 Chapter 7 of Belinda. This is the LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by Evelyn Clark. Belinda by Maria Edgeworth. Chapter 7. Ways and Means. When Lady Delacour repeated to Miss Portman the message about simplicity of mind and dignity of character, she frankly said, Belinda, notwithstanding all this observe, I'm determined to retain Clarence Hervey among the number of my public worshippers during my life, which, you know, cannot last long. After I am gone, my dear, he'll be all your own, and of that I give you joy. Posthumous fame is a silly thing, but posthumous jealousy detestable. There was one part of the conversation between Mr. Hervey and her ladyship, which she, in her great discretion, did not immediately repeat to Miss Portman that part, which related to the horses. In this transaction, Belinda had no further share than having once, when her ladyship had the handsome horses brought for her to look at, assented to the opinion that they were the handsomest horses she ever beheld. Mr. Hervey, however gallantly he replied to her ladyship, was secretly vexed to find that Belinda had so little delicacy as to permit her name to be employed in such a manner. He repented having used the improper expression of dignity of mind, and he relapsed into his former opinion of Mrs. Stanhope's niece. A relapse is always more dangerous than the first disease. He sent home the horses to Lady Delacour the next day, and addressed Belinda, when he met her, with the air of a man of gallantry, who thought that his peace had been cheaply made. But in proportion as his manners became more familiar, hers grew more reserved. Lady Delacour rallied upon her prudery, but in vain, Clarence Hervey seemed to think that her ladyship had not fulfilled her part of the bargain. Is not smiling, he said, the epitaph always applied to peace? Yet I have not been able to obtain one smile from Miss Portman since I have been promised peace. Embarrassed by Mr. Hervey's reproaches, and provoked to find that Belinda was proof against all her railery, Lady Delacour grew quite ill-humored towards her. Belinda, unconscious of having given any just cause of offense, was unmoved, and her ladyship's embarrassment increased. At last, resuming all her former appearance of friendship and confidence, she suddenly exclaimed one night after she had flattered Belinda into high spirits. Do you know, my dear, that I have been so ashamed of myself for this past week that I have hardly dared to look you in the face? I am sensible. I was downright rude and cross to you one day, and ever since, I have been penitent. And, as all penitents are, very stupid and disagreeable, I am sure. But tell me you forgive my Caprice, and Lady Delacour will be herself again. It was not difficult to obtain Belinda's forgiveness. Indeed, continued Lady Delacour, you are too good, but then, in my own justification, I must say that I have more things to make me ill-humored than most people have. Now, my dear, that most obstinate of human beings, Lord Delacour, has reduced me to the most terrible situation. I have made Clarence Hervey by a pair of horses for me, and I cannot make my Lord Delacour pay for them. But I forgot to tell you that I took your name, not in vain, indeed, in this business. I told Clarence that up on condition he would do this job for me, you would forgive him for all his sins. And, nay, my dear, why do you look as if I had stabbed you in the heart? After all, I only drew upon your pretty mouth for a few smiles. Pray, let me see whether it has actually forgotten how to smile. Belinda was too vexed at this instance to understand railery. She was inspired by anger and unwanted courage and losing all fear of Lady Delacour's wit. She very seriously expostulated with her ladyship upon having, thus, used her name without her consent or knowledge. Belinda felt she was now in danger of being led into a situation which might be fatal to her reputation and her happiness. And she was more surprised at her ladyship when she recollected the history she had so lately heard of Harriet Freak and Colonel Lawless. You cannot but be sensible, Lady Delacour, said Belinda, that after the contempt I have heard Mr. Hervey express for matchmaking with Mrs. Stanhope's nieces, I should degrade myself by any attempts to attract his attention. No wit, no eloquence can change my opinion on this subject I cannot endure contempt. Very likely, no doubt, interrupted Lady Delacour, but if you would only open your eyes, which heroines make it a principle never to do, or else there would be an end of the novel, if you would only open your eyes, you would see that this man is in love with you. And whilst you are afraid of his contempt, he is a hundred times more afraid of yours, and as long as you are each of you, in fear of you know not what. You must excuse me if I indulge myself in a little wholesome relery. Belinda smiled. There now, one such smile is that, for Clarence Hervey and I am out of debt and danger, said Lady Delacour. Oh Lady Delacour, why? Why will you try your power over me in this manner? said Belinda. You know that I ought not to be persuaded to do what I am conscious is wrong. But a few days ago you told me yourself that Mr. Hervey is, is not a marrying man, and a woman of your penetration must see that, that he only means to flirt with me. I am not a match for Mr. Hervey in any respect. He is a man of wit and gallantry. I am unpracticed in the ways of the world. I was not educated by my aunt, Stan Hope. I have only been with her a few years. I wish I had never been with her in my life. I'll take care, Mr. Hervey shall know that, said Lady Delacour. But in the meantime I do think any fair appraiser of delicate distresses would decide that I am, all the circumstances considered, more to be pitied at this present moment than you are. For the catastrophe of the business evidently is that I must pay two hundred guineas for the horses, somehow or other. I can pay for them, exclaimed Belinda, and will with the greatest pleasure. I will not go to the birth night. My dress is not bespoke. Will two hundred guineas pay for the horses? Oh, take the money. Pay, Mr. Hervey, dear Lady Delacour, and it will be all right. You are a charming girl, said Lady Delacour, embracing her. But how can I answer for it to my conscience, or to your aunt, Stan Hope, if you don't appear on the birth night? That cannot be. My dear, besides, you know Mrs. Franks will send home your drawing room dressed today, and it would be so foolish to be presented for nothing, not to go to the birth night afterwards? If you say