would break her little heart. I say nothing for my Lady Delcor, because she could say everything so much better for herself. And I say nothing for myself, because I am the worst man in the world at making speeches when I really have a thing at heart. As I have your staying with us, Miss Portman. Belinda assured him there was no occasion to press her to do what was perfectly agreeable to her, and said that she had no thoughts of leaving Lady Delcor. Her ladyship with some embarrassment expressed herself extremely obliged and gratified and happy. Helena, with artless joy, threw her arms about Belinda and exclaimed, I'm glad you're not going, for I never liked anybody so much of whom I knew so little. The more you know of Miss Portman, the more you like her, child, at least I have found it so. Said Lord Delcor. Clarence Harvey would, I am sure, have given the Pigeo diamond if it were in his gift for such a smile as you bestowed on Lord Delcor just now, whispered Lady Delcor. For an instant Belinda was struck with the tone of peak and reproach in which her ladyship spoke. Nay, my dear, I did not mean to make you blush so piteously, pursued her ladyship. I really did not think it a blushing matter, but you know best. Believe me, I spoke without malice. We are so apt to judge from our own feelings, and I could as soon blush about the old man of the mountains as my Lord Delcor. Lord Delcor said Belinda with a look of such unfaith surprise that her ladyship instantly changed continence, and taking her hand with gaiety said, So, my little Belinda, I have caught you. The blush belongs then to Clarence Harvey. Well, any man of common sense would rather have one blush than a thousand smiles for his share. Now we understand one another, and you will go with me to the exhibition tomorrow? I am told there are some charming pictures this year. Helena, who really has a genius for drawing, should see these things, and whilst she is with me, I will make her as happy as possible. You see, the Reformation is beginning. Clarence Harvey and Miss Portman can do wonders. If it be my fate at last to be La Beaumere, or La Femme Com'Illiana Poole, how can I help it? There is no struggling against fate, my dear. Whenever Lady Delcor's suspicions of Belinda were suspended, all her affections returned with double force. She wandered at her own folly. She was ashamed that she could have let such ideas enter her mind, and she was beyond measure astonished that anything relative to Lord Delcor could so far have interested her attention. Luckily, she said to herself, he has not the penetration of a blind beetle, and besides he has little smug jealousies of his own, so he will never find me out. It will be an excellent thing indeed if he were to turn my master torment against myself. It would be a judgment upon me. The mains of poor Lawless would then be appease, but it is impossible I should ever be a jealous wife. I am only a jealous friend, and I must satisfy myself about Belinda. To be a second time a dupe to the treachery of a friend would be too much for me, too much for my pride, too much for my heart. The next day when they came to the exhibition, Lady Delcor had an opportunity of judging Belinda's real feelings. As they went up the stairs, they heard the voices of Sir Philip Battley and Mr. Rochefort, who were standing upon the landing place, leaning over the banisters, and running their little sticks around the iron rails to try which could make the loudest noise. Have you been much pleased with the pictures, gentlemen? said Lady Delcor as she passed them. Oh, damn! No! Disaccursed bore! And yet there are some fine pictures, one in particular. Hey, Rochefort! One damn fine picture! said Sir Philip, and the two gentlemen laughing significantly followed Lady Delcor and Belinda into the room. Hey, there's one picture that's worth all the rest, upon honor, repeated Rochefort, and will lead it to your ladieships and Miss Portman's taste and judgment to find it out. Maintwee, Sir Philip. Oh, damn, yes! said Sir Philip, by all means. But he was so impatient to direct her eyes that he could not keep himself still an instant. Oh, cursive, Rochefort! We better tell the ladies at once, else they might be all day looking and looking. Hey, Sir Philip, may I not be allowed to guess? Must I be told which is your fine picture? This is not much in favor of my taste. Oh, damn it! Your ladieship has the best taste in the world, everybody knows, and so has Miss Portman. And this picture will hit her taste particularly, I'm sure. It is Clarence Hervey's fancy, but this is a dead secret debt. Clary no more thinks that we know it than the man and the moon. Clarence Hervey's fancy, then I make no doubt of its being good for something, said Lady Delacour, if the painter have done justice to his imagination, for Clarence has really a fine imagination. Oh, damn, tis not amongst the history-pieces, cried Sir Philip, tis a portrait. In a history-piece, too, Pond Honour, said Rochefort, a family history-piece, I take it, Pond Honour, it will turn out, said Rochefort, and both the effected to be thrown into convulsions of laughter as they repeated the words, family history-piece, Pond Honour, family history-piece, dumb, I'll take my oath as to the portrait being a devilish good-likeness, added Sir Philip, and as he spoke he turned to Miss Portman. Miss Portman has it, dumb, Miss Portman has him. Glinda hastily withdrew her eyes from the picture at which she sat, a most beautiful creature, exclaimed Lady Delacorte. Oh, faith, yes, I always do clary the justice to say he has a dumbed good taste for beauty. But this seems to be of foreign beauty, continued Lady Delacorte, if one may judge by her air, her dress, and the scenery about her cocoa-trees, plantains, Miss Portman, what think you? That she could hardly speak. That it is a scene from Paul and Virginia, I think the figure is St. Pierre's Virginia. Virginia St. Pierre, ma'am, cried Mr. Rockfort, weeping at Sir Philip. No, no, dumb, there you are wrong, Rockfort, say, Herve's Virginia, and then you have it, dumb, or maybe Virginia Herve, who knows? This is a portrait, whispered the baronette to Lady Delacorte While her ladyship lent her ear to this whisper, which was sufficiently audible, she fixed a seemingly careless but most observing inquisitive eye upon poor Belinda. Her confusion, for she heard the whisper, was excessive. She loves Clarence Herve. She has no thoughts of Lord Delacorte and his coronet. I have done her injustice, thought Lady Delacorte, and instantly she dispatched Sir Philip out of the room for a catalogue of the pictures, begged Mr. Rockfort to get her something else, and drawing Miss Portman's arm within hers, she said in a low voice, lean upon me, my dearest Belinda, depend upon it. Clarence will never be such a fool as to marry the girl. Virginia Herve, she will never be. And what will become of her? Can Mr. Herve desert her? She looks like innocence itself being too. Can he leave her forever to sorrow and vice and infamy? thought Belinda, as she kept her eyes fixed in silent anguish upon the picture of Virginia. No, he cannot do this. If he could he would be unworthy of me, and I ought to think of him no more. No, he will marry her, and I must think of him no more. She turned abruptly away from the picture, and she saw Clarence Herve standing beside her. What do you think of this picture isn't not beautiful? We are quite enchanted with it. But you do not seem to be struck with it as we were at the first glance, said Lady Delacour. Because, answered Clarence Gailey, it is not the first glance I have had at that picture. I admired it yesterday and admire it today. But you are tired of admiring it, I see. Well, we shall not force you to be in raptures even. A man may be tired of the most beautiful face in the world or the most beautiful picture, but really there is so much sweetness, so much innocence, such tender melancholy in this continence that if I were a man I should inevitably be in love with it, and in love forever. Such beauty, if