 39 CHAPTER 31 THE DENIMON Curiosity was not, at this instant, the strongest passion in Belinda's mind. When the carriage stopped at Mrs. Delacour's door, her heart almost ceased to beat. But she summoned resolution to go through, with firmness and dignity the task she had undertaken. Clarence Hervey was not in the room when they entered, nor was Virginia. Mrs. Orman said that she had been extremely feverish during the night, and that she had advised her not to get up till late in the day, but Mrs. Delacour immediately went for her, and in a few minutes she made her appearance. Belinda and Lady Delacour exchanged a glance of surprise and admiration. There was a grace and simplicity in her manner, joined to an air of naivety that made an irresistible impression in her favour. Lady Delacour, however, after the first surprise was over, seemed to relapse into her former opinion, and the piercing looks which her ladyship from time to time cast upon Virginia as she spoke produced their effect. She was abashed and silent. Belinda endeavored to engage her in conversation, and to her she talked with ease and even with freedom. Virginia examined Miss Portman's countenance with a species of artless curiosity and interest that was not restrained by fictitious politeness. This examination was not peculiarly agreeable to Belinda, yet it was made with so much apparent simplicity that she could not be displeased. On the first pause in the conversation Mrs. Delacour said, Pray, my dear Lady Delacour, what is this wonderful present that you sent to me this morning which you desired that no one should see till you came? I cannot satisfy your curiosity yet, replied Lady Delacour. I must wait till Clarence have he comes, for the present is intended for him. An air of solemn mystery in her ladyship's manner as she pronounced these words excited general attention. There was dead silence which lasted several minutes. Some feeble attempts were then made by each of the company to start a fresh subject of conversation but it would not do. All relapsed into the silence of expectation. At last Clarence Hervey arrived. Belinda rejoiced that the universal curiosity which Lady Delacour had inspired prevented any one's observing the sudden change in Mr. Hervey's countenance when he beheld her. A pretty set of curious children you are, cried Lady Delacour's laughing. Do you know, Clarence, that they are all dying with impatience to see you engage their mente that I have brought for you? And the reason that they are so curious is simply because I had the address to say in a solemn voice, I cannot satisfy your curiosity till Clarence Hervey arrives. Now follow me, my friends, and if you be disappointed lay the blame not to me but on your own imaginations. She led the way to Mrs. Delacour's dressing room and all the company followed. Now what do you expect to see? said she, putting the key into the door. After waiting some moments for a reply, but in vain she threw open the door, and they saw, hung before the wall opposite to them, a green curtain. I thought, my dear Clarence, resumed Lady Delacour, that no present could be more agreeable to you than a companion for your Virginia. Does this figure? continued she, drawing back the curtain. Does this figure give you the idea of Paul? said Clarence. It is a naval officer in full uniform. What can your ladyship mean? Virginia, perhaps you'll know what I mean, if you'll only stand out for a way and let her see the picture. At these words Clarence made way for Virginia. She turned her eyes upon the picture, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless upon the floor. Take it coolly, said Lady Delacour. As she will come to her senses presently, young ladies must shriek at feint upon certain occasions, but men, looking at Clarence Hervey, need not always be dupes. This is only a scene, consider it as such, and admire the actresses I do. Actress! Oh, she is no actress! cried Mrs. Ormont. Clarence Hervey raised her from the ground, and Belinda sprinkled water over her face. She's dead! She's dead! Oh, my sweet child, she's dead! exclaimed Mrs. Ormont, trembling so violently that she could not sustain Virginia. She is no actress indeed, said Clarence Hervey. Her pulse is gone. Lady Delacour looked at Virginia's pale lips, touched her cold hands, and with a look of horror cried out, Good heavens! What have I done? What shall we do with her? Give her air, give her air, air, air! cried Belinda. You keep the air from her, Mrs. Ormont, said Mrs. Delacour. Let us leave her to Miss Portman. She has more presence of mind than any of us, and as she spoke she forced Mrs. Ormont away with her, out of the room. If Mr. Hartley should come, keep him with you, Mrs. Delacour, said Clarence Hervey. Her pulse is quite gone. No. It beats stronger and stronger, said Belinda. Her