A, you must say B. Then, said Belinda, I will not go to the drawing room. Not go, my dear, what? Throw away fifty guineas for nothing? Really, I never saw anyone so lavish of her money and so economic of her smiles. Surely, said Miss Portman, it is better for me to throw away fifty guineas, poor as I am, than to hazard the happiness of my life. Your ladyship knows that if I say A to Mr. Hervey, I must say B. No, no, my dear Lady Delacour, here is the draught for two hundred guineas. Pay, Mr. Hervey, for heaven's sake, and there is an end of the business. What a positive child it is, well then. It shall not be forced to say the A, B, C of Cupid's alphabet to that terrible pedagogue, Clarence Hervey, till it pleases. But seriously, Miss Portman, I am concerned that you will make me take this draught. It is absolutely robbing you. But Lord Delacour is the person you must blame. It is all his obstinacy. Having once said he would not pay for the horses, he would see them and me and the whole human race expire before he would change his silly mind. Next month I shall have it in my power, my dear, to repay you with a thousand thanks, and in a few months more we shall have another birthday, and a new star shall appear in the firmament of fashion, and it shall be called Belinda. In the meantime, my dear, upon second thought, perhaps we can get Mrs. Franks to dispose of your drawing-room dress to some person of taste, and you may keep your fifty guineas for the next occasion. I'll see what can be done. I do. A thousand thanks, silly child, as you are. Mrs. Franks at first declared that it would be an impossibility to dispose of Miss Portman's dress, though she would do anything upon earth to oblige Lady Delacour. However, ten guineas made everything possible. Belinda rejoiced at having, as she thought, extricated herself at so cheap a rate, and well pleased with her own conduct, she wrote to her aunt Stanhope to inform her of as much of the transaction as she could disclose without betraying Lady Delacour. Her ladyship, she said, had immediate occasion for two hundred guineas, and to accommodate her with this sum she had given up the idea of going to court. The tenor of Miss Portman's letter will be sufficiently apparent from Mrs. Stanhope's answer. Mrs. Stanhope to Miss Portman, Bath, June 2. I cannot but feel some astonishment, Belinda, at your very extraordinary conduct and more extraordinary letter. What you can mean by principles and delicacy I own, I don't pretend to understand. When you see, you not only forget the respect that is due to the opinions and advice of the aunt to whom you owe everything, but you take upon yourself to lavish her money without common honesty. I send you two hundred guineas and desire you to go to court. You lend my two hundred guineas to Lady Delacour and inform me that as you think yourself bound in honor to her ladyship, you cannot explain all the peculiarities to me. Otherwise you are sure I should approve of the reasons which have influenced you, mighty satisfactory, truly. And then to mend the matter, you tell me that you do not think that in your situation in life it is necessary that you should go to court. Your opinions and mine, you add, differ in many points. Then I must say that you are as ungrateful as you are presumptuous. For I am not such a novice in the affairs of the world as to be ignorant that when a young lady professes to be of a different opinion from her friends, it is only a prelude to something worse. She begins by saying that she is determined to think for herself, and she is determined to act for herself, and then it is all over with her and all the money, etc. That has been spent on her education is so much dead loss to her friends. Now I look upon it that a young girl who has been brought up and brought forward in the world as you have been by connections is bound to be guided implicitly by them in all her conduct. What should you think of a man who, after he had been brought into Parliament by a friend, would go and vote against that friend's opinion? You do not want sense, Belinda. You perfectly understand me, and consequently your errors I must impute to the defect of your heart and not of your judgment. I see that on account of the illness of the Princess, the King's birthday is put off for a fortnight. If you manage properly, and if unknown to the Lady, who certainly has not used you well in this business, and to whom therefore you owe no peculiar delicacy, you make Lord sensible how much your aunt Stanhope is disappointed and displeased, as I most truly am, at your intention of missing this opportunity of appearing at court. It is ten to one, but his Lordship, who has not made it a point to refuse your request, I suppose will pay you your two hundred guineas. You, of course, will make proper acknowledgments, but at the same time entreat that his Lordship will not commit you with his Lady as he might be offended at your application to him. I understand from an intimate acquaintance of his that you are a great favorite of his Lordship, and though an obstinate, he is a good-natured man, and can have no fear of being governed by you, consequently he will do just as you would have him. Then you have an opportunity of representing the thing in the prettiest manner imaginable to the Lady, as an instance of her Lord's consideration for her. So, you will oblige all parties, a very desirable thing, without costing yourself one penny, and go to the birth night after all, and this only by using a little address, without which nothing is to be done in this world. Yours affectionately, if you follow my advice. Selina, stand hope. Belinda, though she could not consistently, with what she thought right, follow the advice so artfully given to her in this epistle, was yet extremely concerned to find that she had incurred the displeasure of an aunt to whom she thought herself under obligations. She resolved to lay by as much as she possibly could from the interest of her fortune and to repay the two hundred guineas to Mrs. Stanhope. She was conscious that she had no right to lend this money to Lady Delacorte if her aunt had expressly desired that she should spend it only on her court dress. But this had not distinctly been expressed when Mrs. Stanhope sent her niece, the draft, the Lady, was in the habit of speaking and writing ambiguously so that even those who knew her best were frequently in doubt how to interpret her words. Yet she was extremely displeased when her hints and half-express wishes were not understood. Besides, the concerns she felt from the thoughts of having displeased her