 Chapter 24 of Belinda. Things were in this situation when one day Marriott made her appearance at her lady's toilet, with a face which at once proclaimed something had discomposed her, and that she was impatient to be asked what it was. "'What is the matter, Marriott?' said Lady Delacorte, "'for I know you want me to ask.' "'Want you to ask?' "'Oh, dear, my lady, no, for I am sure it is a thing that goes quite against me to tell, for I thought indeed my lady superiorly of the person in question, so much so indeed that I wished what I declare I should now be ashamed to mention, especially in the presence of Miss Portman, who deserves the best that this world can afford of every denomination. "'Well, ma'am, in one word,' continued she, addressing herself to Belinda, "'I am extremely rejoiced that things are as they are, though I confess that was not always my wish or opinion, for which I beg Mr. Vincent's pardon and yours, but I hope to be forgiven, since I am now come entirely round to my lady and Percival's way of thinking, which I learn from good authority at Oakley Park, and I am now convinced and confident, Miss Portman, that everything is for the best.' Marriott will inform us in due course of time what has thus suddenly and happily converted her, said Lady Delacorte to Belinda, who was thrown into some surprise and confusion by Marriott's address. But Marriott went on with much warmth. "'Dear me, I am sure I thought we had got rid of all double-dealers when the house was cleared of Mr. Shampoo. But, oh mercy, there's not traps enough in the world for them all. I only wish they were all courters finely as some people were. "'Tis what all double-dealers and chamfret at the head of the whole regiment deserve. That's certain.' "'We must take patience, my dear Belinda,' said Lady Delacorte calmly, till Marriott has exhausted all the expletives in and out of the English language, and presently, when she has fought all her battles with chamfret over again, we may hope to get at the fact. "'Dear, my lady, it has nothing to do with Mr. Chamfret, nor any such style of personage, I can assure you. For, I'm positive, I'd rather think contemptibly of a hundred million Mr. Chamfret's than of one such gentleman as Mr. Clarence Hervey.' "'Clarence Hervey?' exclaimed Lady Delacorte, taking it for granted that Belinda blushed her ladyship with superperous address, instantly turned, so as to hide her friend's face from Mrs. Marriott. "'Well, Marriott, what of Mr. Hervey?' "'Oh, my lady, something you'll be surprised to hear, and misportment, too. It is not by any means that I am more of a prude than is becoming, my lady. Nor that I take upon me to be so innocent as not to know that young gentleman of fortune will, if it be only for fashion's sake, have such things as kept, mistresses, begging pardon for mentioning such trash. But no one that has lived in the world thinks anything of that except, added she, catching a glimpse of Belinda's countenance, except to be sure, ma'am, morally speaking, it's very wicked and shocking, and makes one blush before company, till one's used to it, and ought certainly to be put down by an act of parliament, ma'am. "'But, my lady, you know, in point of surprising any body or being discreditable in a young gentleman of Mr. Hervey's fortune and pretensions, it would be mere envy and scandal to deem it any thing worth mentioning. Then from Mercy's sake all mine, said Lady Delacorte, go on to something that is worth mentioning. "'Well, my lady, you must know, then, that yesterday I wanted some hemp seed for my bullfinch, Miss Helena's bullfinch, I mean. For it was she who found it by accident, you know, Miss Portman, the day after we came here. Poor thing! It got itself so entangled in the net over the Morello cherry-tree in the garden, that it could neither get itself in nor out. But very luckily Miss Helena saw it, and saved and brought it in. It was almost dead, my lady. Was it? I mean, I am very sorry for it, that is what you expect me to say. Now go on, get us once past the bullfinch, and tell us what it has to do with Clarence Hervey. That is what I am aiming at, as fast as possible, my lady. So I sent for some hemp seed for the bullfinch, and along with the hemp seed they brought me wrapped round it, as it were, a printed hand-bill, as it might be, or advertisement, which I threw off disregardingly. Had taken for granted it might have been some of those advertisements for lozenges or razor-strops that meet one wherever one goes. But Miss Delacorte picked it up, and found that it was a kind of hue and cry after a stolen or strayed bullfinch. Marm! I was so provoked, I could have cried. When I learnt it was the exact description of our little bobby to a feather, gray upon the back, and red on—Oh, spare me the description to a feather! Well, you took the bird, bullfinch, or bobby, as you call it, home to its rightful owner, I presume. Let me get you so far on your way. No, I beg your pardon, my lady. That is not the thing. Then you did not take the bird home to its owner, and you are a bird-stealer. With all my heart, be a dog-stealer, if you will, only go on. But my lady, you hurry me so. It puts everything topsy-turvy in my head. I could tell it as fast as possible in my own way. Do it so. I was ready to cry when I found our little bobby was claimed from us to be sure. But Miss Delacour observed that those with whom it had lived till it was gray must be sorry astill to part with it. So I resolved to do the honest and genteel thing by the lady who advertised for it, and to take it back myself, and to refuse the five guineas reward offered. The lady's name, according to the advertisement, was Ormond. Ormond, repeated Lady Delacour, looking eagerly at Belinda, was not that the names Philip Badley mentioned to us, you remember. Yes, Ormond was the name, as well as I recollect, said Belinda, with a degree of steady composure that provoked her ladyship. Go on, Marriott. And the words were to leave the bird at a perfumers in Twickenham, opposite to Blank, but that's no matter. Well, my lady, to the perfumers I went with the bird this morning. Now I had my reasons for wishing to see this Mrs. Ormond myself. Because, my lady, there was one thing rather remarkable about this bullfinch, that it sings a very particular tune which I never heard any bullfinch or any human creature sing anything like before. So I determined, in my own cogitations, to ask Mrs. Ormond to name the tunes her bullfinch could sing before I produced it, and if she made no mention of its knowing any one out of the common way I resolved to keep the bird myself, as I might very conscientiously and gentily, too. So, my lady, when I got to the perfumers I inquired where Mrs. Ormond was to be found. I was told that she received no visits from any, at least from the female sakes, and that I must leave the bird there till called for. I was considering what to do, and the strangeness of the information made about the female sakes, when in there came, into the shop, a gentleman, who saved me all the indelicacy of asking particulars. The bullfinch was at this time piping away at a fine rate, and, as luck would have it, that very remarkable strange tune that I mentioned to you. Says the gentleman as he came into the shop, fixing his eyes on the bullfinch, as if they would have come fairly out of his head. How did that bird come here? I brought it here, sir, said I. Then he began to offer me mountains of gold in a very strange way, if I could tell him any tidings of the lady to whom it belonged. The shopman from behind the counter now bent forward, and whispered to the gentleman that he could give him some information if he would make it worth his while. And they both went together to a little parlor behind the shop, and I saw no more of them. But my lady, very opportunely for me, that was dying with curiosity, out of the parlor they turned a young woman in to attend the shop, who proved to be an acquaintance of mine, whom I had done some little favours to when in service in London. And this young woman, when I told her in my distress about the advertisement and the bullfinch, led me into the whole affair. Mom said she, all that is known about Mrs. Ormond in this house or anywhere else is from me. So there was no occasion for turning me out of the parlor. I lived with Mrs. Ormond, Mom said she, for half a year in the very house she now occupies, and consequently nobody can be better informed than I am, to which I agreed. Then she told me that the reason that Mrs. Ormond never saw any company of any sort was because she is not fit to see company, proper company, for she is not a proper woman. She has a most beautiful young creature there, shut up, who has been seduced, and is now deserted in a most cruel manner by a Mr. Hervey. Oh, my lady, how the name struck upon my ear! I hoped, however, it was not our Mr. Hervey. But it was the identical Mr. Clarence Hervey. I made the young woman describe him, for she had often and often seen him. When he visited the unfortunate creature, and the description could suit none but our Mr. Hervey. And besides it put it beyond doubt. She told me his linen was all marked C. H., so our Mr. Hervey mom added Marriott, turning to Belinda. It certainly proved to be, to my utter dismay and confusion. Oh, Marriott, my poor head exclaimed Lady Delacorte, starting from under her hands. That cruel comb went at least half an inch into my head. Heads have feelings as well as hearts, I believe me. And as she spoke she snatched out the comb with which Marriott had just fastened up her hair, and flunked it on a sofa at some yarn's distance. While Marriott went to fetch it, Lady Delacorte thought that Belinda would have time to recover from that utter dismay and confusion into which she hoped that she must now be thrown. Come, Marriott, make haste. I have done you at least a great favor, for you have all this hair to perform upon again, and you will have leisure to finish the story of yours, which at all events, if it is not in any other respect wonderful, we must allow, is wonderfully long. Well my lady, to be short then, I was more curious than ever when I heard all this to hear more, and asked my friend how she could ever think of staying in a house with ladies of such a description, upon which she justified herself by assuring me, upon her honor, that at first she believed the young lady was married privately to Mr. Hervey, for that a clergyman had come in secret and read prayers, and she verily believes that the unfortunate young creature was deceived barbarously, and made to fancy herself married to all intents and purposes, till all at once Mr. Hervey threw off the mask, and left off visiting her, pretending a necessity to take a journey, and handing her over to that vile woman that Mrs. Ormond, who bid her to be comforted, and all the things that are said by such women on such occasions by all accounts. But the poor deluded young thing saw how it was now too plain, and she was ready to break her heart, but not in a violent, common sort of way, ma'am, but in silent grief, pining and drooping. My friend could not stand the sight, nor endure to look upon Mrs. Ormond, now she knew what she was, and so she left the house, without giving any reason immediately. I forgot to mention that the unfortunate girl's maiden name was Saint-Pierre, my lady, but her Christian name, which was rather an out-of-the-way name, I quite forget. No matter, said Lady Delacourt, we can live without it, or we can imagine it. To be sure, I beg pardon, such sort of people's names can't be of any consequence, and I'm sure I blame myself