colour is returning, said Lady Delacour. There! Raise her a little. Dear Belinda, she is coming to herself. And not you better draw the curtain again before that picture, said Miss Portman, lest she should see it the moment she opens her eyes. Virginia came slowly to her recollection, saw Lady Delacour drawing the curtain before the picture, then fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey without uttering a word. All you better know, said he in a gentle tone. Oh, do not speak, do not look so kindly, cried Virginia. I am well, quite well, better than I deserve to be, and she pressed Belinda's hand as if to thank her for assisting and supporting her. We may safely leave her now, whispered Belinda to Lady Delacour. We are strangers, and our presence only distresses her. They withdrew, but the moment Virginia found herself alone with Mr. Hervey, she was seized with a universal trimmer. She tried to speak, but could not articulate. At last she burst into a flood of tears, and when this had in some measure relieved her, she threw herself upon her knees and clasped her hands exclaimed as she looked up to heaven. Oh, if I knew what I ought to do, if I knew what I ought to say, shall I tell you, Virginia, and will you believe me? Yes, yes, yes, you ought to say the truth, whatever it may be. But you will thank me the most ungrateful of human beings. How often must I assure you, Virginia, that I make no claim upon your gratitude? Speak to me, I conjure you, as you value your happiness and mine. Speak to me without disguise. What is all this mystery? Why should you fear to let me know what passes in your heart? Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture? Oh, forgive me, forgive me! cried Virginia. She would have sunk at his feet if he had not prevented her. I will. I can forgive anything but deceit. Do not look at me with so much terror. Virginia, I have not deserved it. My wish is to make you happy. I would sacrifice even my own happiness to secure yours. But do not mislead me, or you ruin us both. Cannot you give me a distinct answer to this simple question? Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture? Because, but you will call me perfidious and grateful, Virginia, because I have seen that figure. He has knelt to me. He has kissed my hand. And I, Clarence Hervey withdrew his arms, which had supported her, and placing her upon a sofa, left her whilst he walked up and down the room for some minutes in silence. And why, Virginia, said he stopping short, was it necessary to conceal all this from me? Why was it necessary to persuade me that I was beloved? Why was it necessary that my happiness should be the sacrifice? It shall not. It shall not. Your happiness shall not be the sacrifice. Heaven is my witness, that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. Forgive me that shriek. I could not upfainting indeed, but I will be yours. I ought to be yours. And I am not perfidious. I am not ungrateful. Do not look upon me as you did in my dream. Do not talk to me of dreams, my dear Virginia. This is no time for trifling. I ask no sacrifice from you. I ask nothing but truth. Truth! Mrs. Orman knows all the truth. I have concealed nothing from her. But she has concealed everything from me, cried Clarence. And with a sudden impulse of indignation he was going to summon her. But when his hand was upon the lock of the door he paused, returned to Virginia and said, Let me hear the truth from your lips. It is all I shall ever ask from you. How? When? Where did you see this man? What man? said Virginia, looking up with simple expression of innocence and accountants. Clarence pointed to the picture. At the village, in the new forest at Mrs. Smith's house, said Virginia. One evening when I walked with her from my grandmother's cottage. And your grandmother knew of this? Yes. said Virginia blushing. And she was very much displeased. And Mrs. Orman knew of this, pursued Clarence. Yes. But she told me that you would not be displeased at it. Mr. Hervey made another hasty step toward the door. But restraining his impetuous temper he again stopped. And leaning over the back of a chair opposite to Virginia waited in silence for her to proceed. He waited in vain. I do not mean to distress you, Miss Hartley, said he. She burst into tears. I knew! I knew! cried she. Then you would be displeased. I told Mrs. Orman so. I knew you would never forgive me. In that you were mistaken, said Clarence mildly. I forgive you without difficulty as I hope you may forgive yourself, nor can it be my wish to extort from you any mortifying confessions. But perhaps it may yet be in my power to serve you. If you would trust me, I will myself speak to your father. I will do everything to secure to you the object of your affections. If you will in this last moment of our