aunt, Belinda was both vexed and mortified to perceive that in Clarence Hervey's manner towards her, there was not the change which she had expected that her conduct would naturally produce. One day she was surprised at his reproaching her for caprice and having given up her intentions of going to court. Lady Delacorte's embarrassment whilst Mr. Hervey spoke, Belinda attributed to her ladyship's desire that Clarence should not know that she had been obliged to borrow the money to pay him for the horses. Belinda thought that this was a species of mean pride, but she made it a point to keep her ladyship secret. She therefore slightly answered Mr. Hervey that she wondered that a man who was so well acquainted with the female sex should be surprised at any instance of caprice from a woman. The conversation then took another turn, and whilst they were talking of indifferent subjects, in came Lord Delacorte's man, Champfort, with Mrs. Stanhope's draft for two hundred guineas, which the coachmaker's man had just brought back because Ms. Portman had forgotten to endorse it. Belinda's astonishment was almost as great at this instance as Lady Delacorte's confusion. Come this way, my dear, and we'll find you again and ink. You'll need not wait, Champfort, but tell the man to wait for the draft. Ms. Portman will endorse it immediately, and she took Belinda into another room. Good heavens, has not this money been paid to Mr. Hervey? exclaimed Belinda. No, my dear, but I will take all the blame upon myself, or which will do just as well for you, throw it all upon my better half. My Lord Delacorte would not pay for my new carriage. The coachmaker, insolent animal, would not lay it out of his yard without two hundred guineas and ready money. Now, you know, I had the horses, and what could I do with the horses without the carriage? Clarence Hervey I knew could wait for his money better than a poor devil of a coachmaker. So I paid the coachmaker, and a few months sooner or later can make no difference to Clarence, who rolls in gold. My dear, if that will be any comfort to you, as I hope it will. Oh, what will he think of me? said Belinda. Nay, what will he think of me, child? Lady Delacorte, said Belinda, in a firmer tone than she had ever before spoken. I must insist upon this draft being given to Mr. Hervey. Absolutely impossible, my dear, I cannot take it from the coachmaker. He has sent home the carriage, the things done, and cannot be undone. But come, since I know nothing else will make you easy, I will take this mighty favor from Mr. Hervey entirely upon my own conscience. You cannot object to that, for you are not the keeper of my conscience. I will tell Clarence the whole business, and do you honor do, my dear. So, endorse the check, while I go and sound both the praises of your dignity, of mind, and simplicity of character, etc., etc., etc. Her ladyship broke away from Belinda, returned to Clarence Hervey, and told the whole affair with that peculiar grace with which she knew how to make a good story of a bad one. Clarence was as favorable an auditor at this time as she could possibly have found, for no human being could value money less than he did. And all sense of her ladyship's meanness was lost in his joy at discovering that Belinda was worthy of his esteem. Now he felt, in its fullest extent, all the power she had over his heart, and he was upon the point of declaring his attachment to her when Malheur's meant, Sir Philip Badaly and Mr. Rookfort announced themselves by the noise they made on the staircase. These were the young men who had spoken in such a contemptuous manner at Lady Singleton's of the matchmaking Mrs. Stanhope and her nieces. Mr. Hervey was anxious that they should not penetrate into the state of his heart, and he concealed his emotion by instantly assuming that kind of rattling gaiety, which always delighted his companions, who were ever in want of someone to set their stagnant ideas in motion. At last they insisted upon carrying Clarence away with them to taste some wines for Sir Philip Badaly. Recording by Nicole Thompson Belinda By Maria Edgeworth Chapter 7 The Serpentine River In his way to St. James's Street, where the wine merchant lived, Sir Philip Badaly picked up several young men of his acquaintance who were all eager to witness a trial of taste, of Epicurean taste, between the baronet and Clarence Hervey. Amongst his other accomplishments, our hero peaked himself upon the exquisite accuracy of his organs of taste. He neither loved wine nor was he fond of eating, but, at fine dinners, with young men who were real Epicures, Hervey gave himself the heirs of a connoisseur and a certain superiority even in judging of wine and sauces. Having gained immortal honour at an entertainment by gravely protesting that some turtle would have been excellent if it had not been done a bubble too much, he presumed, elate as he was with the applause of the company, to assert that no man in England had a more correct taste than himself. Sir Philip Badaly could not passively submit to his arrogance. He loudly proclaimed that though he would not dispute Mr. Hervey's judgment as far as eating was concerned, yet he would defy him as a connoisseur in wines, and he offered to submit the competition to any eminent wine merchant in London and to some common friend of acknowledged taste and experience. Mr. Rodgford was chosen as the common friend of acknowledged taste and experience, and a fashionable wine merchant was pitched upon to decide with him the merits of these candidates for Bacchanalian fame. Sir Philip, who was just going to furnish his cellars, was a person of importance to the wine merchant, who produced accordingly his choicest treasures. Sir Philip and Clarence tasted of all in their terms. Sir Philip with real and Clarence with affected gravity, and they delivered their opinions of the positive and comparative merits of each. The wine merchant evidently, as Mr. Hervey thought, leaned towards Sir Philip. Upon my word, Sir Philip, you are right. That wine is the best I have. You certainly have a most discriminating taste," said the complacent wine merchant. I'll tell you what, cried Sir Philip. The thing is this by Jove. Now there's no possibility now. No possibility now by Jove of imposing upon me. Then, said Clarence Hervey, would you engage to tell the differences between these two wines ten times running? Blindfold? Ten times? That's nothing, replied Sir Philip. Yes, fifty times I would by Jove. But when it came to the trial, Sir Philip had nothing left but oaths in his own favour. Clarence Hervey was victorious. And