it were a nature would certainly fix the most inconstant man upon earth. Belinda ventured to take her eyes for an instant from the picture to see whether Clarence Hervey looked like the most inconstant man upon earth. He was intently gazing upon her, but as soon as she looked round he suddenly exclaimed as he turned to the picture, a heavenly continence indeed, the painter has done justice to the poet. Poet, repeated Lady Delacour, the man's in the clouds. Pardon me, said Clarence, does not Monsieur de Saint Pierre deserve to be called a poet, though he does not write in rhyme, surely he has a poetical imagination. Certainly, said Belinda, and from the composure with which Mr. Hervey now spoke, she was suddenly inclined to believe or to hope that all Sir Philip's story was false. Monsieur de Saint Pierre undoubtedly has a great deal of imagination and deserves to be called a poet. Very likely good people, said Lady Delacour, but what is that to do with the present purpose? Nay, cried Clarence, your ladyship certainly sees this as Saint Pierre's Virginia? Saint Pierre's Virginia. Oh, I know who it is, Clarence, as well as you do. I am not quite so blind or so stupid as you take me to be. Then, recollecting her promise not to betray Sir Philip's secret, she added, pointing to the landscape of the picture, pointing to Virginia, as scribed in the rock, I must have been stupidity itself if I had not found it out. I absolutely can read Clarence and spell and put together, but here comes Sir Philip Batley, who I believe cannot read, for I sent him an hour ago for a catalogue and he pours over the book as if he had not yet made out the title. Sir Philip had purposely delayed, because he was afraid of rejoining Lady Delacour whilst Clarence was with her, and whilst they were talking of the picture of Virginia. Here's the catalogue, here's the picture your ladyship wants. Sir Pierre's Virginia, damn, I never heard of that fellow before. Here's some newpater, damn, that is the reason I did not know the hand, not a word of what I told you, Lady Delacour. You won't blow us to clary, added he aside to her ladyship. Rockchfort keeps aloof, and so will I, damn. A gentleman at this instant beckoned Mr. Herbie with an air of great eagerness. Clarence went and spoke to him, then returned with an altered continence, and apologized to Lady Delacour for not dining with her as he had promised. Business, he said, of great importance required that he should leave town immediately. Helena had just taken Miss Portman into a little room where Westall's drawings were hung to show her a group of Lady Anne Percival and her children, but Belinda was alone with the little girl when Mr. Herbie came to bid her adieu. He was in much agitation. Miss Portman, I shall not, I'm afraid, see you again for some time. Perhaps I may never have that ahem, happiness. I had something of importance that I wish to say to you before I left town, but I am forced to go so suddenly I can hardly hope for any moment but the present to speak to you, madame. May I ask whether you propose remaining much longer with Lady Delacour? Yes, said Belinda, much surprised. I believe I am not quite certain, but I believe I shall stay with her ladyship some time longer. Mr. Herbie looked painfully embarrassed, and his eyes involuntarily fell upon little Helena. Helena drew her hand gently away from Belinda, left the room, and retired to her mother. That child, Miss Portman, is very fond of you, said Mr. Herbie. Again he paused and looked around to see whether he could be overheard. Pardon me for what I am going to say. This is not a proper place. I must be abrupt, for I am so circumstance that I have not a moment's time to spare. May I speak to you with the sincerity of a friend? Yes, speak to me with sincerity, said Belinda, and you will deserve that I should thank you, my friend. I have heard a report, said Mr. Herbie, which is most injurious to you. To me? Yes, no one can escape Columny. It is whispered that if Lady Delacour should die, at the word die, Belinda started, that if Lady Delacour should die, Miss Portman would become the mother of Helena. Good heavens! What an absurd report! Surely you could not for an instant believe it, Mr. Herbie? Not for an instant, but I resolved as soon as I had heard it to mention it to you, for I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries from the want of courage to speak the truth. Now that you are upon your guard, your own prudence will defend you sufficiently. I never saw any of your sex prudence and so little art. But farewell, I have not a moment to lose, added Clarence, suddenly checking himself, and he hurried away from Belinda, who stood fixed to the spot where he had left her till she was roused by the voices of several people who came into the room to see the drawings. She started as if from a dream and went immediately in search of Lady Delacour. Sir Philip Battley was in earnest conversation with her ladyship, when Belinda came within hearing. And Lady Delacour turned to Helena and said, My dear, if you are satisfied for Mercy's sake, let us be gone, for I am absolutely overcome with heat and with curiosity. Added she in a low voice to Belinda. I longed to hear how Clarence Hervey liked Westall's drawings. As soon as they got home, Lady Delacour sent her daughter to practice a new lesson upon the Piano Forte. Now sit down, my dear Belinda, said she, and satisfy my curiosity. It is the curiosity of a friend, not of an impertinent busybody. Has Clarence declared himself? He chose an odd time and place, but that is no matter. I forgive him, and so do you, I dare say. But why do you tear that unfortunate carnation to pieces? Surely you cannot be embarrassed in speaking to me. What's the matter? I once did tell you that I would not give up my claim to Clarence's adoration during my life, but I intend to live a few years longer after the Amazonian operation is performed, you know, and I could not have the conscience to keep you waiting whole years. It is better to do things with a good grace, lest one should be forced at last to do them with an ill grace. Therefore, I give up all manner of claim to everything but flattery. That, of course, you will allow me from poor Clarence. Now do not begin upon another flower, but without any further superfluous modesty, let me hear all the pretty things Clarence said or swore. Whilst Belinda was pulling the carnation to pieces, she recollect what Mr. Hervey had said to her about mysteries. His words still sounded in her ear. I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries from the want of courage to speak the truth. I will have the courage to speak the truth, thought she, whatever it may cost me. The only pretty thing that Mr. Hervey said was that he never saw any woman who had so much prudence and so little art, said Belinda. A very pretty thing indeed, my dear, but it might have been said in open court by your grandfather or your great-grandfather. I am sorry if that was all, that Helena did not stay to hear such a charming moral compliment. Morality a la glace. The last thing I should have expected in a tetetet with Clarence Hervey. Was it worthwhile to pull that poor flower to pieces for such a pretty speech as this? And so that was all? No, not all, but you overpower me with your wit and I cannot stand the lightning of your eyes. There, said her ladyship, letting down her veil over her face, care of my eyes is not too much for you know. Helena was showing me Westall's drawing of Lady Ann Percival and her children. And Mr. Hervey wished that he was the father of such a charming group of children and you the mother, hey, was that not it? It was not put in such plain terms, but that was the purport, I presume. No, not at all. He said nothing about Lady Ann Percival's children, but why did you bring in her ladyship and her children to gain time? Bad policy. Never must you live, when you have a story to tell, bring in a parcel of people who have nothing to do with the beginning, the middle, or the end of it. How