now for going to the house after all I had heard. You did go to the house, then. To my shame, be it spoken, my curiosity got the better of me, and I went, but only on account of the bullfinch in the eyes of the world. It was a great while before I could get in, but I was so firm that I would not give up the bird to no one but the lady herself that I got in at last. Oh, never did my eyes light upon so beautiful a creature, nor so graceful, nor so innocent to look at. Belinda sighed. Marriott echoed the sigh, and continued, she was by herself and in tears when I was shown in, ma'am, and she started as if she had never seen any body before in her life. But when she saw the bullfinch, ma'am, she clapped her hands and smiling through her tears like a child, she ran up to me and thanked me again and again, kissing the bird between times and putting it into her bosom. Well, I declare, if she had talked to all eternity she could never have made me pity her half so much as all this did, for it looked so much like innocence. I'm sure nobody that was not, or at least did not think themselves innocent, could have such ways, and such an innocent affection for a little bird. Not but what I know, ladies, of a certain description, often have birds, but then their fondness is all affectation and fashion, but this poor thing was all nature. Ah, poor unfortunate girl thought I, but it's no matter what I thought now, said Marriott, shutting her eyes to hide the tears that came into them at this instant. I was ashamed of myself when I saw Mrs. Ormond just then come into the room, which made me recollect what sort of company I was in. La, my lady, how I detested the sight of her. She looked at me, too, more like a dragon than anything else, though in a civil way, and as if she was frightened out of her wits, she asked Miss Sampierre, as she called her, how I got in, in a whisper, and she made all sorts of signs afterward to her to go out of the room. After having been in such a situation before, I was quite robbed of all fluency, and could not, what with the anger I felt for the one and sorrow for the other, get out a word of common sense, or even recollect what pretence brought me into the room, till the bird, very luckily, put it into my head by beginning to sing. So then I asked whether they could certify it to be theirs by any particular tune of its own. Oh, yes, said Miss Sampierre, and she sung the very same tune. I never heard so sweet a voice. But poor thing, something came across her mind in the middle of it, and she stopped. But she thanked me again for bringing back the bird, which, she said, had been hers for a great many years, and that she loved it dearly. I stood, I believe, like one stupefied, till I was roused by the woman's offering to put the Five Guineas reward mentioned in the advertisement into my hand. The touch of her gold made me start, as if it had been a snake, and I pushed it from me. And when she pressed it again, I threw it on the table, scarce knowing what I did. And just then, in her iniquitous hand, I saw a letter directed to Clarence Hervey, a squire. Oh, how I hated the sight of his name, and everything belonging to him, ma'am, at that minute. I'm sure I could not have kept myself from saying something quite outrageous if I had not taken myself out of the house as I did that instant. When there are women enough, born and bred, good for nothing, and ladies enough to float with, that would desire no better, that a gentleman like Mr. Clarence Hervey, ma'am, should set his wits, as one may say, to be the ruin of such a sweet, innocent-looking young creature, and then desert her in that barbarous way, after bringing a clergyman to deceive her with a mock ceremony and all. Oh, there is no fashion, nor nothing, can countenance such wickedness. It is the worst of wickedness and cruelty, and I shall think and say so to the latest hour of my life. Well said, Marriott, cried Lady Delacour. And now you know the reason, ma'am, added Marriott, that I said I was glad things are as they are. To be sure, I and everybody once thought, but that's all over now, and I am glad things are as they are. Lady Delacour, once more, turned her quick eyes upon Belinda, and was much pleased to see that she seemed to sympathize with Marriott's indignation. In the evening, when they were alone, Lady Delacour touched upon the subject again, and observed that as they should now, in all probability, see Mr. Hervey in a few days, they might be able to form a better judgment of this affair, which she doubted not had been exaggerated. You should judge from the whole of Clarence's conduct and character, and not from any particular part, said her ladyship. Do not his letters breathe a spirit of generosity? But interrupted Miss Portman, I am not called upon to judge Mr. Hervey's whole conduct and character, nor of any part of it. His letters and his generosity are nothing. To you, said Lady Delacour, with a smile. This is no time, and no subject for railery, my dear friend, said Belinda. You assured me, and I believed you, that the idea of Mr. Hervey's return was entirely out of the question, when you prevailed upon me to delay my journey to Oakley Park. As I now understand that your ladyship has changed your mind, I must request your ladyship will permit me, I will permit you to do what you please, dearest Belinda, except to call me your ladyship twice in one sentence. You shall go to Oakley Park the day after tomorrow. Will that content you, my dear? I admire your strength of mind. You are much fitter to conduct yourself than I am to conduct you. I have done with railery. My first, my only, object is your happiness. I respect and esteem as much as I love you, and I love you better than anything upon earth. Power accepted, you will say. Power not accepted, believe me, and if you are one of those strange people that cannot believe without proof, you shall have proof positive upon the spot, added she, ringing the bell as she spoke. I will no longer contend for power over your mind with your friends at Oakley Park. I will give orders in your presence to Marriott to prepare for our march. I did not call it retreat, but there is nothing shows so much general ship as a good retreat, unless it be a good victory. I am, I confess, rather prejudiced in favor of victory. So am I, said Belinda, with a smile. I am so strongly prejudiced in favor of victory that rather than obtain no other, I would even be content with a victory over myself. Scarcely had Belinda pronounced these words when Lord Delacour, who had dined in town, entered the room, accompanied by Mr. Vincent. Give me leave, Lady Delacour, to introduce you, said his Lordship, a young gentleman who has a great and, I am sure, a most disinterested desire to cultivate your lady's further acquaintance. Lady Delacour received him with all the politeness imaginable, and even her prepositions in favor of Clarence Harvey could not prevent her from being struck with his appearance. Ella, infiniment l'air d'un héros de roman, thought she, and Belinda is not quite so great a philosopher as I imagined. In due time her ladyship recollected that she had orders to give to Marriott about her journey, that made it absolutely necessary she should leave Mr. Portman to entertain Mr. Vincent, if possible, without her for a few minutes. And Lord Delacour departed, contenting himself with the usual excuse of letters to write. I ought to be delighted with your gallantry, Mr. Vincent, said Belinda, in travelling so many miles to remind me of my promise about Oakley Park. But on the contrary, I am sorry you have taken so much unnecessary trouble. Lady Delacour is, at this instant, preparing for our journey to Mr. Percival's. We intend to set out the day after tomorrow. I am heartily glad of it. I shall be infinitely overpaid for my journey by having the pleasure of going back with you. After some conversation upon different subjects, Mr. Vincent, with an air of frankness which was particularly pleasing to Belinda, put into her hands an anonymous letter which he had received the preceding day. It is not worth your reading, said he, but I know you too well to fear that it should give you any pain, and I hope you know me too well to apprehend that it could make any impression on my mind. Belinda read with some surprise. Rash young man, beware of connecting yourself with the lady to whom you have lately been drawn in to pay your addresses. She is the most artful of women. She has been educated, as you may find upon inquiry, by one whose successful trade it has been to draw in young men of fortune for her nieces, when she has obtained the appellation of the matchmaker general. The only niece whom she could not get rid of any other way she sent to the most dissipated and unprincipled vicantess in town. The vicantess felt sick, and, as it was universally reported last winter, the young lady was immediately, upon her friend's death, to have been married to the vicant widower. The vicantess detected the connection, and the young lady, to escape from her friend's rage and from public shame, was obliged to retreat to certain shades in the neighbourhood of Harrogate, where she passed herself for a saint, upon those who were too honourable themselves to be suspicious of others. At length the quarrel between her and the vicantess was made up by her dress and boldness in declaring that if she was not recalled she would divulge some secrets respecting a certain mysterious boudoir in her ladyship's house. This threat terrified the vicantess, who sent off express for her late discarded humble companion. The quarrel was hushed up, and the young lady is now with her noble friend in Twickenham. The person who used to be let up the private stairs into the boudoir by Mrs. Marriott, is now more conveniently received at Twickenham. Much more was said by the letter-writer in the same strain. The name of Clarence Hervey, in the last page, caught Belinda's eye, and, with a trepidation which she did not feel at the beginning of this epistle, she read to the conclusion. The vicant is not supposed to have been unrivaled in the young lady's favour. A young gentleman of large fortune, great talents, and uncommon powers of pleasing, has, for some months, been her secret object. But he has been prudent enough to escape her matrimonial snares, though he carries on a correspondence with her through the means of her friend the vicantess, to whom he privately writes. The noble lady has bargained to make over to her confident all her interest in Harvey's heart. He is expected every day to return from his tour, and, if the schemes upon him can be brought to bear, the promised return to the neighbourhood of Harrogate will never be thought of. Mr. Vincent will be left in the lurch. He will not even have the lady's fair hand. Her fair heart is Clarence Harvey's, at all events. Further particulars shall be communicated to Mr. Vincent, if he pays due attention to this warning from a sincere friend. As soon as Belinda had finished this curious production, she thanked Mr. Vincent, with more kindness than she had ever before shown him, for the confidence he placed in her, and for the openness with which he treated her. She begged his permission to show this letter to Lady Delacour, though he had previously dreaded the effect which it might have upon her ladyship's feelings. Her first exclamation was, This is one of Harriet Freak's frolics. But as her ladyship's indignation against Mrs. Freak had long since subsided into utter contempt, she did not waste another thought upon the writer of this horrible letter. But instantly the whole energy of her mind