his sense of the importance of this victory was much increased by the fumes of the wine, which began to operate upon his brain. His triumph was, as he said it ought to be, back in Allian. He laughed and sang with anachronistic spirit and finished by declaring that he deserved to be crowned with wine leaves. Dine with me, Clarence, said Rajput, and we'll crown you with three times three and, whispered he to Sir Philip, we'll have another trial after dinner. But as it's not near dinner time yet, What shall we do with ourselves till dinner time? said Sir Philip, yawning, pathetically. Clarence, not being used to drink in the morning, though all his companions were, was much affected by the wine. And Rajput proposed that they should take a turn in the park to cool Hervey's head. To hide park they repaired. Sir Philip a boasting, all the way they walked, of the superior strength of his head. Clarence protested that his own strength was stronger than any man's in England, and observed that at this instant he walked better than any person in company. Sir Philip batally not accepted. Now Sir Philip batally was a noted pedestrian, and he immediately challenged our hero to walk with him for any money he pleased. Done, said Clarence, for ten guineas, for any money you please. And instantly they set out to walk, as Rajput cried, one, two, three, and away. Keep the path, and whichever reaches that elm tree first has it. They were exactly even for some yards. Then Clarence got ahead of Sir Philip, and he reached the elm tree first. But as he waved his hat, exclaiming, Clarence has won the day. Sir Philip came up with his companions, and cruelly informed him that he had lost his wager. Lost, lost, lost, Clarence, fairly lost. Then I reached the tree first, said Clarence. Yes, answered his companions, but you didn't keep the path. You turned out of the way when you met that crowd of children yonder. Now I, said Sir Philip, dashed fairly through them, kept the path, and won my bet. But, said Herbie, would you have had me run over that little child who was stooping down just in my way? I, not I, said Sir Philip, but I would have you go through with your civility. If a man will be polite, he must pay for his politeness sometimes. You said you'd lay me any money I pleased to recollect. Now I'm very moderate, and as you are a particular friend, Clarence, I'll only take your ten guineas. A loud laugh from his companions provoked Clarence. They were glad to have a laugh against him, because he excited universal envy by the real superiority of his talents, and by his perpetually taking the lead in those trifles which were beneath his ambition and exactly suited to engage the attention of his associates. Be itself, and welcome. I'll pay ten guineas for having better manners than any of you, cried Herbie, laughing. But remember, though I've lost this bet, I don't give up my pedestrian fame. Sir Philip, there are no women to throw golden apples in my way now, and no children for me to stumble over. I dare you to another trial. Double or quit. I'm off by Joe, said Sir Philip. I'm too hot, damn, to walk with you anymore. But I'm your man, if you have a mind for a swim. Here's the Serpentine River, Clarence. Hey, damn it, hey. Sir Philip and all his companions knew that Clarence had never learned to swim. You may wink at one another as wisely as you please, said Clarence. But come on, my boys, I am your man for a swim. Hundred guineas upon it. Dare as thou, Rashford, now, leap in with me and do this weedy flood and swim to yonder point. And instantly, Herbie, who had in his confused head some recollection of an essay of Dr. Franklin on swimming, by which, he fancied that he could ensure at once his safety and his fame, threw off his coat and jumped into the river. Luckily he was not in boots. Rashford and all the other young men stood laughing by the riverside. Who the devil are these two that seem to be making up to us? said Sir Philip, looking at two gentlemen who were coming towards them. St. George, hey, you know everybody. The foremost is Percival of Oakley Park, I think, upon my honour. replied Mr. St. George. And he then began to settle how many thousands a year Mr. Percival was worth. This point was not decided when the gentlemen came up to the spot where Sir Philip was standing. The child for whose sake Clarence Herbie had lost his bet was Mr. Percival's and he came to thank him for his civility. The gentleman who accompanied Mr. Percival was an old friend of Clarence Herbie's. He had met him abroad, but had not seen him for some years. Pray, gentlemen, said he to Sir Philip and his party, is Mr. Clarence Herbie amongst you? I think I saw him pass by me just now. Damn it, yes, where is Clary, though? exclaimed Sir Philip, suddenly recollecting himself. Clarence Herbie, at this instant, was drowning. He had got out of his depth and had struggled in vain to recover himself. Curse me if it's not all over with Clary, continued Sir Philip. Do any of you see his head anywhere? Damn you, Rochford, yonder it is. Damn, so it is, said Rochford. But he's so heavy in his clothes, he'd pull me down along with him to Davy's locker. Damn if I'll go after him. Damn it, though, can't some of you swim? Can't some of you jump in? cried Sir Philip, turning to his companions. Damn it, Clarence will go to the bottom. And so he inevitably would have done. Had not, Mr. Percival, at this instance, leaped into the river and seized hold of the drowning parents. It was with great difficulty that he dragged him to the shore. Sir Philip's party, as soon as the danger was over, officially offered their assistance. Clarence Herbie was absolutely senseless. Damn it, what shall we do with him now? said Sir Philip. Damn it, we must call some of the people from the Boat House. He's as heavy as lead. Damn me if I know what to do with him. Whilst Sir Philip was damning himself, Mr. Percival ran to the Boat House for assistance and they carried the body into the house. The elderly gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Percival now made his way through the midst of the noisy crowd and directed what should be done to restore Mr. Herbie's suspended animation. Whilst he was employed in this benevolent manner, Clarence's worthy friends were sneering at him and whispering to one another. He caught, he talks as if he was a doctor, said Rochford. Upon my honor, I do believe, said St. George, he is the famous Dr. X. I met him at a circulating library the other day. Dr. X, the rider, do you mean? said Sir Philip. Then, damn me, we'd better get out of his way as fast as we can or