could I suspect you of such false taste? I really imagine these children were essential to the business. But I beg pardon for giving you these elements of criticism. I assure you I interrupt you and talk on so fast from pure good nature to give you time to recollect yourself, for I know you've the worst of memories, especially for what Clarence Hervey says. But come, my dear, dash into the middle of things at once in true epic style. Then to dash into the midst of things at once, said Miss Portman, speaking very quick, Mr. Hervey observed that Miss Delacorte was growing very fond of me. Miss Delacorte, did you say? cried her ladyship at Puy. At this instant Champfort opened the door, looked in, and seeing Lady Delacorte immediately retired. Champfort, whom do you want, or what do you want? said her ladyship. M'lady, sakee, I did come from my lord to see if my lady and mademoiselle were visible. I did think M'lady was not at home. You see, I'm at home, though, said her ladyship, as Lord Delacorte any business with me? You, my lady, not with M'lady? said Champfort. It was with mademoiselle. With me, Mr. Champfort, then you will be so good as to tell Lord Delacorte I am here. And that I am not here, Champfort, for I must be going to dress. She rose hastily to leave the room, but Miss Portman caught her hand. You won't go, I hope, Lady Delacorte, said she, till I have finished my long story. Lady Delacorte sat down again, ashamed of her own embarrassment. Whether this be art, innocence, or assurance, thought she, I cannot tell, but we shall see. Lord Delacorte now came in, with a half unfolded newspaper and a packet of letters in his hand. He came to apologize to Miss Portman for having, by mistake, broken the seal of a letter to her, which had been sent under cover to him. He had simply asked Champfort whether the ladies were at home that he might not have the trouble of going that they were out. Monsieur Champfort possessed, in an eminent degree, the mischievous art of appearing mysterious about the simplest things in the world. Though I was so thoughtless as to break the seal before I looked at the direction of the letter, said Lord Delacorte, I assure you I went no farther than the first three words. For I knew my dear niece could not possibly mean me. He gave Miss Portman the letter and left the room. This explanation was perfectly satisfactory to Belinda, but Lady Delacorte, prejudiced by the hesitation of Champfort, could not help suspecting that this letter was merely the ostensible cause of his lordship's visit. For my aunt Stanhope, said Miss Portman as she opened her letter, she folded it up again after glancing over the first page and put it into her pocket, coloring deeply. All Lady Delacorte's suspicions about Mrs. Stanhope's epistolary councils and secrets instantly recurred with almost the force of a conviction to her mind. Miss Portman, said she, I hope your politeness to me does not prevent you from reading your letter. Some ceremonious people think it vastly rude to read a letter in company, but I am not one of them. I can write whilst you read, for I have fifty notes and more to answer, so pray read your letter at your ease. Belinda had but just unfolded her letter again when Lord Delacorte returned, followed by Champfort, who brought with him a splendid hammercloth. Here, my dear Lady Delacorte, said his lordship, is a little surprise for you. Here is a new hammercloth of my bespeaking and taste, which I hope you will approve of. Very handsome upon my word, said Lady Delacorte coldly, and she fixed her eyes upon the fringe which was black and orange. Miss Portman's taste, I see. Did you not say black and orange fringe, my dear? No, I said blue and white, my lord. His lordship declared he did not know the mistake had happened. It was merely a mistake. But her ladyship was convinced that it was done on purpose, and she said to herself, Miss Portman will order my liveries next. I have not even the shadow of power left in my own house. I am not treated with even a decent show of respect. But this shall go on till I have full conviction of her views. Dissembling her displeasure, she brazed the hammer-cloth and especially the fringe. Lord Delacorte retired satisfied, and Miss Portman sat down to read the following letter from her aunt Stanhope. And of Part 2 of Chapter 14, Section 17, Chapter 15 of Belinda. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tara Mendoza. Belinda. By Maria Edgeworth. Section 17, Chapter 15. Jealousy. Crescent Bath. July. Wednesday. My dear niece, I receive safely the banknotes for my two hundred guineas enclosed in your last. But you should never trust unnecessarily in this manner to the post. Always, when you are obliged to send banknotes by post, cut them in two, and send half by one post, and half by another. This is what is done by all prudent people. Prudence, whether in trifles or in matters of consequence, can be learned only by experience, which is often too dearly bought, or by listening, which costs nothing, to the suggestions of those who have no knowledge of the world. A report has just reached me concerning you and a certain lord, which gives me the most heartfelt concern. I always knew and told you that you were a great favourite with the person in question. I depended on your prudence, delicacy and principles to understand this hint properly, and I trusted that you would conduct yourself accordingly. It is too plain from the report to that there has been some misconduct of mismanagement somewhere. The misconduct I cannot, the mismanagement I must, attribute to you, my dear. For let a man's admiration for any woman be ever so great unless she suffer herself to be dazzled by vanity, or unless she be naturally of an inconsiderate temper. She can surely prevent his partiality from becoming so glaring as to excite me. Envy is always to be dreaded by handsome young women, as being sooner or later infallibly followed by scandal. Of this I fear you have not been sufficiently aware, and you see the consequences. Consequences which, to a female of genuine delicacy or of real good sense, must be extremely alarming. Men of contracted minds and cold timpers who are absolutely incapable of feeling generous affection for our sex are often unaccountably ambitious to gain the reputation of being well with any woman whose beauty accomplishments or connections may have brought her into fashion. Whatever affection may be pretended, this is frequently the ultimate and sole object of these selfish creatures. Whether or not the person I have in my eye deserves to be included in this class, I will not presume positively to determine, but you, who have personal opportunities of observation may decide this point, if you have any curiosity on the subject, by observing whether he most affects to pay his Du Bois to you in public or in private. If the latter be the case, it is the most dangerous because a man even the most contracted understanding has always since or instinct enough to feel that the slightest taint in the reputation of the woman is, or who is to be his wife would affect his own private peace or his honour in the eyes of the world. A husband who has in a first marriage been, as it is said, in constant fear both of matrimonial subjugation and disgrace, would in his choice of a second lady be peculiarly nice and probably tiredly. Any degree of favour that might have been shown him, any report that may have been raised and above all any restraint he might feel himself under from implied engagement, or from the discovery or reputation of superior understanding and talents in the object beloved, would operate infallibly against her, to the confusion of all her plans and the ruin of once of her reputation, her peace of mind, and her hopes of an establishment. Now, supposing the best that could possibly happen, that after playing with the utmost dexterity this desperate game, the poor were absolutely your own, yet if there were any suspicions of unfair play buzzed about amongst the pie-standers, you would not in the