and fire of her eloquence burst forth in an eulogium upon her friend. Careless of all that concerned herself, she explained, without a moment's hesitation, everything that could exalt Belinda. She described all the difficult circumstances in which her friend had been placed. She mentioned the secret with which she had been entrusted, the honor with which, even at the hazard of her own reputation, she had kept her promise of secrecy inviolable, when Lord Delacour, in a fit of intoxication and jealousy, had endeavored to rest from Harriet the key of the mysterious boudoir. She confessed her own absurd jealousy, explained how it had been excited by the artifices of Shumford and Sir Philip Badley, how slight circumstances had worked upon her mind up almost to a frenzy. The temper, the dignity, the gentleness, the humanity with which Belinda bore with me during this paroxysm of madness, said Lady Delacour, I never can forget, nor the spirit with which she left my house, when she saw me unworthy of her esteem, and ungrateful for her kindness, nor the magnanimity with which she returned to me when I thought myself upon my deathbed. All this has made an impression upon my soul, which never, whilst I have life and reason, can be effaced. She has saved my life. She has made my life worth saving. She has made me feel my own value. She has made me know my own happiness. She has reconciled me to my husband. She has united me with my child. She has been my guardian angel. She, the confidant of my intrigues, she, leagued with me in vice? No. I am bound to her by ties stronger than vice ever felt, than vice even in the utmost ingenuity of its depravity can devise. Exhausted by the vehemence with which she had spoken, Lady Delacour paused. But Vincent, who sympathized in her enthusiasm, kept his eyes fixed upon her in hopes that she had yet more to say. I might, perhaps, you will think, continued she, smiling, have spared you this history of myself and of my own affairs, Mr. Vincent, but I thought it necessary to tell you the plain facts which malice has distorted into the most odious form. This is the quarrel. This is the reconciliation of which your anonymous friend has been so well-informed, now, as to Clarence Hervey. I have explained to Mr. Vincent, interrupted Belinda, everything that he could wish to know on that subject, and I now wish you to tell him that I faithfully remembered my promise to return to Oakley Park, and that we were actually preparing for the journey. Look here, sir, cried Lady Delacour, opening the door of her dressing-room in which Marriott was upon her knees, locking a trunk. Here's dreadful note of preparation. You are a happier man than yet you know, Mr. Vincent, continued Lady Delacour, for I can tell you that some persuasion, some railery, and some wit I flatter myself have been used to detain Miss Portman from you. From Oakley Park, interrupted Belinda. From Oakley Park, etc., a few days longer, shall I be frank with you, Mr. Vincent? Yes, for I cannot help it. I am not of the nature of anonymous letter-writers. I cannot, either secretly or publicly, sign or say myself a sincere friend, without being one to the utmost extent of my influence. I never give my vote without my interest, nor my interest without my vote. Now Clarence Harvey is my friend. Start not at all, sir. You have no reason. For if he is my friend, Miss Portman is yours, which has the better bargain. But, as I was going to tell you, Mr. Clarence Harvey is my friend, and I am his. My vote, interest, and influence have consequently been all in his favour. I had reason to believe that he has long admired the dignity of Miss Portman's mind and the simplicity of her character, continued her ladyship, with an arch-look at Belinda. And though he was too much a man of genius to begin with the present tense of the indicative mood I love, yet I was and am convinced that he does love her. Can you, dear Lady Delacour, cried Belinda, speak in this manner and recollect all we heard from Marriott this morning, and to what purpose all this— To what purpose, my dear, to convince your friend, Mr. Vincent, that I am neither fool nor naive, but that I deal fairly by you, by him, and by all the world. Mr. Harvey's conduct toward Miss Portman has, I acknowledge, sir, been undecided. Some circumstances have lately come to my knowledge which throw doubts upon his honour and integrity, doubts which I firmly believe he will clear up to my satisfaction at least as soon as I see him, or as soon as it is in his power, with this conviction and believing as I do, that no man upon earth is so well suited to my friend. Pardon me, Mr. Vincent, if my wishes differ from yours, though my sincerity may give you present, it may save you from future pain. Your ladyship's sincerity, whatever pain it may give, I admire, said Mr. Vincent, with some pride in his manner. But I see that I must despair of the honour of your ladyship's congratulations. Pardon me, interrupted Lady Delacour, there you are quite mistaken. The man of Belinda's choice must receive my congratulations. He must do more. He must become my friend. I would never rest till I had won his regard. Or should I, in the least be apprehensive, that he would not have sufficient greatness of mine to forgive my having treated him with a degree of sincerity which the common forms of politeness cannot justify, and at which common souls would be scandalised past recovery? Mr. Vincent's pride was entirely vanquished by this speech, and with that frankness by which his manners were usually characterised, he thanked her for having distinguished him from common souls, and assured her that such sincerity as hers was infinitely more to his taste than that refined politeness of which he was aware no one was more perfect mistress than Lady Delacour. Here their conversation ended, and Mr. Vincent, as it was now late, took his leave. Really, my dear Belinda, said Lady Delacour, when he was gone, I am not surprised at your impatience to return to Oakley Park. I am not so partial to my knight as to compare him in personal accomplishments with your hero. I acknowledge also that there is something vastly pre-possessing in the frankness of his manners. He has behaved admirably well about this abominable letter, but what is better than all in a lady's eyes he is éperdument amoureux. Not éperdument, I hope, said Belinda. Then, as you do not think it necessary for your hero to be éperdument amoureux, I presume, said Lady Delacour, you do not think it necessary that a heroine should be in love at all. So love and marriage are to be separated by philosophy as well as by fashion. This is Lady Anne Percival's doctrine. I give Mr. Percival joy. I remember the time when he fancied love essential to happiness. I believe he not only fancies, but is sure of it now from experience, said Belinda. Then he interdicts love only to his friends. He does not think it essential that you should know anything about the matter. You may marry his ward and welcome without being in love with him. But not without loving him, said Belinda. I am not casuist enough in these matters to understand the subtle distinction you make with the true Percival emphasis between loving and falling in love. But I suppose I am to understand by loving, loving as half the world do when they marry. As it would be happy for half the world if they did, replied Belinda, mildly, but with firmness of tone that her ladyship felt. I should despise myself and deserve no pity from any human being if, after all I have seen, I could think of marrying for convenience or interest. Oh, pardon me! I meant not to insinuate such an idea. Even your worst enemy, Sir Philip Badley, would acquit you there. I meant but to hint, my dear Belinda, that a heart such as yours is formed full of in its highest, purest, happiest state. A pause ensued. Such happiness can be secured only, resumed Belinda, by a union with a man of sense and virtue. A man of sense and virtue, I suppose, means Mr. Vincent, said Lady Delacorte. No doubt you have lately learned in the same sober style that a little love will suffice with a great deal of esteem. I hope I have learned lately that a great deal of esteem is the best foundation for a great deal of love, possibly, said Lady Delacorte. But we often see people working at the foundation all their lives without getting any further. And those who build their castles of happiness in the air, said Belinda, are they more secure, wiser, or happier? Wiser, I know nothing about that, said Lady Delacorte, but happier I do believe they are, for the castle-building is always a labour of love, but the foundation of drudgery is generally love's labour lost. Poor Vincent will find it so. Perhaps not, said Belinda, for already his solid good qualities. Solid good qualities, interrupted Lady Delacorte. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, my dear, you know we never fall in love with good qualities, except, indeed, when they are enjoined to an aquiline nose. Oh, that aquiline nose of Mr. Vincent's! I am more afraid of it than of all his solid good qualities. He has again, I acknowledge it, much the advantage of Clarence Harvey in personal accomplishments. But you are not a woman to be decided by personal accomplishments. And you will not allow me to be decided by solid good qualities, said Belinda, so by what must I be determined? By your heart, my dear, by your heart, trust your heart only. Alas, said Belinda, how many, many women have deplored their having trusted to their hearts only. Their hearts, but I said your heart. Mind your pronouns, my dear, that makes all the difference. But to be serious, tell me, do you really, and bona fide, as my uncle the lawyer used to say, love Mr. Vincent? No, said Belinda, I do not love him, yet. But for that emphatic, yet, how I should have worshipped you. I wish I could once clearly understand the state of your mind about Mr. Vincent, and then I should be able to judge how far I might indulge myself in railery without being absolutely impertinent. So without intruding upon your confidence, tell me whatever you please. I will tell you all I know of my own mind, replied Belinda, looking up with an ingenuous countenance. I esteem Mr. Vincent. I am grateful to him for the proofs he has given me of steady attachment, and of confidence in my integrity. I like his manners and the frankness of his temper. But I do not yet love him, until I do, no earthly consideration could prevail upon me to marry him. Perfectly satisfactory, my dear Belinda, and yet I cannot be quite at ease whilst Mr. Vincent is present, and my poor Clarence absent. Proximity is such a dangerous advantage, even with the wisest of us. The absent lose favour so quickly in Cupid's court, as in all courts, and they are such victims to false reports and vile slanderers. Belinda sighed. Thank you for that, sigh, my dear, said Lady Delacorte. May I ask, would you, if you discovered that Mr. Vincent had a Virginia, discard him for ever from your thoughts? If I discovered that he had deceived and behaved dishonorably to any woman, I certainly should banish him for ever from my regard. With as much ease as you banished Clarence Harvey? With more, perhaps. Then you acknowledge, that's all I want, that you liked Clarence better than you do, Vincent. I acknowledge it, said Belinda, colouring up to her temples. But that time is entirely past, and I never look back to it. But if you were forced to look back to it, my dear, if Clarence Harvey proposed for you, would not you cast a lingering look behind? Let me beg of you, my dear Lady Delacorte, as my friend, cried Belinda, speaking