he'll have some of us down in black and white and curse me if I should choose to meet with myself in a book. No danger of that, said Rochford. For how can one meet with oneself in a book, Sir Philip, if one never opens one? By Jove, that's the true way. But upon my honor, said St. George, I should like of all things to see myself in print to make one famously famous. Damn me if I don't flatter myself, though. One can make oneself famous enough to all intents and purposes without having anything to say to these author geniuses. You're a famous fellow, Faith, to want to see yourself in print. I'll publish this in Bond Street. Damn it, in point of famousness, I'd sport my random against all the books that ever were read or written, damn me. But what are we doing here? Herbie's in good hands, said Rochford. And this here is a cursed, stupid lounge for us. Besides, it's getting towards dinner time. So my voice is, let's be off. And we can leave St. George, who has such a famous mind to be in the doctor's book, to bring Clarey after us when he's ready for dinner in good company again, you know? Away the faithful friends went to the important business of their day. When Clarence Herbie came to his senses as he started up, rubbed his eyes and looked about, exclaiming, what's all this? Where am I? Where's Battley? Where's Rochford? Where are they all? Gone home to dinner, answered Mr. St. George, who was a hangarone of Sir Phillips. But they left me to bring you after them. Faith, Clarey, you've had a squeak for your life. Upon my honour, we thought at one time it was all over with you. But you're a rough one. We shan't have to pour over your grave a full bottle of red as yet, my boy. You'll do as well as ever. So I'll step and call a coach for you, Clarey, and we shall be at dinner as soon as the best of them, after all, by jingle. I leave you in good hands with a doctor here that brought you to life, and the gentleman that dragged you out of the water. Here's a note for you, whispered Mr. St. George as he leaned over Clarence Herbie. Here's a note for you from Sir Phillip and Rochford. Read it, do you mind, to yourself. If I can, said Clarence, but Sir Phillip writes a bloody bad hand. Oh, he's a baronette, said St. George. And charmed with his own wit, he left the boathouse. Clarence, with some difficulty, deciphered the note which contained these words. Quiz the doctor, Clarey, as soon as you're up to it. He's an author, so fair game. Quiz the doctor, and we'll drink your health with three times three in Rochford's Burgundy, yours, et cetera. Fill badly. P.S. Burn this when read. With the request contained in the post-script, Clarence immediately complied. He threw the note into the fire with indignation the moment that he had read it. And turning towards the gentleman to whom it alluded, he began to express, in the strongest terms, his gratitude for their benevolence. But he stopped short in the midst of his acknowledgments when he discovered to whom he was speaking. Dr. Axe, cried he. Is it possible? How rejoiced I am to see you, and how rejoiced I am to be obliged to you. There is not a man in England to whom I would rather be obliged. You are not acquainted with Mr. Percival, I believe, said Dr. Axe. Give me leave, Mr. Percival, to introduce you to the young gentleman whose life you have saved and whose life, though by the company in which you found him you might not think so, is worth saving. This, sir, is no less a man than Mr. Clarence Hervey, of whose universal genius you have just had a specimen, for which he was crowned with sedges, as he well deserved, by the God of the Serpentine River. Do not be so unjust as to imagine that he has any of the presumption, which is sometimes the chief characteristic of a man of universal genius. Mr. Clarence Hervey is, without exception, the most humble man of my acquaintance. For, whilst all good judges would think him fit company for Mr. Percival, he has the humility to think himself upon a level with Mr. Rochfort and serve Philip badly. You have lost as little of your satirical wit, Dr. Axe, as of your active benevolence, I perceive, said Clarence Hervey, since I met you abroad. But as I cannot submit your unjust charge of humility, will you tell me where you are to be found in town and tomorrow? Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said Dr. Axe. Why not today? I am engaged, said Clarence, hesitating and laughing. I am, unfortunately, engaged today to dine with Mr. Rochfort and Sir Philip badly, and in the evening I am to be a Lady de la Corse. Lady de la Corse. Not the same Lady de la Corse whom four years ago when we met at Florence you compared to the Venus de Medici. No, no, it cannot be the same. A goddess of four years standing. Incredible. Incredible as it seems, said Clarence, it is true. I admire her ladyship more than ever I did. Like a true connoisseur, said Dr. Axe, you admire a fine picture the older it grows. I hear that her ladyship's face is really one of the finest pieces of painting extant, with the advantage of every grace which time alone can grant. Come, come, Dr. Axe, cried Mr. Percival. No more rid at Lady de la Corse expense. I have a fellow feeling for Mr. Hervey. Why, you're not in love with her ladyship, are you? said Dr. Axe. I am not in love with Lady de la Corse's picture of herself, replied Mr. Percival, but I was once in love with the original. How? When? Where? cried Clarence Hervey, in a tone totally different from that in which he had first addressed Mr. Percival. Tomorrow you shall know the how, the when, and the where, said Mr. Percival. Here's your friend, Mr. St. George and his coach. The deuce take him, said Clarence, but tell me, is it possible that you are not in love with her still? And why? Why? said Mr. Percival. Why? Come tomorrow, as you have promised, to Upper Gropner Street, and let me introduce you to Lady Anne Percival. She can answer your question better than I can. If not entirely to your satisfaction, at least entirely to mine, which is more surprising, as the lady is my wife. By this time Clarence Hervey was equipped in a dry suit of clothes, and by the strength of an excellent constitution, which he had never injured, even amongst his dissipated associates, he had recovered from the effects of his late imprudence. Clarence, let's away, here's the coach, said Mr. St. George. Why, my boy, that's a famous fellow, Faith. Why, you look so better for being drowned. Upon my honour, if I were you, I would jump into the serpentine river once a day. If I could always be sure of such good friends to pull me out, said