main be a gainer, for my dear, without character, what is even wealth? Or all that wealth can bestow? I do not mean to trouble you with the stale, wise sayings which young people hate, nor must morality which is seldom fit for use in the world, or which smells too bad of books to be brought back. This is not my way of giving advice, but I only beg you to observe what actually passes before your eyes in the circle in which we live. Ladies of the best families, with rank and fortune and beauty and fashion, and everything in their favour, cannot, as yet in this country, dispense with the strictest observance of the rules of virtue and decorum. Some have fancy themselves raised so high above the vulgar, as to be in no danger from the thunder and lightning of public opinion, but these ladies in the clouds have found themselves mistaken. They have been blasted, and have fallen nobody knows where. What has become of Lady Blank, and the Countess of Blank, and others I could mention, who were as high as Envy could look? I remember seeing the Countess of Blank, who was then the most beautiful creature my eyes ever beheld, and the most admired that ever would have come into the opera-house and sit the whole night in her box without any woman speaking or curtsy into her, or taking any more notice of her than you would have a post or a beggar woman. Even a coronet cannot protect a woman you see from disgrace. If she falls, she and it, and all together are trampled underfoot. But why should I address all this to my dear niece? Wither, have the terror and confusion I was grown into by this strange report when Lord Blank led me. And yet one cannot be too cautious. Suen echili brumio mokkigut. Scandal never stops after the first word, unless she be instantly gagged by a dexterous hand. Nothing shall be wanting on my part, but you alone are the person who can do anything effectual. Do not imagine that I would have you quit Lady Blank. That is the first idea, I know, that will come into your silly little head, but put it out directly. If you were a boneless attack to quit the field of battle, you yield the victory to your enemies. To leave Lady Blank's house would be folly in madness, as long as she is your friend, or appears such, or is safe. But any coolness on your part would, in the present circumstances, be death to your reputation. And even if you were to leave her on the best terms possible, the malicious world would say that you left her and would assign as a reason the report alluded to. People who have not yet believed it would then conclude that it must be true, and thus by your cowardice you would furnish an incontrovertible argument against your innocence. I therefore desire that you will not upon any account think of coming home to me at present. Indeed I hope your own good sense would prevent you from wishing it after the reasons that I have given. Far from quitting Lady Blank false delicacy, it is your business from consideration for her peace, as well as your own, to redouble your attentions to her in private, and above all things to appear as much as possible with her in public. I am glad to hear her health is so far re-established that she can appear again in public. Her spirits, as you may hint, will be the better for a little amusement. Luckily you have it completely in your power to convince her and all the world darkness of your mind. I believe I certainly should have fainted, my dear, when I first heard this shocking report, if I had not just afterward received a letter from Sir Philip Badley which revived me. His proposal at this crisis for you, my dear, is a charming thing. You have nothing to do but to encourage his addresses immediately. The report dies away of itself, and all is just as your best friends wish. Such an establishment for you, my dear, is indeed beyond the most sanguine expectations. Sir Philip hints in his letter that my influence might be wanting with you in his favour, but this surely cannot be, as I have told him. He is merely mistaken, becoming a female reserve for a want of sensibility on your part, which would be equally unnatural and absurd. Do you know, my dear, that Sir Philip Badley has an estate of fifteen thousand a year in Wiltshire, and his Uncle Barton's estate in Norfolk will, in due time, pay debts, then as to family. Look in the lists of baronettes in your pocketbook, and surely my love, an old baronetage in actual possession is worth something more than the reversion of a new coronet. Supposing that such a thing could properly be thought of, which heaven forbid, so I see no possible objection to Sir Philip, my dear Belinda, and I am sure you have too much candor and good sense to make any childish or romantic difficulties. Sir Philip is not, I know, a man that you call genius, so much the better, my dear. Those men of genius are dangerous husbands. They have so many oddities and eccentricities, there is no managing them, though they are mighty pleasant men in company to enliven conversation, for example, your favourite, Clarence Hervey. As it is well known, he is not a marrying man, you never can have thought of him. You are not a girl to expose yourself to the ridicule, etc. of all your female acquaintance by romance and nonsense. I cannot concede that a niece of mine would degrade herself by a mean prepossession for a man who has never made any declaration of his attachment to her, and who I am sure feels no such attachment, that you may not deceive yourself, it is fit, I should tell you, what otherwise it might not be so proper to mention to a young lady that he keeps and has kept a mistress for some years, and those who are most intimately in his confidence have assured me that if ever he marries anybody he will marry this girl, which is not possible, considering that she, as they say, the most beautiful young creature that ever was seen, and he a man of genius, if you have any sense or spirit, I have said enough. So I do. Let me hear, by return of the post, that everything is going on as it should do. I am impatient to write to your sister, Ptolemac, this good news. I always foretold that my Belinda would marry better than her sister, or any of her cousins, and take place of them all. Are you not obliged to me for sending you this winter to town, to Lady Blank? It was an admirable hit. Pray tell Lady Delacour, with my best compliments, that our aloe friend, her ladyship will understand me. She did a gentleman of my acquaintance the other day, at Casino, out of Seven Degenes. He hates the sight of her odious red wig as much now as we always did. I knew, and told Lady Di, as she will do me the justice to remember, that Mrs. Blank cheated at play. What a contemptible character! Pray, my dear, do not forget to tell Lady Delacour that I have a charming anecdote for her, about another friend of ours, who has lately gone over to the enemy. Has her ladyship seen a manuscript that is handed about as a great secret, and said to be by Blank, a parallel between our friend and the Chevalier him? It is done with the infinite wit and humour in the manner of Plutarch. I would send a copy, but I'm afraid my frank would be too heavy if I began upon another sheet. So once more I'd do, my dear niece, write to me without fail and mention, Sir Philip, I have written to him to give him my approbation, etc. Yours sincerely, Selena Stanhope. Mrs. Stanhope seems to have written out of a letter, Miss Portman, cried Lady Delacour as Belinda turned over the sheets of her aunt's long epistle. She did not attempt to read it regularly through. Some passages here and there were sufficient to astonish and shock her extremely. No bad news, I hope, said Lady Delacour, again looking up from her writing at Belinda, who sat motionless leaning her head upon her hand, as if deep in thought. Mrs. Stanhope's unfolded letter hanging from her hand, in the midst of a variety of embarrassing, painful, and alarming feelings excited by this letter, she had sufficient strength of mind to adhere to her resolution of speaking the exact truth to Lady Delacour