connection, treat me with sincerity, and suffer me to be your friend. Virginia sobbed so violently for some time that she could not speak. At last she said, You are, you are the most generous of men. You have always been my best friend. I am the most ungrateful of human beings. But I am sure I never wished I never intended to deceive you. Mrs. Orman told me, Do not speak of her at present, or perhaps I may lose my temper, interrupted Clarence in an altered voice. Only tell me. I conjure you to tell me. In one word, who is this man, and where is he to be found? I do not know. I do not understand you, said Virginia. You do not know? You will not trust me. Then I must leave you, too, to Mr. Hartley. Oh, do not leave me. Oh, do not leave me in anger, cried Virginia, clinging to him. Not trust you? I not trust you? I not trust you? Oh, what can you mean? I have no confessions to make. Mrs. Orman knows every thought of my mind, and so shall you, if you will only hear me. I do not know who this man is. I assure you, nor where he is to be found. And yet you love him? Can you love a man whom you do not know, Virginia? I only love his figure, I believe, said Virginia. His figure? Indeed. I am quite bewildered, said Virginia, looking round wildly. I know not what I feel. If you permitted this man to kneel to you, to kiss your hand, surely you must know that you love him, Virginia. But that was only in a dream, and Mrs. Orman said, only a dream. But you meant him at Mrs. Smith's in the New Forest. That was only a picture, only a picture, but you have seen the original. Never, never in my life. And I wished to heaven I had never, never seen the fatal picture. The image haunts me day and night. When I read of heroes in the day, that figure rises to my view, instead of yours. When I go to sleep at night, I see it instead of yours in my dreams. It speaks to me. It kneels to me. I long ago told Mrs. Orman this, but she laughed at me. I told her of that frightful dream. I saw you, well-tering in your blood. I tried to save you, but could not. I heard you say, Perfidious ungrateful Virginia, you are the cause of my death. Oh, it was the most dreadful night I ever passed. Still this figure, this picture was before me. And he was the knight of white plumes, and it was he who stabbed you. But when I wished him to be victorious, I did not know that he was fighting against you. So Mrs. Ormont told me that I need not blame myself, and she said that you were not so foolish as to be jealous of a picture. But I knew you would be displeased. I knew you would think me ungrateful. I knew you would never forgive me. Whilst Virginia rapidly uttered all this, Clarence marked the wild animation of her eyes, the sudden changes of her countenance. He recollected her father's insanity. Every feeling of his mind gave way to terror and pity. He approached her with all the calmness that he could assume, took both her hands and holding them in his, said in a soothing voice, My dear Virginia, you are not ungrateful. I do not think you so. I am not displeased with you. You have done nothing to displease me. Compose yourself, dear Virginia. I am quite composed. Now you again call me dear Virginia. Only I am afraid, as I always told Mrs. Ormont, that I do not love you enough. But she said that I did, and that my fear was the strongest proof of my affection. Virginia now spoke in so consistent a manner that Clarence could not doubt that she was in the clear possession of her understanding. She repeated to him all that she had said to Mrs. Ormont, and he began to hope that without any intention to deceive Mrs. Ormont's ignorance of the human heart led her into a belief that Virginia was in love with him, whilst in fact her imagination, exalted by solitude and romance, embodied and became enamored of a phantom. I always told Mrs. Ormont that she was mistaken, said Clarence. I never believed that you loved me, Virginia, he parsed and carefully examined her countenance. To you yourself gave me reason to think so. Was it only a principle of gratitude then that dictated your answer to my letter? She looked at Resolute and at last, in a low voice, said, If I could see, if I could speak to Mrs. Ormont, she cannot tell what are the secret feelings of your heart, Virginia. Consult no Mrs. Ormont. Consult no human creature, but yourself. But Mrs. Ormont told me that you loved me, and that you had educated me to be your wife. Mr. Hervey made an involuntary exclamation against Mrs. Ormont's folly. How then can you be happy? continued Virginia. If I am so ingrateful as to say I do not love you, that I do not love you, oh that I cannot say, for I do love you better than any one living, except my father, and with the same sort of affection that I feel for him. You ask me to tell you the secret feelings of my heart. The only secret