Hervey. Praise, St. George, by the by, for you and Rochfort and Sir Philip and all the rest of my friends doing whilst I was drowning. I can't say particularly upon my soul, replied Mr. St. George. For my own part I was in boots, so you know I was out of the question. But what signifies all that now? Come, come, we had best think of looking after our dinners. Clarence Hervey, who had very quick feelings, was extremely hurt by the indifference which his dear friends had shown when his life was in danger. He was apt to believe that he was really an object of affection and admiration amongst his companions. And that though they were neither very wise, nor very witty, they were certainly very good-natured. When they had forfeited, by their late conduct, these claims to his regard, his partiality for them, was changed into contempt. You had better come home and dine with me, Mr. Hervey, said Mr. Percival, if you be not absolutely engaged. For here is your physician, who tells me that temperance is necessary for a man just recovered from drowning, and Mr. Rochfort keeps too good a table, I am told, for one in your condition. Clarence accepted of this invitation with a degree of pleasure which perfectly astonished Mr. St. George. Every man knows his own affairs best, said he to Clarence, as he stepped into his hackney coat. But for my share, I will do my friend Rochfort the justice to say that no one lives as well as he does. You have to live well mean nothing but to eat, said Clarence. Now, said Dr. X, looking at his watch, it will be eight o'clock by the time we get to Upper Grover Street, and Lady Anne will probably have waited dinner for us about two hours, which I apprehend is sufficient to try the patience of any woman but Griselda. Do not, continued he, turning to Clarence Herbie, expect to see an old-fashioned, spiritless, patient Griselda in Lady Anne Percival. I can assure you that she is. But I will neither tell you what she is nor what she is not. Every man, who has any abilities, likes to have the pleasure and honour of finding out a character by his own penetration, instead of having it forced upon him at full length in capital letters of gold. Finally emblazoned, and illuminated by the hand of some injudicious friend, every child thinks the violet of his own finding the sweetest. I spare you any farther allusions and illustrations, concluded Dr. X. For here we are, thank God, in Upper Grover Street. CHAPTER VIII. A FAMILY PARTY. They found Lady Anne Percival, in the midst of her children, who all turned their healthy, rosy, intelligent faces towards the door the moment that they heard their father's voice. Clarence Irvy was so much struck with the expression of happiness in Lady Anne's countenance that he absolutely forgot to compare her beauty with Lady Delacour's. Whether her eyes were large or small, blue or hazel, he could not tell. Nigh, he might have been puzzled if he had been asked the colour of her hair. Whether she were handsome by the rules of art, he knew not. But he felt that she had the essential charm of beauty. The power of prepossessing the heart immediately in her favour. The effect of her manners, like that of her beauty, was rather to be felt than described. Everybody was at ease in her company, and none thought themselves called upon to admire her. To Clarence Irvy, who had been used to the brilliant and exigent Lady Delacour, this respite from the fatigue of admiration was peculiarly agreeable. The unconstrained cheerfulness of Lady Anne Percival spoke of minded ease and immediately imparted happiness by exacting sympathy. But in Lady Delacour's wit and gaiety there was an appearance of art and effort, which often destroyed the pleasure that she wished to communicate. Mr. Irvy was, perhaps unusually, disposed to reflection by having just escaped from drowning, for he had made all these comparisons and came to this conclusion with the accuracy of a metaphysician who has been accustomed to steady cause and effect. Indeed there was no species of knowledge for which he had not taste and talents, though, to please fools, he too often affected the bliss of ignorance. The children at Lady Anne Percival's happened to be looking at some goldfish, which were in a glass bowl, and Dr. X, who was a general favour with the young children, as well as with the elder part of the family, was seized upon the moment he entered the room. A pretty little girl of five years old took him prisoner by the flap of the coat, whilst two of her brothers assailed him with questions about the ears, eyes, and fins of fishes. One of the little boys philiped the glass bowl and observed that the fish immediately came to the surface of the water and seemed to hear the noise very quickly. But his brother doubted whether the fish heard the noise and remarked that they might be disturbed by seeing or feeling the motion of the water when the glass was struck. Dr. X observed that this was a very learned dispute and that the question had been discussed by no less a person than the Ave Nole, and he related some of the ingenious experiments tried by that gentleman to decide whether fishes can or cannot hear. Whilst the doctor was speaking, Clarence Hervey was struck with the intelligent countenance of one of the little auditors, a girl of about ten or twelve years old. He was surprised to discover in her features, though not in their expression, a singular resemblance to Lady Delacour. He remarked this to Mr. Percivil, and the child who overheard him blushed as red as scarlet. Dinner was announced at this instant, and Clarence Hervey thought no more of the circumstance attributing the girl's blush to confusion and being looked at so earnestly. One of the little boys whispered as they were going down to dinner. Helena! I do believe that this is the good-natured gentleman who went out of the path to make room for us, instead of running over us as the other man did. The children agreed that Clarence Hervey certainly was the good-natured gentleman, and upon the strength of this observation one of the boys posted himself next to Clarence at dinner and by all the little playful maneuvers in his power endeavored to show his gratitude and to cultivate a friendship which had been thus suspiciously commenced. Mr. Hervey, who peaked himself upon being able, always to suit his conversation to his companions, distinguished himself at dinner by an account of the Chinese fishing-bird, from which he passed to the various ingenious methods of fishing practiced by the Russian Cossacks. From modern he went to ancient fish, and he talked of that which was so much admired by the