and looking with great earnestness. Let me beg of you to forbear. Do not use your powerful influence over my heart to make me think of what I ought not to think, or do what I ought not to do. I have permitted Mr. Vincent to address me. You cannot imagine that I am so base as to treat him with duplicity, or that I consider him only as my pizale. No, I have treated. I will treat him honourably. He knows exactly the state of my mind. He shall have a fair trial whether he can win my love. The moment I am convinced that he cannot succeed, I will tell him so decidedly. But if ever I should feel for him that affection which is necessary for my happiness and his, I hope I shall, without fear, even of Lady Delacorte's ridicule or displeasure, avow my sentiments and abide by my choice. My dear, I admire you, said Lady Delacorte, but I am incorrigible. I am not fit to hear myself convinced. After all, I am impelled by the genius of imprudence to tell you that, in spite of Mr. Percival's cure for first loves, I consider love as a distemper that can be had but once. As you acknowledge that you are not fit to hear yourself convinced, said Belinda, I will not argue this point with you. But you will allow, said Lady Delacorte, as it is said or sung in Cupid's calendar, that a peu d'amour, un peu de soins, mène souvent un cœur bien loin, and she broke off the conversation by singing that beautiful French air. CHAPTER XXIV The only interest that honest people can take in the fate of rogues is in their detection and punishment. The reader, then, will be so far interested in the fate of Mr. Shumford as to feel some satisfaction at his being safely lodged in Newgate. The circumstance which led to this desirable catastrophe was the anonymous letter to Mr. Vincent. From the first moment that Marriott saw or heard of the letter, she was convinced, she said, that Mr. Shumford was at the bottom of it. Lady Delacorte was equally convinced that Harriet Freak was the author of the epistle, and she supported her opinion by observing that Shumford could neither write nor spell English. Marriott and her lady were both right. It was a joint or rather a triplicate performance. Shumford, in conjunction with the stupid maid, furnished the intelligence which Mrs. Freak manufactured, and when she had put the whole into proper style and form, Mr. Shumford got her rough draft fairly copied at his leisure and transmitted his copy to Mr. Vincent. Now all of this was discovered by a very slight circumstance. The letter was copied by Mr. Shumford upon a sheet of morning paper, of which he thought he had carefully cut the edges, but one bit of the black edge remained, which did not escape Marriott's scrutinizing eye. Lord bless my stars, my lady, she exclaimed. This must be the paper. I mean, may be the paper, that Mr. Shumford was cutting a choir of, the very day before Miss Portman left town. It's a great while ago, but I remember it as well as if it was yesterday. I saw a parcel of black jags of paper littering the place and asked what had been going on, and was told that it was only Mr. Shumford who had been cutting some paper, which, to be sure, I concluded my Lord had given to him, having no further occasion for, as my Lord, and you, my lady, were just going out of morning at that time, as you may remember. Lord Delacour, when the paper was shown to him, recognized it immediately by a private mark which he had put on the outside sheet of a division of letter paper, which, indeed, he had never given to Shumford, but which he had missed about the time Marriott mentioned. Between the leaves of this paper his lordship had put, as it was often his practice, some bank notes, they were notes of but small value, and when he missed them he was easily persuaded by Shumford that, as he had been much intoxicated the preceding evening, he had thrown them away with some useless papers. He rummaged through his writing-desk in vain, and then gave up the search. It was true that on this very occasion he gave Shumford the remainder of some morning paper which he had no scruple, therefore, of producing openly, certain that he could swear to his own private mark, and that he could identify his notes by their numbers, etc., of which he had luckily a memorandum. Delacour, enraged to find himself both robbed and duped by a favourite servant in whom he had placed implicit confidence, was effectually roused from his natural indolence. He took such active and successful measures that Mr. Shumford was committed to jail to take his trial for the robbery. To make peace for himself he confessed that he had been instigated by Mrs. Freak to get the anonymous letter written. This lady was now suffering just punishment for her follicks, and Lady Delacour thought her fallen so much below indignation that she advised Belinda to take no manner of notice of her conduct, except by simply returning the letter to her with Miss Portman's Mr. Vincent's and Lord and Lady Delacour's compliments and thanks to a sincere friend who had been the means of bringing villainy to justice. So much for Mrs. Freak and Mr. Shumford, who both together scarcely deserve an episode of Ten Lines. Now to return to Mr. Vincent. Animated by fresh hope he pressed his suit with Belinda, with all the ardour of his sanguine temper, though little disposed to fear any future evil, especially in the midst of present felicity, he was aware of the danger that might ensue to him from Clarence Hervey's arrival. He was therefore impatient for the intermediate day to pass, and it was with heartfelt joy that he saw the carriages at last at the door which were actually to convey them to Oakley Park. Mr. Vincent, who had all the West Indian love for magnificence, had upon this occasion an extremely handsome acupache. Lady Delacour, though she was disappointed by Clarence Hervey's not appearing, did not attempt to delay their departure. She contented herself with leaving a note to be delivered to him on his arrival, which, she would still fluttered herself, would induce him immediately to go to Harrogate. The trunks were fastened upon the carriages, the imperial was carrying out, Marriott was full of world of business, Lord Delacour was looking at his horses as usual, Helena was patting Mr. Vincent's great dog, and Belinda was rallying her lover upon his taste for the pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious travelling. When an express arrived from Oakley Park, it was to delay their journey for a few weeks. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne wrote word that they were unexpectedly called from home by blank. Lady Delacour did not stay to read by what or by whom, she was so much delighted by this reprieve. Mr. Vincent bore the disappointment as well as could be expected, particularly when Belinda observed, to comfort him, that the mind is its own place, and that hers, she believed, would be the same at Twickenham as at Oakley Park. Nor did she give him any reason to regret that she was not immediately under the influence of his own friends. The dread of being unduly biased by Lady Delacour, and the strong desire Belinda felt to act honourably by Mr. Vincent, to show him that she was not trifling with his happiness, that she was incapable of the meanness of retaining a lover as a bisallé, or motives which acted more powerfully in his favour than all that even Lady Anne Percival could have looked or said. The contrast between the openness and decision of his conduct towards her, and Clarence Harvey's vacillation and mystery, the belief that Mr. Harvey was, or ought to be, attached to another woman, the conviction that Mr. Vincent was strongly attached to her, and that he possessed many of the good qualities essential to her happiness, operated every day more and more strongly upon Belinda's mind. Where was Clarence Harvey all this time? Lady Delacour, alas, could not divine. She every morning was certain that he would appear that day, and every night she was forced to acknowledge her mistake. No inquiries, and she had made all that could be made, by address and perseverance, no inquiries could clear up the mystery of Virginia and Mrs. Ormond, and her impatience to see her friend Clarence every hour increased. She was divided between her confidence in him and her affection for Belinda, unwilling to give him up, yet afraid to injure her happiness, or to offend her by injudicious advice and improper interference. One thing kept Lady Delacour for some time in spirits. Miss Portman's assurance that she would not bind herself by any promise or engagement to Mr. Vincent, even when decided in his favor, and that she should hold both of him and herself perfectly free till they were actually married. This was according to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival's principles, and Lady Delacour was never tired of expressing directly or indirectly her admiration of the prudence and propriety of their doctrine. Lady Delacour recollected her own promise to give her sincere congratulations to the victorious night, and she endeavored to treat Mr. Vincent with impartiality. She was, however, now still less inclined to like him from a discovery which she accidentally made of his being still upon good terms with odious Mrs. Lutridge. Helena one morning was playing with Mr. Vincent's large dog, of which he was excessively fond. It was called Juba, after his faithful servant. Helena, my dear, said Lady Delacour, take care, don't trust your hand in that creature's monstrous mouth. I can assure your ladyship, cried Mr. Vincent, that he is the very quietest and best creature in the world. No doubt, said Belinda, smiling, since he belongs to you. For you know, as Mr. Percival tells you, everything animate or inanimate that is under your protection, you think must be the best of its kind in the universe. But really, Juba is the best creature in the world, repeated Mr. Vincent, with great eagerness. Juba is, without exception, the best creature in the universe. Juba the dog, or Juba the man, said Belinda, you know they cannot be both the best creatures in the universe. Well, Juba the man is the best man, and Juba the dog is the best dog in the universe, said Mr. Vincent, laughing, with his usual candour at his own foible, when it was pointed out to him. But seriously, Lady Delacour, you'd need not be in the least afraid to trust Miss Delacour with this poor fellow, for, do you know, during a whole month that I lent him to Mrs. Lutridge at Harrogate, she used constantly to let him sleep in the room with her, and now, whenever he sees her, he licks her hand as gently as if he were a lapdog, and it was but yesterday, when I had him there. She declared he was more gentle than any lapdog in London. But the name of Lutridge, Lady Delacour, changed countenance, and she continued silent for some time. Mr. Vincent, attributing her sudden seriousness to dislike or fear of his dog, took him out of the room. My dear Lady Delacour, said Belinda, observing that she still retained an air of displeasure, I hope your antipathy to odious Mrs. Lutridge does not extend to everybody who visits her. Couteau Contraire cried Lady Delacour, starting from her reverie, and assuming a playful manner. I have made a general jail delivery of all my old hatreds, and even odious Mrs. Lutridge, though a hardened offender, must be included in this act of grace. So you need not fear that Mr. Vincent should fall under my royal displeasure for consorting with this state criminal. Though I can't sympathise with him, I forgive him, both for liking that great dog and that little woman, especially, as I shrewdly suspect, that he