when she was roused by her ladyship's question. No bad news, I hope, Miss Portman. She instantly answered with all the firmness she could command. Yes. My aunt has been alarmed by a strange report which I heard myself for the first time this morning from Mr. Hervey. I am sure, I am much obliged to him for having the courage to speak the truth to me. Here she repeated what Mr. Hervey had said to her. Lady Delacour never raised her eyes whilst Belinda spoke but went on scratching out some words in what she was writing. Through the mask of paint which she wore no change of colour could be visible and as Belinda did not see the expression of her ladyship's eyes she could not in the least judge of what was passing in her mind. Mr. Hervey has acted like a man of honour and sense, said Lady Delacour. But it is a pity for your sake he did not speak sooner, before this report became so public before it reached Bath and your aunt. Though it could not surprise her much as she has such a perfect knowledge of the world and Lady Delacour uttered these broken sentences in a voice of suppressed anger cleared her throat several times and at last unable to speak she stopped short and then began with much precipitation to put wafers into several notes that she had been writing. So it has reached Bath, thought she. The report is public. I never till now heard of a hint of any such thing except from Sir Philip Badly but it is doubtless been the common talk of the town and I am laughed at as a dupe and an idiot as I am and now when the thing can be concealed no longer comes to me with that face of simplicity and knowing my generous temper throws herself on my mercy and trust said her speaking to me with this audacious plainness will convince me of her innocence. You have acted in the most prudent manner possible, Miss Portman," said her ladyship as she went on sealing her notes, by speaking at once to me of this strange scandalous absurd report. Do you act from your aunt's Stanhope's advice or entirely judgment and knowledge of my character? 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, trust 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 chamfered in the entrance of my little delicor 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 contrademps, 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's Stanhope, pointing to radio 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 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 where Mrs. Lutridge and Harriet Freak 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 Mrs. Lutridge. 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 anything Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to gobble 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. Lutridge. Her voice had no 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, 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 was great for hemons. Friend? Harriet Freak? Yes, like all other friends. Harriet Freak. What was she compared to? Just 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 pin-knife which lay up on 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've loved. 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 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 Maryette 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. Dup! Dup 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 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. Oh, 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 bed, 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, 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 Delacorte, still speaking in the same low, soft, unnatural voice. Then why do you practice it, my love? I never practiced 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 Delacorte. 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 of her force. Vile bobble! 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. Oh, 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 nevermore 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, forever. 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 bow. What comes next, Miss Portman? Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face and rushed out of the room. What is the matter? Is Mama 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 Mariette knocked at the door. Miss Portman, you don't know how late it is. Lady Singleton and the Miss Singleton have come. But messiful Heaven exclaimed Mariette as she entered the room. What is all this packing up? What is this trunk? I am going to Oakley Park with Lady Ann 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 Mrs. Champfort's doing. 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 a deal. It is only from regard to my poor lady I venture to speak. Your regard to your lady deserves the highest approbation of Mariette, said Belinda. It is impossible that I should stay with her any longer. When I am gone, good Mariette. 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. Mariette answered only by her tears. And when I'm packing up in a great hurry, nothing could equal Lady Delacorte's astonishment when she learned from Mariette 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 autophist to work upon her affections that Belinda did not mean to leave her but that she would venture all lengths in hope of being at the last moment pressed to stay. Under this persuasion, Lady Delacorte 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 Delacorte was no-dupe and that Miss Portman was an unwelcome inmate in her house. The power of assuming gayity 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 up on the stage and support a character totally foreign to her own. The loud knocks at the door which announced the arrival of company signals that operated punctually upon her associations and to this species of conventional necessity her most violent passions submitted with magical clarity. 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 Delacorte and her macaw, Au Revoir. Though you talk of running away from me to Oakley 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 Oakley Park in all its charms. So, Miss Portman, instead of Adieu, I shall only say Au Revoir. Adieu, Lady Delacorte, said Belinda, with a look and tone which struck her ladyship to the heart. All her suspicions, all her pride, all her effected gaiety vanished. Her presence of mind first succour and for some moment 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 forever. Say you will return. Adieu, repeated Belinda. It was all she could say. She broke from Lady Delacorte 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. There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda. There 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 and despair, said Lady Anne, now I may make my own terms and the only terms I shall impose are that you will stay at Oakley 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, it may sometimes be difficult to determine. So difficult that when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps are better part than venture upon the discussion. Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something disagreeable had passed between Lady Delacorte and Belinda. But she was not troubled with the disease of idle curiosity and her example prevailed upon Mrs. Margaret Delacorte, 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. Stan-Helps, 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. Madame, said Mrs. Delacorte, addressing herself to Miss Portman, was some formality, but much dignity. Permit me, as one of my Lord Delacorte's nearest relations now living, to return you my thanks, for having as my nephew informs me, exerted your influence over Lady Delacorte 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 candour, and for the singularity of the case, that everybody 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. Delacorte or Lady Anne Perceval. In fact, it was known and believed only by those who had been prejudiced by the malice or folly of Sir Philip Badley. Peaked by the manner in which his addresses had been received by Belinda, he readily listened to the comfortable words of his valet de Chamber, who assured him that he had it from the best possible authority. Lord Delacorte's own gentleman, Mr. Chamfort, that his lordship was deeply taken with Miss Portman, that the young lady managed everything in the house, that she had been very prudent, to be sure, and a refused large presence, but that there was no doubt of her becoming Lady Delacorte. 