Roman epicures for exhibiting a succession of beautiful colors whilst it is dying, and which was upon that account always suffered to die in the presence of the guests as part of the entertainment. Clarence was led on by the questions of the children from fishes to birds. He spoke of the Roman avarice which were so constructed as to keep from the sight of the prisoners that they contained, the fields, woods, and every object which might remind them of their former liberty. From birds he was going on to beasts when he was nearly struck dumb by the forbidding severity with which an elderly lady who sat opposite to him fixed her eyes upon him. He had not till this instant paid the smallest attention to her, but her stern countenance was now so strongly contrasted with the approving looks of the children who sat next to her that he could not help remarking it. He asked her to do him the honor to drink a glass of wine with him. She declined doing him that honor, observing that she never drank more than one glass of wine at dinner, and that she had just taken one with Mr. Percival. Her manner was well-bred, but haughty in the extreme, and she was so passionate that her anger sometimes conquered even her politeness. Her dislike to Clarence Hervey was apparent, even in her silence. If the old gentlewoman has taken an antipathy to me at the first sight, I cannot help it. Thought he, and he went on to the beasts. The boy who sat next to him had asked some questions about the proboscis of the elephant, and Mr. Hervey mentioned Ive's account of the elephants in India who had been set to watch young children, and who draw them back gently with their trunks when they go out of bounds. He talked next of the unicorn, and addressing himself to Dr. X and Mr. Percival, he declared that in his opinion Herodotus did not deserve to be called the father of lies. He cited the mammoths to prove that the apocryphal chapter in the history of beasts should not be contimmed, that it would in all probability be soon established as true history. The dessert was on the table before Clarence had done with the mammoth. As the butler put a fine dish of cherries upon the table he said, Milady, these cherries are a present from the old gardener to Miss Delacour. Set them there before Miss Delacour then, said Lady Anne. Helena, my dear, distribute your own cherries. At the name of Delacour, Clarence Hervey, though his head was still half full of the mammoth, looked round in astonishment, and when he saw the cherries placed before the young lady, whose resemblance to Lady Delacour he had before observed, he could not help exclaiming, that young lady then is not a daughter of your ladyships. No, but I love her as well as if she were, replied Lady Anne. What were you saying about the mammoth? That the mammoth is supposed to be, but interrupting himself, Clarence said in an inquiring tone, Our niece of Lady Delacour's? Her ladyship's daughter, sir, said the severe old lady in a voice more terrific than her looks. Shall I give you some strawberries, Mr. Hervey? said Lady Anne. Or will you let Helena help you to some cherries? Her ladyship's daughter? exclaimed Clarence Hervey in a tone of surprise. Some cherries, sir? said Helena, but her voice faltered so much that she could hardly utter the words. Clarence perceived that he had been the cause of her agitation, though he knew not precisely by what means, and he now applied himself in silence to the picking of his strawberries with great diligence. The ladies soon afterwards withdrew, and as Mr. Percival did not touch up on the subject again, Clarence forbore to ask any further questions, though he was considerably surprised by the sudden discovery. When he went into the drawing-room to tea, he found his friend, the stern old lady, speaking in a high, declamatory tone, the words which he heard as he came into the room were. If there were no Clarence Hervey's, there would be no Lady Delacour's. Clarence bowed as if he had received a high compliment. The old lady walked away to an enter chamber, fanning herself with great energy. Mrs. Margaret Delacour, said Lady Anne in a low voice to Hervey, is an aunt of Lord Delacour's, a woman whose heart is warmer than her temper. And that is never cool, said a young lady who sat next to Lady Anne. I call Mrs. Margaret Delacour the volcano. I'm sure I'm never in a company without dreading interruption. Every now and then out comes with a tremendous noise, fire, smoke, and rubbish. And precious minerals, said Lady Anne, amongst the rubbish. But the best of it is, continued the young lady, that she is seldom in a passion without making a hundred mistakes for which she is usually obliged afterward to ask a thousand pardons. By that account, said Lady Anne, which I believe to be just, her contrition is always ten times as great as her offence. Now you talk of contrition, Lady Anne, said Mr. Hervey, and I should think of my own offences. I am very sorry that my indiscreet questions gave Miss Delacour any pain. My head was so full of the mammoth that I blundered on without seeing what I was about, till it was too late. Praise her! said Mrs. Delacour, who now returned and took her seat upon a sofa with the solumenity of a person who was going to sit in judgment upon a criminal. Praise her! May I ask how long you have been acquainted with my Lady Delacour? Clarence Servie took up a book, and with great gravity kissed it as if he had been upon his oath in a court of justice, and answered, to the best of my recollection, madame, which is now four years since I had first the pleasure and honour of seeing Lady Delacour. And in that time, intimately as you have had the pleasure of being acquainted with her ladyship, you have never discovered that she had a daughter. Never, said Mr. Hervey. There, Lady Anne, there, cried Mrs. Delacour. Will you tell me after this that Lady Delacour is not a monster? Everybody says that she is a prodigy, said Lady Anne, and prodigies and monsters are sometimes thought synonymous terms. Such a mother was never heard of, continued Mrs. Delacour, since the days of savage and lady Maklis Field. I am convinced that she hates her daughter. Why, she never speaks of her. She never sees her. She never thinks of her. Some mothers speak more than they think of their children, and others think more than they speak of them, said Lady Anne. I always thought, said Mr. Hervey, that Lady Delacour was a woman of great sensibility. Sensibility, exclaimed the indignant old lady. She has no sensibility, sir. None, none. She who lives in a constant round of dissipation, who performs no