likes the lady's E. O. table better than the lady. E. O. table! Good heavens! You did not imagine Mr. Vincent. Nay, my dear, don't look so terribly alarmed. I assure you, I did not mean to hint that there was any serious improper attachment to the E. O. table, only a little flotation, perhaps, to which his passion for you has doubtless put a stop. I'll ask him the moment I see him, cried Belinda. If he is fond of play, I know he used to play at Billiards at Oakley Park, but merely as an amusement, games of address are not to be put upon a same footing with games of hazard. A man may, however, contrive to lose a good deal of money at Billiards, as poor Lord Delacour can tell you. But I beseech you, my dear, do not betray me to Mr. Vincent. Ten to one I am mistaken, for his great dog put me out of humor. But with such a doubt upon my mind, unsatisfied, it shall be satisfied. Lord Delacour shall make inquiries for me. Lord Delacour shall make inquiries, did I say? Will, I should have said. If Shumford had heard me, to what excellent account he might have turned that unlucky shall. What a nice grammarian a woman had need to be, who would live well with a husband inferior to her in understanding. With a superior or an equal, she might use shall or will as inaccurately as she pleases. Just privilege! How I shall envy it you, my dear Belinda! But how can you ever hope to enjoy it? Where is your superior? Where is your equal? Mr. Vincent, who had by this time seen his dog-fed, which was one of his daily pleasures, returned, and politely assured Lady Delacour, that Juba should not again intrude. To make her peace with Mr. Vincent, and to drive the E.O. table from Belinda's thoughts, her ladyship now turned the conversation from Juba the dog to Juba the man. She talked of Harriet Freak's phosphoric Obeyah woman, of whom she said she had heard an account from Miss Portman. From thence she went on to the African slave trade, by way of contrast, and she finished precisely where she intended, and where Mr. Vincent could have wished, by praising a poem called The Dying Negro, which he had the preceding evening brought to read to Belinda. This praise was peculiarly agreeable, because he was not perfectly sure of his own critical judgment, and his knowledge of English literature was not as extensive as Clarence Hervey's, a circumstance which Lady Delacour had discovered one morning when they went to see Pope's famous villa at Twickenham. Led by her present confirmation of his taste, Mr. Vincent readily complied with the request to read the poem to Belinda. They were all deeply engaged by the charms of poetry when they were suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Clarence Hervey. The book dropped from Vincent's hand the instant he heard his name. Lady Delacour's eyes sparkled with joy. Belinda's colour rose, but her countenance maintained an expression of calm dignity. Mr. Hervey, upon his first entrance, appeared prepared to support an air of philosophic composure, which forsook him before he had walked across the room. He seemed overpowered by the kindness with which Lady Delacour received his congratulations on her recovery, struck by the reserve of Belinda's manner, but not surprised or displeased at the sight of Mr. Vincent. On the contrary, he desired immediately to be introduced to him, with an air of a man resolute to cultivate his friendship. Provoked and perplexed, Lady Delacour, in a tone of mingled reproach and astonishment, exclaimed, Though you have not done me the honour, Mr. Hervey, to take any other notice of my last letter, I am to understand, I presume, by the manner in which you desire me to introduce you to our friend Mr. Vincent, that it has been received. Received, good heavens, have you not had my answer? cried Clarence Hervey, with a voice and look of extreme surprise and emotion. Has not your ladyship received a packet? I have had no packet. I have had no letter. Mr. Vincent, do me the favour to ring the bell, cried Lady Delacour, eagerly. I'll know this instant what's become of it. Your ladyship must have thought me, and as he spoke his eye involuntarily glanced towards Belinda. No matter what I thought you, cried Lady Delacour, who forgave him everything for this single glance. If I did you a little injustice, Clarence, when I was angry, you must forgive me, for, I assure you, I do you a great deal of justice at other times. Did any letter or any packet come here for me? Inquire, inquire, said she, impatiently, to the servant who came in. No letter or packet was to be heard of. It had been directed, Mr. Harvey now remembered, to her ladyship's house in town. She gave orders to have it immediately sent for, but scarcely had she given them when, turning to Mr. Harvey, she laughed and said, A very foolish compliment to you and your letter. For you certainly can speak as well as you can write. Nay, better, I think, though you don't write ill, neither. But you can tell me, in two words, what in writing would take half a volume. Leave this gentleman and lady to the dying negro, and let me hear your two words in Lord Delacour's dressing-room, if you please, said she, opening the door of an adjoining apartment. Lord Delacour will not be jealous if he finds you tet-a-tet with me, I promise you. But you shall not be compelled, you look. I look, said Mr. Harvey, effecting to laugh, as if I felt the impossibility of putting half a volume into two words. It is a long story, and I must wait for the packet, whether I will or no. Well, be it so, said Lady Delacour. Struck with the extreme perturbation into which she was thrown, she pressed him with no further railery, but instantly attempted to change the conversation to general subjects. Again she had recourse to the dying negro. Mr. Vincent, to whom she now addressed herself, said, For my part I neither have nor pretend to have much critical taste, but I admire in this poem the manly, energetic spirit of virtue which it breathes. From the poem an easy transition was made to the author, and Clarence Hervey, exerting himself to join in the conversation, observed that this writer, Mr. Day, was an instance that genuine eloquence must spring from the heart. Cicero was certainly right, continued he, addressing himself to Mr. Vincent in his definition of a great orator, to make it one of the first requisites that he should be a good man. Mr. Vincent coldly replied, This definition would exclude too many men of superior talents to be easily admitted. Perhaps the appearance of virtue, said Belinda, might on many occasions succeed as well as the reality. Yes, if the man be as good an actor as Mr. Hervey, said Lady Delacorte, and if he suit the action to the word, the word to the action. Belinda never raised her eyes whilst her ladyship uttered these words. Mr. Vincent was, or seemed to be, so deeply engaged in looking for something in the book, which he held in his hand, that he could take no farther part in the conversation, and a dead silence ensued. Lady Delacorte, who was naturally impatient in the extreme, especially in the vindication of her friends, could not bear to see, as she did by Belinda's countenance, that she had not forgotten Marriott's story of Virginia Saint-Pierre. And though her ladyship was convinced that the packet would clear up all mysteries, yet she could not endure that even in the interim poor Clarence should be unjustly suspected. Nor could she refrain from trying an expedient, which just occurred to her, to satisfy herself and everybody present. She was the first to break silence. To do ye justice, my friends, you are all good company this morning. Mr. Vincent is excusable, because he is in love, and Belinda is excusable, because Mr. Hervey pray help me to an excuse for misportment's stupidity, for I am dreadfully afraid of blundering out the truth. But why do I ask you to help me? In your present condition you seem totally unable to help yourself. Not a word. Run over the common places of conversation. Whether, fashion, scandal, dress, deaths, marriages, will none of these do? As then you were to entertain me with other people's thoughts, since you have none of your own unpacked, forfeit to arbitrary power, continued her ladyship, playfully seizing Mr. Vincent's book. I have always observed that none submit with so good a grace to arbitrary power from our sex, as your true men of spirit, who would shed the last drop of their blood to resist it from one of their own. Unconsistent creatures, the best of you! So read this charming little poem to us, Mr. Hervey, will you? He was going to begin immediately, but Lady Delacorte put her hand upon the book and stopped him. Stay! Though I am tyrannical, I will not be treacherous. I warn you, then, that I have imposed upon you a difficult, dangerous task. If you have any sins unwipped of justice, there are lines which I defy you to read without faltering. Listen to the preface. Her ladyship began as follows. Mr. Day, indeed, retained during all the period of his life, as might be expected from his character, a strong detestation of female seduction. Happening to see some verses written by a young lady on a recent event of this nature, which was succeeded by a fatal catastrophe, the unhappy young woman who had been a victim to the perfidy of a lover, overpowered by her sensibility of shame, having died of a broken heart, he expresses his sympathy with the fair poetess in the following manner. Lady Delacorte paused and fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey. He, with all the appearance of conscious innocence, received the book without hesitation from her hands, and read aloud the lines to which she pointed. Swear by the dread avengers of the tomb, by all thy hopes, by death's tremendous gloom, that near by thee deceived the tender maid shall mourn her easy confidence betrayed, nor weep in secret the triumphant art, with bitter anguish rankling in her heart. So may each blessing, which impartial fate, throws on the good, but snatches from the great. Adorn thy favourite course with raised divine, and heaven's best gift, a virtuous love, be thine. Mr. Harvey read these lines with so much unaffected, unembarrassed energy, that Lady Delacorte could not help casting a triumphant look at Belinda, which said, or seemed to say, you see, I was right in my opinion of Clarence. Had Mr. Vincent been left to his own observations, he would have seen the simple truth, but he was alarmed and deceived by Lady Delacorte's imprudent expressions of joy, and by the significant looks that she gave her friend Miss Portman, which seemed to be looks of mutual intelligence. He scarcely dared to turn his eyes towards his mistress, or upon him whom he thought his rival. But he kept them anxiously fixed upon her ladyship, in whose face, as in a glass, he seemed to study everything that was passing. Harry, have you ever played at chess since we saw you last, said Lady Delacorte to Clarence? I hope you do not forget that you are my knight. I do not forget it, I assure you. I own you as my knight to all the world, in public and private. Do not I, Belinda? A dark cloud overspread Mr. Vincent's brow. He listened not to Belinda's answer. Used with a transport of jealousy, he darted at Mr. Hervey a glance of mingled scorn and rage, and, after saying a few unintelligible words to Miss Portman and Lady Delacorte, he left the room. Clarence Hervey, who seemed afraid to trust himself longer with Belinda, withdrew a few minutes afterwards. My dear Belinda exclaimed Lady Delacorte the moment he was out of the room. How glad I am he is gone, that I may say all the good I think of him. In the first place Clarence