feelings of which I am conscious is a wish not to marry unless I could see in reality such a person as, but that I knew was only a picture, a dream, and I thought that I ought at least to sacrifice my foolish imaginations to you, who had done so much for me. I knew that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse you, and besides, my father told me that you would not accept of my fortune without my hand, so I consented to marry you. Forgive me, if these were wrong motives, I thought them right. Only tell me what I can do to make you happy, as I am sure I wish to to that wish I would sacrifice every other feeling. Sacrifice nothing, dear Virginia. We may both be happy without making any sacrifice of our feelings, cried Clarence, and transported at regaining his own freedom. Virginia's simplicity never appeared to him so charming as at this moment. Dearest Virginia, forgive me for suspecting you for one instant of anything unhandsome. Mrs. Ormond, with the very best intentions possible, has led us both to the brink of misery, but I find you such as I always thought you, ingenuous, affectionate, innocent. And you are not angry with me, interrupted Virginia with joyful eagerness, and you will not think me ungrateful, and you will not be unhappy, and Mrs. Ormond was mistaken? And you do not wish that I should love you, that I should be your wife, I mean? Oh, don't deceive me, for I cannot help believing whatever you say. Clarence Hervey, to give her a convincing proof that Mrs. Ormond had misled her as to his sentiments, immediately avowed his passion for Belinda. You have relieved me from all doubt, all fear, all anxiety, said Virginia, with the sweetest expression of innocent affection in her countenance. May you be as happy as you deserve to be. May Belinda is not that her name. May Belinda. At this moment Lady Delacour half opened the door exclaiming, Human patience can wait no longer. Will you trust me to explain for you, dear Virginia? said Clarence. Most willingly, said Virginia, retiring as Lady Delacour advanced. Pray, leave me here alone, whilst you, who are used to talk before strangers, speak for me. Dare you venture, Clarence? said her ladyship as she closed the door. To leave her alone without picture, you are no lover if you be not jealous. I am not jealous, said Clarence. Yet I am a lover, a passionate lover. A passionate lover! cried Lady Delacour, stopping short as they were crossing the antechamber. Then I have done nothing but mischief. In love with Virginia I will not, cannot believe it. In love with Belinda cannot you, will not you believe it? My dear Clarence, I never doubted it for an instant. But are you at liberty to own it to anybody but me? I am at liberty to declare it to all the world. Oh, you transport me with joy! I will not keep you from her a second, but stay. I am sorry to tell you that, as she informed me this morning, her heart is not at present inclined to love, and here is Mrs. Margaret Delacour, poor wretch in this room, dying with curiosity. Curiosity is as ardent as love, and as good a claim to compassion. As he entered the room, where there were only Mrs. Margaret Delacour and Belinda, Clarence Hervey's first glance, rapid as it was, explained his heart. Belinda put her arm within Lady Delacour's, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. Lady Delacour pressed her hand and was perfectly silent. And what is Miss Foltman to believe? cried Mrs. Margaret Delacour. When she has seen you on the very eve of marriage with another lady, the strongest merit I can plead with such a woman as Miss Foltman is, that I was ready to sacrifice my own happiness to a sense of duty. Now that I am at liberty, now that you are at liberty, interrupted Lady Delacour, you are in a vast hurry to offer your whole soul to a lady who has for months seen all your merits with perfect insensibility and who has been notwithstanding all my operations stone-blind to your love. The struggles of my passion cannot totally have escaped Belinda's penetration, said Clarence. But I, like her, a thousand times the better for not having trusted merely to appearances. That love is most to be valued which cannot be easily won. In my opinion, there is a prodigious difference between a warm imagination and a warm heart. Well, we have all of us seen Pamela Mary Tata, let us now see Belinda in love, if that is possible. If, forgive me, this last stroke, my dear, in spite of all my railery I do believe that the prudent Belinda is more capable of feeling real permanent passion than any of the dear sentimental young ladies whose motto is all for love or the world well lost. That is just my opinion, said Mrs. Margaret Delacour. But pray, what has become of Mr. Hartley? Looking round. I do not see him. No. For I have hid him, said Lady Delacour. He shall be