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 favor of his own proposal. This maneuvering 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 nieces speaking the simple truth to Lady Delacorte, 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 Delacorte believe, when Belinda repeated what she had said, that this report was universally known and credited her own suspicions whereby 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 Delacorte's house and all its advantages, as to Sir Philip badly, 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 Delacorte 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 Oakley Park. I hope, my dear aunt, that you will not be displeased by my leaving town without seeing Sir Philip badly 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. On this subject, Belinda, though she declared her own sentiments with firm sincerity, touched as slightly as she could, because she anxiously wished to avoid all appearance of braving the opinions of an aunt to whom she was under obligations. She was tempted to pass over in silence all that part of Mrs. Stanhope's letter which related to Clarence Hervey, but upon reflection she determined to conquer her repugnance to speak of him and to make perfect sincerity the steady rule of her conduct. She therefore acknowledged to her aunt that of all the persons she had hitherto seen this gentleman was the most agreeable to her, but at the same time she assured her that the refusal of Sir Philip badly was totally independent of all thoughts of Mr. Hervey, that before she had received her aunt's letter circumstances had convinced her that Mr. Hervey was attached to another woman. She concluded by saying that she had neither romantic hopes nor wishes and that her affections were at her own command. Belinda received the following angry answer from Mrs. Stanhope. Henceforward, Belinda, you may manage your own affairs as you think proper. I shall never more interfere with my advice. Refuse whom you please, go where you please, get what friends and what admirers and what establishment you can. I have nothing more to do with it. I will never more undertake the management of young people. There's your sister Ptolemac has made a pretty return for all my kindness. She is going to be parted from her husband and basely throws all the blame upon me. But is the time with all of you? There's your cousin Jodrell refused me a hundred guineas last week, though the piano forte and harp I bought for her before she was married stood me in double that sum, and are now useless lumber on my hands, and she never could have had Jodrell without them, as she knows as well as I do. As for Mrs. Levitt, she never writes to me and takes no manner of notice of me. But this is no matter, for her notice can be of no consequence now to anybody. Levitt has run out of everything he had in the world. All his finest dates advertised in today's paper, an execution in the house I'm told. I expect that she will have the assurance to come to me in her distress, but she shall find my door shut, I promise her. Your cousin Valiton's match has, through her own folly, turned out like all the rest. She, her husband, and all his relations are at dagger's drawing, and Valiton will die soon, and won't leave her a fathering in his will, I foresee, and all the fine Valenton and states goes to God knows whom. If she had taken my advice after marriage has before, it would have been all her own at this instant. The passions run away with people, and they forget everything, common sense, gratitude, and all as you do, Belinda. Clarence Hervey will never think of you, and I give you up. Now manage for yourself as you please, and as you can. I'll have nothing more to do with the affairs of young ladies, who will take no advice. Selina Stanhope. P.S. If you return directly to Lady Delacour's and marry Sir Philip badly, forgive the past. The regret, which Belinda felt at having grievously offended her aunt, was somewhat alleviated by the reflection that she had acted with integrity and prudence. Throne off her guard by anger, Mrs. Stanhope had inadvertently furnished her niece with the best possible reasons against following her advice with regard to Sir Philip badly, by stating that her sister and cousins who had married with mercenary views had made themselves miserable, and had shown their aunt neither gratitude nor respect. The tranquility of Belinda's mind was gradually restored by the society that she enjoyed at Oakley Park. She found herself in the midst of a large and cheerful family with whose domestic happiness she could not forbear to sympathize. There was an affectionate confidence, an unconstrained gaiety in this house which forcibly struck her from its contrast with what she had seen at Lady Delacour's. She perceived that between Mr. Percival and Lady Anne there was a union of interests, occupations, tastes, and affection. She was at first astonished by the openness with which they talked of their affairs in her presence, that there were no family secrets, nor any of those petty mysteries which arise from a discordance of temper or struggle for power. In conversation every person expressed without constraint their wishes and opinions, and wherever these differed reason and the general good were the standards to which they appealed. The elder and younger part of the family were not separated from each other, even the youngest child in the house seemed to form part of the society, to have some share in interest in the general occupations or amusements. The children were treated neither as slaves nor as playthings but as reasonable creatures, and the ease with which they were managed and with which they managed themselves surprised Belinda, for she heard none of that continual lecturing which goes forward in some houses to the great fatigue and misery of all the parties concerned and of all the spectators. Without force or any facetious excitements the taste for knowledge in the habits of application were induced by example and confirmed by sympathy. Mr. Percival was a man of science and literature, and his daily pursuits and general conversation were in the happiest manner instructive and interesting to his family. His knowledge of the world and his natural gaiety of disposition rendered his conversation not only useful but in the highest degree amusing. From the mirror's trifles he could lead to some scientific fact, some happy literary illusion or philosophical investigation Lady Anne Percival had, without any pedantry or ostentation, much accurate knowledge and a taste for literature which made her the chosen companion of her husband's understanding as well as of his heart. He was not obliged to reserve his conversation for friends of his own sex, nor was he forced to seclude himself in the pursuit of any branch of knowledge. The partner of his warmest affections was also the partner of his most serious occupations, and her sympathy and approbation and the daily sense of her success in the education of their children inspired him with a degree of happy social energy unknown to the selfish, solitary votaries of avarice and ambition. In this large and happy family there was a variety of pursuits. One of the boys was fond of chemistry, another of gardening, one of the daughters had a talent for painting, another for music, and all their acquirements and accomplishments contributed to increase their mutual happiness, for there was no envy or jealousy amongst them. Those who, unfortunately, have never enjoyed