Hervey loves you. Never was I so fully convinced of it as this day. Why had we not that letter of his sooner? That will explain all to us. But I ask for no explanation, I ask for no letter, to confirm my opinion, my conviction, that he loves you. On this point I cannot be mistaken. He fondly loves you. He fondly loves her? Yes, to be sure. I could have told you that news long ago, cried the dowager Lady Boucher, who was in the room before they were aware of her entrance. They had been both so eager, the one listening and the other speaking. Fondly loves her, repeated the dowager. Yes, and no secret, I promise you, Lady Delacorte. And then, turning to Belinda, she began a congratulatory speech upon the report of her approaching marriage with Mr. Vincent. Belinda absolutely denied the truth of this report, but the dowager continued, I distress you, I see, and it's quite out of rule, I am sensible to speak in this sort of way, Miss Portman. But as I am an old acquaintance, and an old friend, and an old woman, you'll excuse me. I can't help saying I feel quite rejoiced at your meeting with such a match. Belinda again attempted to declare that she was not going to be married, but the invincible dowager went on. Every way eligible, and every way agreeable, a charming young man I hear, Lady Delacorte. I see I must only speak to you, or I shall make Miss Portman sink to the centre of the earth, which I would not wish to do, especially at such a critical moment as this. A charming young man I hear, with a noble West Indian fortune, and a noble spirit, and well-connected, and passionately in love, no wonder. But I have done now, I promise you. I'll ask no questions, so don't run away, Miss Portman. I'll ask no questions, I promise you. To ensure the performance of the promise, Lady Delacorte asked what news there was in the world. This question she knew would keep the dowager in delightful employment. I live quite out of the world here, but since Lady Boucher has the charity to come to see me, we shall hear all the secrets worth knowing from the best authority. Then the best piece of news I have for you is that my Lord and my Lady Delacorte are absolutely reconciled, and that they are the happiest couple that ever lived. All very true, replied Lady Delacorte. True, repeated Lady Boucher, why, my dear Lady Delacorte, you amaze me. Are you in earnest? Was there ever any thing so provoking? There have I been contradicting the report wherever I went, for I was convinced that the whole story was a mistake and a fabrication. The history of the reformation might not be exact, but the reformation itself your ladyship may depend upon, since you hear it from my own lips. Well, how amazing! How incredible! Lord bless me! But your ladyship certainly is not in earnest, for you look just the same and speak just in the same sort of way. I see no alteration, I confess. And what alteration, my good Lady Boucher, did you expect to see? Did you think that by way of being exemplarily virtuous, I should, like Lady Blank, let my sentences come out of my mouth only at the rate of a word a minute, like my new drops from the eaves? Or did you expect that in hopes of being a pattern for the rising generation, I should hold my feature in penance immovably? Thus, like some of the poor ladies of Antigua, who, after they have blistered their faces all over to get a fine complexion, are forced, while the new skin is coming, to sit without speaking, smiling, or moving muscle or feature, lest an indelible wrinkle should be the consequence. Lady Boucher was impatient to have this speech finished, for she had a piece of news to tell. Well, she cried, there's no knowing what to believe or disbelieve, one hears so many strange reports. But I have a piece of news for you that you may all depend upon. I have one secret worth knowing. I can tell your ladyship, and one, your ladyship, and Miss Portman, I'm sure, will be rejoiced to hear. Your friend, Clarence Hervey, is going to be married. Married? Married! cried Lady Delacour. I, I, your ladyship, may look as much astonished as you please. You cannot be more so than I was when I heard it. Clarence Hervey, Miss Portman, that was looked upon so completely, you know, as not a marrying man, and now the last man upon earth that your ladyship would suspect of marrying in this sort of way. In what sort of way? My dear Belinda, how can you stand this fire, said Lady Delacour, placing a screen dexterously to hide her face from the dowager's observation? Now only guess whom he is going to marry, continued Lady Boucher. Whom do you guess, Miss Portman? An amiable woman, I should guess, from Mr Hervey's general character, cried Lady Delacour. Oh, an amiable woman, I take for granted. Every woman is amiable, of course, as the newspapers tell us, when she is going to be married, said the dowager. An amiable woman, to be sure, but that means nothing. I have not had a guess from Miss Portman. From general character Belinda began in a constrained voice. Do not guess from general character, my dear Belinda, interrupted Lady Delacour, for there is no judging in these cases from general character of what people will like or dislike. Then I will leave it to your ladyship to guess this time, if you please, said Belinda. You will neither of you guess till doomsday, cried the dowager. I must tell you, Mr Hervey's going to marry, in the strangest sort of way, a girl that nobody knows, a daughter of a Mr Hartley. The father can give her a good fortune, it is true, but one should not have supposed that fortune was an object with Mr Hervey, who has such a noble one of his own. It's really difficult to believe it. So difficult that I find it quite impossible, said Lady Delacour, with an incredulous smile. Depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour, said the dowager, laying the convincing weight of her arm upon her ladyships. Depend upon it, my dear Lady Delacour, that my information is correct. Guess whom I had it from? Willingly, but first let me tell you that I have seen Mr Hervey within this half-hour, and I never saw a man look less like a bridegroom. Indeed, well I've heard, too, that he didn't like the match. But what a pity, when you saw him yourself this morning, that you didn't get all the particulars out of him. But let him look like what he will, you'll find that my information is perfectly correct. Guess whom I had it from? From Mrs Margaret Delacour. It was at her house that Clarence Hervey first met Mr Hartley, who, as I mentioned, is the father of the young lady. There was a charming scene and some romantic story about his finding the girl in a cottage, and calling her Virginia something or other. But I didn't clearly understand about that. However, this much is certain, that the girl, as her father told Mrs Delacour, is desperately in love with Mr Hervey, and they are to be married immediately. Depend upon it, you'll find my information correct. Good morning to you. Lord bless me, now I recollect, I once heard that Mr Hervey was a great admirer of Miss Portman, said the Dowager. The inquisitive Dowager, whose curiosity was put upon a new scent, simply fastened her eyes upon Belinda's face. But from that she could make out nothing. Was it because she had not the best eyes, or because there was nothing to be seen? To determine this question she looked through her glass, to make a clear review. But Lady Delacour drew off her attention, by suddenly exclaiming, My dear Lady Boucher, when you go back to town, do send me a bottle of concentrated anima of Quassia? Ah, ah, have I made a convert of you at last, said the Dowager, and, satisfied with the glory of this conversion, she departed. Admire my knowledge of human nature, my dear Belinda, said Lady Delacour. Now she will talk, at the next place she goes to, of nothing but my faith in anima of Quassia, and she will forget to make a gossiping story out of that most imprudent hint I gave her about Clarence Herveys having been an admirer of yours. Do not leave the room, Belinda. I have a thousand things to say to you, my dear. Excuse me at present, my dear Lady Delacour. I am impatient to write a few lines to Mr. Vincent. He went away in a fit of jealousy, and I am glad of it. And I am sorry for it, said Belinda. Sorry that he should have so little confidence in me as to feel jealousy without cause. Without sufficient cause, I should say, for certainly your ladyship gave pain by the manner in which you received Mr. Herveys. Lord, my dear, you would spoil any man upon earth. You could not act more foolishly if the man were your husband. Are you privately married to him? If you be not, for my sake, for your own. For Mr. Vincent's, do not write till we see the contents of Clarence Herveys packet. It can make no alteration in what I write, said Belinda. Well, my dear, write what you please, but I only hope you will not send your letter till the packet arrives. Pardon me. I shall send it as soon as I possibly can. The dear delight of giving pain does not suit my taste. Lady Delacour, as soon as she was left alone, began to reconsider the Dowager's story. Notwithstanding her unbelieving smile, it alarmed her, for she could not refuse to give it some degree of credit when she learned that Mrs. Margaret Delacour was the authority from whom it came. Mrs. Delacour was a woman of scrupulous veracity, and rigid in her dislike to gossiping, so that it was scarcely probable a report originating with her, however it might be altered by the way, should prove to be totally void of foundation. The name of Virginia coincided with Sir Philip Badley's hints, and with Marriott's discoveries. These circumstances considered Lady Delacour knew not what opinion to form, and her eagerness to receive Mr. Herveys packet every moment increased. She walked up and down the room, looked at her watch, fancied that it had stopped, held it to her ear, ran the bell every quarter of an hour to inquire whether the messenger was not yet come back. At last the long-expected packet arrived. She seized it and hurried with it immediately to Belinda's room. Clarence Herveys packet, my love, now woe be to the person who interrupts us! She bolted the door she spoke, rolled an armchair to the fire. Now for it said she, seating herself, the devil upon two sticks, if he were looking down upon me from the housetop, or Shumford, who is the worst devil of the two, would, if he were peeping through the keyhole, swear I was going to open a love-letter. And so I hope I am. Now for it cried she, breaking the seal. My dear friend said Belinda, laying her hand upon Lady Delacour's. Before we open this packet, let me speak to you, whilst our minds are calm. Calm! It is the strangest time for your mind to be calm, but I must not affront you by my incredulity. Speak then, but be quick, for I do not pretend to be calm. It is not being, thank my stars, mon métier d'être philosoph. Crack goes the last seal, speak now or for ever after, hold your tongue, my calm philosopher of Oakley Park. But do you wish me to attend to what you are going to say? Yes, replied Belinda, smiling, that is the usual wish of those who speak. Very true, and I can listen tolerably well when I don't know what people are going to say, but when I know it all beforehand I have an unfortunate habit of not being able to attend to one word. Now my dear, let me anticipate your speech, and if my anticipation be wrong, then you shall rise to explain, and I will, said she, putting her finger on her lips, listen to you, like Hippocrates, without moving an eyelash. Belinda, as the most certain way of being heard, consented to hear before she spoke. I