forthcoming presently. Dear Mr. Clarence Herbie, what have you done with my Virginia? Said Mrs. Ormont, coming into the room. Dear Mrs. Ormont, what have you done with her? replied Clarence. By your mistaken kindness, by insisting upon doing us both good against our wills, you were very near making us both miserable for life. But I blame nobody. I have no right to blame anyone so much as myself. All this has arisen from my own presumption and imprudence. Nothing could be more absurd than my scheme of educating a woman in solitude to make her fit for society. I might have foreseen what must happen, that Virginia would consider me as her tutor, her father, not as her lover, or her husband, that with the most affectionate of hearts she could for me feel nothing but gratitude. Nothing but gratitude! repeated Mrs. Ormont, with a degree of amazement in her countenance, which made everybody present smile. I am sure. I thought she was dying for love of you. My dear Belinda, whispered Lady Delacour, if I might judge of the colour of this cheek, which has been for some moments permanent crimson, I should guess that you were beginning to find out of what use the sun is to the dial. You will not let me hear what Mr. Hervey is saying, replied Belinda. I am very curious. Curiosity is a stronger passion than love, as I told him just now, said Lady Delacour. In spite of all his explanations, Mrs. Ormont could not be made to comprehend Virginia's feelings. She continually repeated, But it is impossible for Virginia or for anybody to be in love with a picture. It is not said that she is in love with a picture, replied Mrs. Delacour. Though, even for that, I could find you a precedent. My Lady Delacour, said Mrs. Ormont, were you explain to us how that picture came into your possession, and how it came here, and ensured all that is to be known about it? I explain, explain, my dear Lady Delacour, cried Mrs. Delacour. I am afraid I am grown almost as curious as my Lady Boucher. Explain, explain. Most willingly, said Lady Delacour, To Mariette's ruling passion for birds, you are all of you indebted for this discovery. Some time ago, whilst we were at Twickenham, as Mariette was waiting at a station as to bid her last adieu's to a bullfinch, a gentleman came into the shop where she and Bobby, as she calls this bird, were coquettting, and the gentleman was struck even more than Mariette with the bullfinch. He went almost distracted on hearing a particular tune which the bird sang. I suspected from the symptoms, that the gentleman must be, or must have been, in love with the bullfinch's mistress. Now the bullfinch was traced home, to the Seat of Arm, Virginia Saint Pierre, the present Miss Harley. I had my reasons for being curious about her loves and lovers, and as soon as I learned the story from Mariette, I determined, if possible, to find out who this stranger, with the strange passion for bullfinches, might be. I questioned and cross-questioned all those people at the stationers who were present when he fell into ecstasies, and from the shopman who had been bribed to secrecy. I learned that our gentleman returned to the stationers the day after he met Mariette, and watched till he obtained a sight of Virginia, as she came to her window. Now it was believed by the girl of this shop, who had lived for some time with Mrs. Ormont. Forgive me, Mr. Hervey, for what I am going to say. Forgive me, Mrs. Ormont. Scandal, like death, is common to all. It was believed that Virginia was Mr. Hervey's mistress. My stranger no sooner learned this than he swore that he would think of her no more. And after bestowing a variety of seamen's execrations upon the villain, who had seduced this heavenly creature, he departed from Twickenham, and was no more seen or heard of. My inquiries after him were indefatigable, but for some time unsuccessful, and so they might have continued, and we might have been all making one another unhappy at this moment, if it had not been for Mr. Vincent's great dog, Juba, Miss Annabella Luttonridge's Billedoo. Sir Philip Badley's insolence, my Lord Delacour's belief in a quack balsam, and Captain Sunderland's humanity. Captain Sunderland? Who is Captain Sunderland? We never heard of him before, cried Mrs. Ormond. You shall hear of him, just as I did, if you please, said Lady Delacour. And if Belinda would submit to hear me, tell the same story twice. Here her ladyship repeated the history of the battle of the dogs, and of Sir Philip Badley's knocking down Juba, the man for struggling in defence of Juba, the dog. Now, the gentleman who assisted my Lord Delacour in bringing the disabled Negro across the square to our house was Captain Sunderland. My Lord summoned Mariette to produce Lady Boucher's infallible balsam that it might be tried upon Juba's sprained ankle, whilst my Lord was