domestic happiness such as we have just described will perhaps suppose the picture to be visionary and romantic. There are others it is hoped many others who will feel that it is drawn from truth and real life. Tastes that have been mediated by the stimulus of dissipation might perhaps think these simple pleasures insipid. Everybody must ultimately judge of what makes them happy from the comparison of their own feelings in different situations. Belinda was convinced by this comparison that domestic life was that which could alone make her really and permanently happy, she missed none of the pleasures, none of the gay company to which she had been accustomed at Lady Delacour's. She was conscious at the end of each day that it had been agreeably spent, yet there were no extraordinary exertions made to entertain her, everything seemed in its natural course, and so did her mind. Where there was so much happiness, no want of what is called pleasure was ever experienced. She had not been at Oakley Park a week before she forgot that it was within a few miles of Harrogate, and she never collected her vicinity to this fashionable water-drinking place for a month afterwards. Impossible, some young ladies will exclaim. We hope others will feel that it was perfectly natural. But to deal fairly with our readers we must not omit to mention a certain Mr. Vincent, who came to Oakley Park during the first week of Belinda's visit, and who stayed there during the whole succeeding month of Felicity. Mr. Vincent was a creole. He was about two and twenty. His person and manners were striking and engaging. He was tall and remarkably handsome. He had large dark eyes and aquiline nose, fine hair and a manly sunburnt complexion. His countenance was open and friendly, and when he spoke upon any interesting subject it lighted up and became full of fire and animation. He used much gesture and conversation. He had not the common manners of young men, who are or who aim at being thought fashionable. But he was perfectly at easing pace, and all that was uncommon about him appeared foreign. He had a frank, ardent temper, incapable of art or dissimulation, and so unsuspicious of all mankind that he could scarcely believe falset existed in the world, even after he himself had been its dupe. He was in extreme astonishment at the detection of any species of baseness in a gentleman, for he considered honour and generosity as belonging, indefeasibly, if not exclusively, to the privileged orders. His notion of virtue was certainly aristocratic in the extreme, but his ambition was to entertain such only as would best support and dignify an aristocracy. His pride was magnanimous, not insolent, and his social prejudices were such, as in some degree to supply the place of the power and habit of reasoning, in which he was totally deficient. One principle of philosophy he practically possessed, imperfection. He enjoyed the present, undisturbed by any unavailing regret for the past, or troublesome solicitude about the future. All the goods of life he tasted with epicurian zest, all the evils he bore with stoical indifference, the mere pleasure of existence seemed to keep him in perpetual good humour with himself and others, and his never-failing flow of animal spirits exhilarated even the most phlegmatic. To persons of a cold and reserved temper he sometimes appeared rather too much of an egotist, for he talked with fluent enthusiasm of the excellent qualities and beauties of whatever he loved, whether it were his dog, his horse, or his country. But this was not the egotism of vanity, it was the overflowing of an affectionate heart, confident of obtaining sympathy from his fellow creatures, because conscience of feeling it for all that existed. He was as grateful as he was generous, and though high-spirited and impatient of restraint, he would submit with affectionate gentleness to the voice of a friend or listen with deference to the counsel of those in whose superior judgment he had confidence. Gratitude, respect, and affection all conspired to give Mr. Percival the strongest power over his soul. Mr. Percival had been a guardian and a father to him. His own father, an opulent merchant on his deathbed, requested his son, who was then about eighteen, might be immediately sent to England for the advantages of a European education. Mr. Percival, who had a regard for the father arising from circumstances which it is not here necessary to explain, accepted the charge of young Vincent, and managed so well that his ward when he arrived at the age of twenty-one did not feel relieved from any restraint. On the contrary, his attachment to his guardian increased from that time when the laws gave him full command over his fortune and his actions. Mr. Vincent had been at Herald Gate for some time before Mr. Percival came into the country, but as soon as he heard of Mr. Percival's arrival he left half-finished a game of billiards of which by the by he was extremely fond to pay his respects at Oakley Park. At the first sight of Belinda he did not seem much struck with her appearance, perhaps from his thinking that there was too langer in her eyes and too much color in her cheeks. He confessed that she was graceful, but her motions were not quite slow enough to please him. It is somewhat singular that Lady Delacorte's faithful friend Harriet Freak should be the cause of Mr. Vincent's first fixing his favourable attention on Miss Portman. He had a black servant of the name of Juba, who was extremely attached to him. He had known Juba from a boy, and it brought him over with him when he first left, because the poor fellow begged so earnestly to go with young Massa. Juba had lived with him ever since and accompanied him wherever he went. Whilst he was at Herald Gate Mr. Vincent lodged in the same house with Mrs. Freak. Some dispute arose between their servants about the right to a coach house which each party claimed as exclusively their own. The master of the house was appealed to by Juba, who sturdily maintained his Massa's right. He established it and rolled his Massa's curicle into the coach house in triumph. Mrs. Freak, who heard and saw the whole transaction from her window, said or swore that she would make Juba repent of what she called his insolence. The threat was loud enough to reach his ears, and he looked up in astonishment to hear such a voice from a woman. But in instant afterwards he began to sing very gaily as he jumped into the curicle to turn the cushions and then danced himself up and down by the springs as if rejoicing in his victory. Second and third time Mrs. Freak repeated her threat, confirming it by an oath, and then violently shut down the window and disappeared. Mr. Vincent, to whom Juba, with much simplicity, expressed his aversion of the man-woman who lived in the house with him, laughed at the odd manner in which the black imitated her voice and gesture, but thought no more of the matter. Sometime afterward, however, Juba's spirits forsook him. He was never heard to sing or to whistle. He scarcely ever spoke even to his master, who was much surprised by the sudden change from Gaiety, who was much surprised by his sudden change from Gaiety and Laquacity, to Melancholy, tachyternity. Nothing could draw from the poor fellow any explanation of the cause of this alteration in his humor, and although he seemed excessively grateful for the concern which his master showed about his health, no kindness or amusement could restore him to his wanted cheerfulness, Mr. Vincent knew that he was passionately fond of music, and having heard him once express a wish for a tambourine, he gave him one. But Juba never played upon it, and his spirit seemed every day to grow worse and worse. This melancholy lasted during the whole time that he remained at Harrowgate, but from the first day of his arrival at Oakley Park, he began to mend. After he had been there a week, he was heard to sing and talk as he used to do, and his master congratulated him upon his recovery. One evening his master asked him to go back