will tell you, pursued Lady Delacour, if not what you are going to say to me, at least what you say to yourself, which is fully as much to the purpose. You say to yourself, let this packet of Clarence Hervey contain what it may, it comes too late. Let him say, or let him do, it is all the same to me, because, now for the reasoning, because things have gone so far with Mr. Vincent, that Lady Anne Percival, and all the world, at Oakley Park, will blame me if I retract. In short, things have gone so far that I cannot recede, because things have gone so far. This is the rondo of your argument. Nay, hear me out, then you shall have your turn, my dear, for an hour, if you please. What things have gone ever so far, they can't stop, and turn about again, cannot they? Lady Anne Percival is your friend, of course, can wish only for your happiness. You think that she is the thing that's most uncommon, a reasonable woman. Then she cannot be angry with you for being happy your own way. So I need not, as the orators say, labour this point any more. Now as to your aunt, the fear of displeasing Mrs. Stanhope, a little more or less, is not to be put in competition with the hope of your happiness for life, especially as you can contrive to exist some months in a state of utter excommunication from her favour. After all, you know she will not grieve for anything but the loss of Mr. Vincent's fortune, and Mr. Herve's fortune might do as well, or almost as well. At least she may compound with her pride for the difference by considering that an English member of parliament is, in the eyes of the world, the only eyes with which she sees, a better connection than the son of a West India planter, even though he may be a protege of Lady Anne Percival. Bear me your indignation, my dear. What a look was there. Reasoning for Mrs. Stanhope must not I reason, as Mrs. Stanhope does. Now I will put this stronger still. Suppose that you had actually acknowledged that Mr. Vincent had got beyond esteem with you. Suppose that you had in due form consented to marry him. Suppose that preparations were, at this moment, making for the wedding. Even in that desperate case, I should say to you, you are not a girl to marry because your wedding gown is made up. Some few guineas are thrown away, perhaps. Do not throw away your whole happiness after them. That would be sorry, economy. Trust me, my dear, I should say, as I have to you in time of need. Or if you fear to be obliged to one who never was afraid of being obliged to you, tend to one the preparations for a wedding, though not the wedding, may be necessary immediately. No matter to Mrs. Franks who the bridegroom may be, so that her bill be paid, she would not care the turning of a feather whether it be paid by Mrs. Vincent or Mrs. Hervey. I hope I have convinced. I am sure I have made you blush, my dear, and that is some satisfaction. A blush, at this moment, is an earnest of victory. Lo triomphe! Now I will open my packet, my hand shall not be held an instant longer. I absolve you from the penance of hearing me for an hour, but I claim your promise to attend to me for a few minutes, my dear friend, said Belinda. I thank you most sincerely for your kindness, and let me assure you that I should not hesitate to accept from you any species of obligation. Thanks, thanks, there's a dear good girl, my own Belinda. But indeed you totally misunderstand me. Your reasoning? Show me the fault of it. I challenge all the logic of all the Percivals. Your reasoning is excellent if your facts were not taken for granted. You have taken it for granted that Mr. Hervey is in love with me. No, said Lady Delacorte, I take nothing for granted, as you will find when I open this packet. You have taken it for granted, continued Belinda, that I am still secretly attached to him. And you have taken it for granted that I am restrained only by fear of Lady Anne Percival, my aunt, and the world, from breaking off with Mr. Vincent. If you will read the letter which I was writing to him when you came into the room, perhaps you will be convinced of your mistake. Read a letter to Mr. Vincent at such a time as this, then I will go and read my packet in my own room, cried Lady Delacorte, rising hastily with evident displeasure. Not even your displeasure, my dear friend, said Belinda, can alter my determination to behave with consistency and openness towards Mr. Vincent, and I can bear your anger, for I know it arises from your regard for me. I never loved you so little as at this instant, Belinda. You will do me justice when you are cool. Cool, repeated Lady Delacorte, as she was about to leave the room. I never wished to be as cool as you are, Belinda. So, after all, you love Mr. Vincent, you'll marry Mr. Vincent. I never said so, replied Belinda. You have not read my letter. Oh, Lady Delacorte, at this instant you should not reproach me. I did you injustice, cried Lady Delacorte, as she now looked at Belinda's letter. Send it, send it. You have said the very thing you ought, and now sit down with me to this packet of Clarence Hervey's. Be just to him as you are to Mr. Vincent. That's all I ask. Give him a fair hearing. Now for it. Chapter 26 Part 1 Virginia Clarence Hervey's packet contained a history of his connection with Virginia Saint-Pierre. To save our hero from the charge of egotism, we shall relate the principal circumstances in the third person. It was about a year before he had seen Belinda that Clarence Hervey returned from his travels. He had been in France just before the Revolution, when luxury and dissipation were at their height in Paris, and when a universal spirit of licentious gallantry prevailed. Some circumstances in which he was personally interested disgusted him strongly with the Parisian bells. He felt that women who were full of vanity, affectation and artifice, whose tastes were perverted and whose feelings were depraved, were equally incapable of conferring or enjoying real happiness. Whilst this conviction was full in his mind, he read the works of Rousseau. This eloquent writer's sense made its full impression upon Clarence's understanding, and his declamations produced more than their just effect upon an imagination naturally ardent. He was charmed with a picture of Sophia, when contrasted with the characters of the women of the world with whom he had been disgusted, and he formed the romantic project of educating a wife for himself. Full of this idea he returned to England, determined to carry his scheme immediately into execution, but was sometime delayed by the difficulty of finding a proper object for his purpose. It was easy to meet with beauty and distress and ignorance in poverty, but it was difficult to find simplicity without vulgarity, ingenuity without cunning or even ignorance without prejudice. It was difficult to meet with an understanding totally uncultivated yet likely to reward the labour of late instruction, a heart wholly unpracticed yet full of sensibility, capable of all the enthusiasm of passion, the delicacy of sentiment, and the firmness of rational constancy. It is not wonderful that Mr. Hervey, with such high expectations, should not immediately find them gratified. Disappointed in his first search he did not, however, relinquish his design, and at length by accident he discovered—or thought that he discovered—an object formed expressly for his purpose. One fine evening in autumn, as he was riding through the new forest, charmed with the picturesque beauties of the place, he turned out of the beaten road and struck into a fresh track, which he pursued with increasing delight till the setting sun reminded him that it was necessary to postpone his father's reflections on forest scenery, and that it was time to think of finding his way out of the wood. He was now in the most retired part of the forest, and he saw no path to direct him, but as he stopped to consider which way he should turn, a dog sprang from a thicket, barking furiously at his horse. His horse was high-spirited, but he was master of him, and he obliged the animal to stand quietly till the dog, having barked himself horse, retreated of his own accord. Clarence watched to see which way he would go, and followed him, in hopes of meeting with the person to whom he belonged. He kept his guide in sight till he came into a beautiful glade, in the midst of which was a neat but very small cottage, with numerous beehives in the garden, surrounded by a profusion of rose-trees which were in full bloom. This cultivated spot was strikingly contrasted with the wildness of the surrounding scenery. As he came nearer, Mr. Hervey saw a young girl watering the rose-trees, which grew around the cottage, and an old woman beside her filling a basket with the flowers. The old woman was like most other old women, except that she had a remarkably benevolent countenance, and an air that had been acquired in better days, but the young girl did not appear to Clarence like any other young girl that he had ever seen. The setting sun shone upon her countenance, the wind blew aside the ringlets of a light air, and the blush of modesty overspread her cheeks when she looked up at the stranger. In a large blue eyes there was an expression of artless sensibility, with which Mr. Hervey was so powerfully struck, that he remained for some moment silent, totally forgetting that he came to ask his way out of the forest. His hordes made so little noise upon the soft grass, that he was within a few yards of them before he was perceived by the old woman. As soon as she saw him, she turned abruptly to the young girl, put the basket of roses into her hand, and bid her carry them into the house. As she passed him, the girl, with a sweet innocent smile, held up the basket to Clarence, and offered him one of the roses. Go in, Rachel, go in, child, said the old woman, in so loud and severe a tone that both Rachel and Mr. Hervey started. The basket was overturned, and the roses all scattered upon the grass. Clarence, though he attempted some apology, was by no means concerned for the accident, as it detained Rachel some instance longer to collect her flowers, and gave him an opportunity of admiring her finely shaped hands and arms, and the ease and natural grace of her motions. Go in, Rachel, repeated the old woman, in a still more severe tone. Leave the roses there. I can pick them up as well as you, child. Go in. The girl looked at the old woman with astonishment, her eyes filled with tears, and, throwing down the roses that she held in her hand, she said, I am going, grandmother. The door closed after her, before Clarence recollected himself sufficiently to tell the old lady how he had lost his way, etc. Her severity vanished, as soon as her granddaughter was safe in the house, and with much readiness just showed him the road for which she inquired. As soon, however, as it was in his power, he returned thither, for he had taken such good note of the place, that he easily found his way to the spot, which appeared to him at a restful paradise. As he descended into the valley, he heard the humming of bees, but he saw no smoke rising from the cottage chimney, no dog-barg, no living creature was to be seen. The house door was shut, the window shut as closed, all was still. The place looked as if it had been deserted by all its inhabitants. The roses had not been watered, many of them had shed their leaves, and a basket half full of dead flowers was left in the middle of the garden. Clarence alighted, and tried the latch of the door, but it was fastened. He listened, but heard no sound. He walked round to the back of the house, a small lattice-window was