intent upon the balsam. Mariette was intent upon Captain Sunderland. She recollected that she had meant him somewhere before, and the moment he spoke, she knew him to be the gentleman who had fallen into ecstasy in the shop at Twickenham above the bullfinch. Mariette hastened to me with the news. I hastened to my Lord, made him introduce Captain Sunderland to me, and I never rested till he had told me all that I wanted to know. Some years ago, just before he went to see, he paid a visit to his mother, who then lodged with a widow Smith in the new forest. Whilst he was there, he heard of the young beauty who lived in the forest with a grandmother, who was not a little particular, and who would not permit anybody to see her. My Captain's curiosity was excited one day. Unseen by the Dwayner, he obtained a distinct view of Virginia, watering her roses and tending her bees. Struck with her uncommon beauty, he approached carefully to the thicket in which the cottage was enclosed, and found a layer where he concealed himself, day after day, and contemplated at leisure the budding charms of the fair Woodnymph. In short, he became so enamoured that he was determined to gain admittance at the cottage and declare his passion. But to his honour be it told, that when the history of the poor girl's mother, and the situation and fears of the old lady, who was her only friend, were known to him in consideration of the extreme youth of the ward, and the extreme age of her guardian, he determined to defer his address till his return from the West Indies, whither he was shortly to sail, and where he had hopes of making a fortune, that might put him in a situation to render the object of his affections independent. He left a bullfinch with Mrs. Smith, who gave it to Virginia, without telling to whom it had belonged, lest her grandmother might be displeased. I really thought that all this showed too nice a moral sense for a young dashing lieutenant in the Navy, and I was persuaded that my gentleman was only keeping his mistress's secret, like a man of honour. With this belief I regretted that Clarence Hervey should throw himself away upon a girl who was unworthy of him. I hope, interrupted Clarence, you are perfectly convinced of your mistake. Perfectly, perfectly! I am convinced that Virginia is only half mad, but let me go on with my story. I was determined to discover whether she had any remains of affection for this captain. It was in vain, he assured me, that she had never seen him. I prevailed upon him, to let me go on my own way. I inquired whether he had ever had his picture drawn. Yes, he had for his mother. Just when he first went out to sea, it had been left at the widow's mitts. I begged him to procure it for me. He told me it was impossible. I told him, I trampled on impossibilities. In short, he got the picture for me, as you see. Now, thought I, if he speaks the truth, Virginia will see this picture without emotion, and it will only seem to be a present for Clarence. But, if she had ever seen him before, or had any secret to conceal, she will betray herself on the sudden appearance of this picture. Things have turned out contrary to all my expectations, and yet better. And now, Clarence, I must beg you, will prevail on Miss Hartley to appear. I can go on no farther without her. Lady Delacour took Virginia by the hand the moment she entered the room. Will you trust yourself with me, Miss Hartley? said she. I have made you faint once today, by the sight of a picture. Will you promise me not to faint again, when I produce the original? The original, said Virginia. I will trust myself with you, for I'm sure you cannot mean to laugh at me, though perhaps I deserve to be laughed at. Lady Delacour threw open the door of another apartment. Mr. Hartley appeared, and with him, Captain Sunderland. My dear daughter, said Mr. Hartley, give me leave to introduce you to a friend, to whom I owe more obligations than to any man living except to Mr. Hervey. This gentleman was stationed some years ago at Jamaica, and in a rebellion of the Negroes on my plantation he saved my life. Fortune has accidentally thrown my benefactor in my way. To show my sense of my obligations is out of my power. Virginia's surprise was extreme. Her vivid dreams, the fond wishes of her waking fancy, were at once accomplished. For the first moment she gazed as on an animated picture, and all the ideas of love and romance associated with this image rushed upon her mind. But when the realities by which she was surrounded dispelled the illusion, she suddenly withdrew her eyes and blushed deeply, with such timid and graceful modesty as charmed everybody present. Captain Sunderland pressed forward, but was stopped by Lady Delacour. Ev'en, thou real lover, cried she. None but the shadow of a man can hope to approach the