to Harrowgate for his tambourine, as little Charles Percival wished to hear him play upon it. This simple request had a wonderful effect upon poor Juba. He began to tremble from head to foot. His eyes became fixed, and he stood motionless. After some time he suddenly clasped his hands, fell upon his knees and exclaimed, Masa, Juba die, if Juba go back, Juba die, and he wiped away the drops that stood upon his forehead. But me will go, if Masa bid, me will die. Mr. Vincent began to imagine that the poor fellow was out of his senses. He assured him with the greatest kindness that he would almost as soon hazard his own life as that of such a faithful affectionate servant, but he pressed him to explain what possible danger he dreaded from returning to Harrowgate. Juba was silent, as if afraid to speak. Don't fear to speak to me, said Mr. Vincent. I will defend you, if anybody have injured you, or if you dread that anybody will injure you, trust me. I will protect you. Oh Masa, you no can! Me die, if me go back. Me no can say a word more, and he put his finger upon his lips and shook his head. Mr. Vincent knew that Juba was excessively superstitious, and convinced that if his mind were not already deranged, it would certainly become so, were any secret terror thus to prey upon his imagination. He assumed a very grave countenance and assured him that he should be extremely displeased if he persisted in this foolish and obstinate silence. Overcome by this, Juba burst into tears and answered. De me will tello. This conversation passed before Miss Portman and Charles Percival, who were walking in the park with Mr. Vincent. At the time he met Juba and asked him to go for the tambourine. When he came to the words, me will tello, he made a sign that he wished to tell it to his master alone. Belinda and the little boy walked on, to leave him at liberty to speak, and then though with a sort of reluctant horror, he told that the figure of an old woman, all in flames, had appeared to him in his bed-chamber at Harrow Gate every night, and that he was sure she was one of the obi women of his own country, who had pursued him to Europe to revenge his having once. When he was a child, trampled upon an eggshell that contained some of her poisons, the extreme absurdity of this story made Mr. Vincent burst out a laughing, but his humanity the next instant made him serious. For the poor victim of superstitious terror, after having revealed what according to the belief of his country, it is death to mention, fell senseless on the ground. When he came to himself he calmly said that he knew he must now die, for that the obi woman never forgave those that talked of them or their secrets, and with a deep groan he added that he wished he might die before night, that he might not see her again. It was in vain to attempt to reason him out of the idea that he had actually seen this apparition. His account of it was that it first appeared to him in the Coach House one night when he went there in the dark, that he never afterwards went to the Coach House in the dark, but that the same figure of an old woman, all in flames, appeared at the foot of his bed every night whilst he stayed at Harrow Gate, and that he was then persuaded she would never let him escape from her power till she had killed him. That since he had left Harrow Gate, however, she had not tormented him, for he had never seen her, and he was in hopes that she had forgiven him, but that now he was sure of her vengeance for having spoken of her. Mr. Vincent knew the astonishing power which the belief in this species of sorcery has over the minds of the Jamaican Negroes. They pine and actually die away from the moment they fancy themselves under the malignant influence of these witches. He almost gave poor Juba over for lost. The first person that he happened to meet after his conversation was Belinda, to whom he eagerly related it, because he had observed that she had listened with much attention and sympathy to the beginning of the poor fellow's story. The moment that she heard of the flaming apparition, she recollected having seen a head drawn in phosphorus, which one of the children had exhibited for her amusement, and it occurred to her that perhaps some imprudent or ill-natured person might have terrified the ignorant Negro by similar means. When she mentioned this to Mr. Vincent, he recollected the threat that had been thrown out by Mrs. Freak, the day that Juba had taken possession of the disputed coach-house, and from the character of this lady, Belinda judged that she would be likely to play such a trick, and to call it as usual fun or frolic. Ms. Portman suggested that one of the children should show him the phosphorus and should draw some ludicrous figure with it in his presence. This was done, and it had the effect that she expected. Juba, familiarized by degrees with the object of his secret horror, and convinced that no Obia woman was exercising over him her sorceries, recovered his health and spirits. His gratitude to Ms. Portman, who was the immediate cause of his cure, was as simple and touching as it was lively and sincere. This was the circumstance which first turned Mr. Vincent's attention towards Belinda. Upon examining the room in which the Negro used to sleep at Harrogate, the strong smell of phosphorus was perceived, and part of the paper was burnt on the very spot where he had always seen the figure, so that he was now perfectly convinced that this trick had been purposely played to frighten him, in revenge for his having kept possession of the Coach House. Mrs. Freak, when she found herself detected, gloried in the jest and told the story as a good joke wherever she went, triumphing in the notion that it was she who had driven both master and man from Harrogate. The exploit was, however, by no means agreeable in its consequences to her friend, Mrs. Lutridge, who was now at Harrogate. For reasons of her own she was very anxious to fix Mr. Vincent in her society, and she was much provoked by Mrs. Freak's conduct. The ladies came to high words upon the occasion, and an irreparable breach would have ensued had not Mrs. Freak in the midst of her rage recollected Mrs. Lutridge's electioneering interest, and suddenly, changing her tone, she declared that she really was sorry to have driven Mr. Vincent from Harrogate that her only intention was to get rid of his black. She would lay any wager that with Mrs. Lutridge's assistance they could soon get the gentleman back again, and she proposed, as a certain method of fixing Mr. Vincent in Mrs. Lutridge's society, to invite Belinda to Harrogate. You may be sure, said Mrs. Freak, that she must by this time be cursively tired of her visit to those stupid good people at Oakley Park, and never woman wanted an excuse to do anything she liked, so trust her own ingenuity to make some decent apology to the Persevilles for running away from them. As to Vincent, you may be sure Belinda Portman is his only inducement for staying with that precious family party, and if we have her, we have him. Now we can be sure of her, for she is just quarreled with our dear Lady Delacorte. I had the whole story from my maid, who had it from Chamford. Lady Delacorte and she are at Dagger's drawing, and it will be delicious to her to hear her ladyship handsomely abused. We are the declared enemies of her enemy, so we must be her friends. Nothing unites folks so quickly and so solidly is hatred of some common foe. This argument could not fail to convince Mrs. Lutridge, and the next day Mrs. Freak commenced her operations. She drove in her unicorn to Oakley Park to pay Miss Portman a visit. She had no acquaintance, either with Mr. Perseville or Lady Anne, and she had always treated Belinda when she met her in town, rather cavalierly, as an humble companion of Lady Delacorte, but it cost Mrs. Freak nothing to change her tone. She was one of those ladies who can remember or forget people, be perfectly familiar or strangely rude, just as it suits the convenience, fashion, or humor of the minute.