half open, and as he went toward it, he thought he heard a low-moaning voice. He gently pulled aside the curtain, and peeped in at the window. The room was darkened, his eyes had been dazzled by the sun, so that he could not at first see any object distinctly, but he heard the moaning repeated at intervals, and a soft voice at last said, Oh, speak to me, speak to me once again, only once, only once again, speak to me. The voice came from a corner of the room to which he had not yet turned his eyes, and as he drew aside more of the curtain to let in more light, a figure started up from the side of a bed, at which he had been kneeling, and he saw the beautiful young girl, with her hair all dishevelled, and the strongest expression of grief in her countenance. He asked if he could do her any service. She beckoned to him to come in, and then, pointing to the bed, on which the old woman was stretched, said, She cannot speak to me, she cannot move one side. She has been so these three days, but she is not dead, she is not dead. The poor creature had been struck with a palsy. As Clarence went close to the bed, she opened her eyes, and fixing them upon him, she stretched out her withered hand, caught fast hold of her granddaughter, and then, raising herself with a violent effort, she pronounced the word, Begone. Her face grew black, her features convulsed, and she sunk down again in her bed, without power of utterance. Clarence left the house instantly, mounted his horse, and galloped to the next town for medical assistance. The poor woman was so far recovered by a skillful apothecary, that she could, in a few days, articulate so as to be understood. She knew that her end was approaching fast, and seemed piously resigned to her fate. Mr. Hervey went constantly to see her, but though grateful to him for his humanity, and for the assistance he had procured for her, yet she appeared agitated when he was in the room, and frequently looked at him and at her granddaughter with uncommon anxiety. At last she whispered something to the girl, who immediately left the room, and she then back into him to come closer to the arm-chain, which she was seated. "'Maybe, sir,' said she, "'you thought me out of my right mind, the day when I was lying on that bed, and said to you in such a peremptory tone, Begone. It was all I could say then, and in truth I cannot be quite plain yet, nor ever shall again, but God's will be done. I had only one thing to say to you, sir, about that poor girl of mine." Clarence listened to her with eagerness. She paused, and then, laying her cold hand upon his, she looked up earnestly in the space, and continued, "'You are a fine young gentleman, and you look like a good gentleman. But so did the man who broke the heart of a poor mother.' Her mother was carried off from a boarding school, when she was scarcely sixteen, by a wretch who, after privately marrying her, would not own his marriage, stayed with her but two years, then went abroad, left his wife and his infant, and has never been heard of since. My daughter died of a broken heart. Rachel was then between three and four years old, a beautiful child. God forgive her father. God's will be done.' She paused to subdue her emotion, and then, with some difficulty, proceeded, "'My only comfort is, I have bred Rachel up in innocence. I never sent her to a boarding school. No, no. From the moment of her birth till now I have kept her under my own eye. In this cottage she has lived with me, away from all the worlds. You are the first man she ever spoke to, the first man who ever was within these doors. She is innocence itself. O sir, as you hope for mercy when you are as I am now, spare the innocence of that poor child. Never, never come here after her, when I am dead and gone. Consider, she is but a child, sir. God never made a better creature. O promise me you will not be the ruin of my sweet innocent girl, and I shall die in peace." Clarence Hervey was touched. He instantly made the promise required of him, and as nothing less would satisfy the poor dying woman, confirmed it by a solemn oath. "'Now I am easy,' said she, "'quite easy, and may God bless you for it. In the village here there is a Mrs. Smith, a good farmer's wife who knows as well. She will see to have me decently buried, and then has promised to sell all the little I have for my girl, and to take care of her. And you'll never come near her more?' "'I did not promise that,' said Hervey. The old woman again looked much disturbed. "'Ah, good young gentleman,' said she, "'take my advice, it will be best for you both. If you see her again you will love her, sir. You can't help it. And if she sees you, poor thing, how innocently she smiled when she gave you the rose. Oh, sir, never come near her when I am gone. It is too late for me now to get her out of your way. This night, I am sure, will be my last in this world, or promise me you will never come here again.' "'After the oath I have taken,' replied Clarence, "'that promise would be unnecessary. Trust my honour.'" "'Honour! Oh, that was the word the gentleman said that betrayed her poor mother, and left her afterwards to die. Oh, sir, sir!' The violent emotion that she felt was too much for her. She fell back exhausted, never spoke more, and an hour afterwards she expired in the arms of her granddaughter. The poor girl could not believe that she had breathed her last. She made a sign to the surgeon, and to Clarence Hervey, who stood beside her, to be silent, and listened, fantasising that the corpse would breathe again. Then she kissed her cold lips and the shrubble cheeks and the eyelids that were closed for ever. She warmed the dead fingers with her breath. She raised the heavy arm, and when it fell she perceived there was no hope. She threw herself upon her knees. "'She is dead,' she exclaimed, and she has died without giving me her blessing. She can never bless me again.' They took her into the air, and Clarence Hervey sprinkled water upon her face. It was a fine night, and the fresh air soon brought her to her senses. He then said that he would leave her to the care of the surgeon, and ride to the village in search of that Mrs. Smith, who had promised to be her friend. "'And so you are going away from me, too,' said she, and she burst into tears. At the sight of these tears Clarence turned away and hurried from her. He sent the woman from the village, but returned no more that night. Her simplicity, sensibility, and, perhaps more than he was aware, her beauty, had pleased and touched him extremely. The idea of attaching a perfectly pure, disinterested, unpractised heart was delightful to his imagination. The cultivation of her understanding, he thought, would be an easy and a pleasing task. All difficulties vanished before his sanguine hopes. Sensibility, said he to himself, is the parent of great talents and great virtues, and evidently she possesses natural feeling in an uncommon degree. It shall be developed with skill, patience, and delicacy, and I will deserve before I claim my reward. The next day he returned to the cottage, accompanied by an elderly lady, a Mrs. Ormond. The same lady who afterward, to Marriott's prejudiced eyes, had appeared more like a dragon than anything else, but who, to this simple, unsuspicious girl, seemed like what she really was, a truly good-natured, benevolent woman. She consented, most readily, to put herself under the protection of Mrs. Ormond, provided Mrs. Smith would give her leave. There was no difficulty in persuading Mrs. Smith that it was for her advantage. Mrs. Smith, who was a plain farmer's wife, told all that she knew of Rachel's history, but all that she knew was little. She had heard only hints at odd times from the old woman. These agreed perfectly with what Mr. Hervey had already heard. The old gentlewoman, said Mrs. Smith, as I believe I should call her by rights, has lived in the forest there where you found her these many a year. She earned her subsistence by tending bees and making rose-water. She was a good soul, but very particular, especially about her granddaughter, which, considering all things, one cannot blame her for. She often told me she would never put Rachel to a boarding school, which I proved, seeing that she had no fortune, and it is the ruin of girls to my mind to be bred above their means. As it was of her mother, sir. Then she would never teach Rachel to write, for fear she should take to scrawling nonsense of love-letters, as her mother did before her. Now, sir, this I approve, too, for I don't much mind about book-learning myself, and I even thought it would have been as well if the girl had not learned to read, but that she did learn, and was always fond of. And I'm sure it was more plague than use two to her grandmother, for she was as particular about the books that the girl was to read, as about all the rest. She went farther than all that, sir, for she never would let the girl speak to a man, not a man ever entered the doors of the house. So she told me. And she told you true enough? But there I thought she was quite wrong, for seeing the girl must, sometime or other, speak to men, where was the use of her not learning to do it properly? Lord Mam continued Mrs. Smith, addressing herself to Miss Ormond. Lord Mam, though it is a sin to be remembering so much of the particularities of the dead, I must say there never was an old lady who had more scrupulosities than the deceased. I verily thought one day she would have gone into fits about a picture of a man that Rachel lit upon by accident, as if a picture had any sense to her to body. Now if it had been one of your naked pictures, there might have been some delicacy in her dislike to it, but it was no such thing but a very proper picture. A picture, Mam, of a young sea officer in his full uniform, quite proper Mam. It was his mother that left it with me, and I had it always in my own room, and the girl saw it and was mightily taken with it, being the first thing of the kind she had ever lit upon, and the old lady comes in and took on till I verily thought she was crazed. Lord, I really could not but laugh, but I checked myself, and the poor old soul's eyes filled with tears, which made me know she was thinking of a daughter that was dead. When I thought on her cause of a particularity about Rachel, I could not laugh any more at her strangeness. I promised the good old lady that day, in case of her death, to take care of a granddaughter, and I thought in my own mind that, in time to come, if one of my boys should take a fancy to her, I should make no objections, because she was always a good modest-behave girl, and I'm sure would make a good wife, though too delicate for hard country work. But as it pleases God to send you, Madam, and the good gentleman, to take the care of her, of my hands, I'm content it should be so, and I will sell every thing here for her honestly, and bring it to you, Madam, for poor Rachel. There was nothing that Rachel was anxious to carry away with her but a little bullfinch of which he was very fond. One and but one circumstance about Rachel stopped the current of Clarence Hervey's imagination, and this, consequently, was excessively disagreeable to him—her name. The name of Rachel he could not endure, and he thought it so unsuited to her that he could scarcely believe it belonged to her. He consequently resolved to change it as soon as possible. The first time that he beheld her he was struck with the idea that she resembled the description of Virginia in M. de Saint-Pierre's celebrated romance, and by this name he always called her from the hour that she quitted her cottage.