visionary maid. In vain has Meriton forced his way through the bushes and briars. In vain has he braved the apparition of the lion. There is yet phantom barrier apparently impassable between him and Mrs. Yarotilda. For he is in the world of shadows. Now mark me, Meriton. Hurry not this delicate spirit, or put chance you frighten and lose her, for ever. But have patience, and gradually, and gracefully, she will venture into your world of realities. Only give her time. Time? Oh yes! Give me time! cried Virginia, shrinking back. My dear Miss Hotley, continued Lady Delacour. In plain prose to prevent all difficulties and embarrassments, I must inform you that Captain Sunderland will not insist upon prompt payment of your father's debt of gratitude. He has but one quarter of an hour to spend with us. He is actually under sailing orders, so that you will have time to compose your mind before his return. Clarence, I advise you to accompany Captain Sunderland on this cruise, don't you, Melinda? And now, my good friends, continued Lady Delacour. Shall I finish the novel for you? If your ladyship pleases, nobody can do it better. Said Clarence Irving. But, I hope you will remember, dear Lady Delacour, said Belinda, that there is nothing in which novelists are so apt to air, as in the hurrying things toward the conclusion, in not allowing time enough for that change of feeling, which change of situation cannot instantly produce. That's right, my dear Belinda, true to your principles to the last gasp, fear nothing, you shall have time enough to become accustomed to Clarence. Would you choose that I should draw out the story to five volumes more? With your advice and assistance I can with the greatest ease, my dear. A declaration of love, you know, is only the beginning of things. There may be blushes and sighs and doubts and fears and misunderstandings and jealousies without end or common sense, to fill up the necessary space and to gain the necessary time. But if I might conclude the business in two lines I should say, you gods annihilate both space and time and make four lovers happy. Oh, that would be cutting matters too short, said Mrs. Margaret Delacour. I am of the old school, and though I could dispense with the description of Mrs. Harriet Byron's worked chairs and fine china, yet I own. I like to hear something of the preparation for a marriage, as well as of the mere wedding. I like to hear how people became happy in a rational manner, better than to be told in the huddled style of an old fairy tale, and so they were all married, and they lived very happily at all the rest of their days. We are not in much danger of hearing such an account of modern marriages, said Lady Delacour. But how shall I please you all? Some people cry. Tell me everything. Others say that Le secret d'ennulier est loué d'etudier. Something must be left to the imagination. Positively I will not describe wedding dresses or a procession to church. I have no objection to saying that the happy couples were united by the worthy Mr. Morton, that Mr. Percival gave Belinda away, and that immediately after the ceremony he took the whole party down with him to Oakley Park. Will this do? Oh, we may conclude, if you like it better, with a characteristic letter of congratulation from Mrs. Stanhope to her dearest niece Belinda, acknowledging that she was wrong to quarrel with her for refusing Sir Philip badly, and giving her infinite credit for that immurable management of Clarence Hervey, which she hopes will continue through life. Well, I have no objection to ending with the letter, said Mrs. Delacour. For last speeches are always tiresome. Yes, said her ladyship. It is so difficult, as the critic says, to get lovers off upon their knees. Now, I think of it, let me place you all in proper attitudes for stage effect. What signifies being happy unless we appear so? Captain Sutherland, kneeling with Virginia, if you please, Sir, at her father's feet. You in the act of giving them your blessing, Mr. Hartley. Mrs. Ormand clasps her hands with joy. Nothing can be better than that, madame. I give you infinite credit for the attitude. Clarence, you have a right to Belinda's hand, and may kiss it too. Nye, Miss Portman, it is the rule of the stage. Now, where's my Lord Delacour? He should be embracing me to show that we are reconciled. Ha! Here he comes! Enter, Lord Delacour, with little Elena in his hand. Very well. A good start of surprise, my love. Stand still. Pray you cannot be better than you are. Helena, my love. Do not let go your father's hand. They're quite pretty and natural now. Lady Delacour, to show that she is reformed, come forward to address the audience with a moral, a moral. Yes. Our tale contains a moral, and no doubt you all have wit enough to find it out. March 2011, End of Belinda, by Maria Edgeworth.