one duty, who exists only for herself, how does she show her sensibility? Has she sensibility for her husband? For her daughter? For any one useful purpose upon earth? Know how I hate the Canberra cankerchief sensibility, that is brought out only to weep at a tragedy. Yes, Lady Delacour has sensibility enough, I grant ye, when sensibility is the fashion. I remember well her performing the part of a nurse, with vast applause. And I remember, too, the sensibility she showed when the child that she nursed fell a sacrifice to a dissipation, the second of a children that she killed. Killed? Oh, surely, my dear Mrs. Delacour, that is too strong a word, said Lady Anne. You would not make a medea of Lady Delacour? It would have been better if I had, cried Mrs. Delacour. I can understand that there may be such a thing in nature, as a jealous wife, but an unfeeling mother I cannot comprehend, that passes my powers of imagination. And mine so much, said Lady Anne, that I cannot believe such a being to exist in the world, not withstanding all the descriptions I have heard of it. As you may say, my dear Mrs. Delacour, it passes my powers of imagination. Let us leave it in Mr. Herbie's apocryphal chapter of animals, and he will excuse us if I never admit it into true history, at least without some better evidence than I have yet heard. Why, my dear, dear Lady Anne, cried Mrs. Delacour. I've made this coffee so sweet, there's no drinking it. What evidence would you have? None, said Lady Anne, smiling. I would have none. That is to say you will take none, said Mrs. Delacour, but can anything be stronger evidence than her ladyship's conduct to my poor, poor Helen. To your Helen, I should say, but you have educated, you have protected her, you have been a mother to her. I am an infirm, weak, ignorant, passionate old woman, and I could not have been what you have been to that child. God bless you. God will bless you. She rose as she spoke to sit down her coffee-cup on the table. Clarence Herbie took it from her with a look which said much, and which she was perfectly capable of understanding. Young man, said she, it is very unfashionable to treat age in infirmity with politeness. Now I wish that your friend Lady Delacour may at my time of life meet with as much respect as she has meant, with admiration and gallantry in her youth. Young woman, her head has absolutely been turned with admiration, and if fame say true, Mr. Herbie has had his share in turning that hurt by his flattery. I am sure her ladyship has turned mine by her charms, said Clarence, and I certainly am not to be blamed for admiring what all the world admires. I wish, said the old lady, for her own sake, for the sake of her family, and for the sake of her reputation, that my Lady Delacour had fewer admirers and more friends. Women, who have met with so many admirers, seldom meet with many friends, said Lady Anne. No, said Mrs. Delacour, for they seldom are wise enough to know their value. We learn the value of all things but especially of friends by experience, said Lady Anne, and it is no wonder, therefore, that those who have little experience of the pleasures of friendship should not be wise enough to know their value. This is very good-natured sophistry, but Lady Delacour is too vain ever to have a friend, said Mrs. Delacour. My dear Lady Anne, you don't know her as well as I do. She has more vanity than ever woman had. That is certainly saying a great deal, said Lady Anne, but then we must consider that Lady Delacour, as an heiress, a beauty, and a wit, has a right to a triple share at least. Both her fortune and her beauty are gone, and if she had any wit left, it is time it should teach her how to conduct herself, I think, said Mrs. Delacour. But I give her up, and I give her up. Oh, no! said Lady Anne, you must not give her up yet. I have been informed, and upon the best authority, that Lady Delacour was not always the unfeeling, dissipated, fine lady that she now appears to be. This is only one of the transformations of fashion. The period of her enchantment will soon be at an end, and she will return to her natural character. I should not be at all surprised if Lady Delacour were to appear at once La Femme Con Ilienne Pin. Or La Bonne Mère, said Mrs. Delacour sarcastically, after thus leaving her daughter. Poor Bonne Boucher! Interrupted Lady Anne, when she is tired of the insipid taste of other pleasures, she will have a higher relish for those of domestic life, which will be new and fresh to her. And so you will really think, my dear Lady Anne, that my Lady Delacour will end by being a domestic woman. Well, said Mrs. Margaret, after taking two pinches of snuff, and some people believe in the millennium, but I confess I am not one of them. Are you, Mr. Hervey?" If it were foretold to me by a good angel, said Clarence Smiling, as his eyes glanced at Lady Anne, if it were foretold to me by a good angel, how could I doubt it? Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of one of Lady Anne's little boys, who came running eagerly up to his mother to ask whether he might have the surface to show to Helene Delacour. I want to show her Verte Mones and Pomona Mama, said he. Were not the cherries that the old gardener sent very good? What is this about the cherries in the old gardener, Charles? said the young lady who sat beside Lady Anne. Come here and tell me the whole story. I will. But I should tell you a great deal better another time, said the boy, because now Helene is waiting for Verte Mones and Pomona. Go then to Helene, said Lady Anne, and I will tell the story for you. Then, turning to the young lady, she began. Once upon a time there lived an old gardener at Kensington, and this old gardener had an aloe, which was older than himself, for it was very a near hundred years of age, and it was just going to blossom, and the old gardener calculated how much he might make by showing his aloe when it should be in full blow to the generous public, and he calculated that he might make a hundred pounds, and with this one hundred pounds he determined to do more than was ever done with a hundred pounds before. But unluckily, as he was thus reckoning his blossoms before they were blown, he chanced to meet with a fair damsel who ruined all his calculations. I, Mrs. Stanhope's maid, was not it. Interrupted Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and a pretty damsel she was, and almost as good a politician as her mistress. Think of that jilt's tricking-as-poor-old fellow out of his aloe, and do the meanness of Lady Delacour to accept of that aloe for one of her extravagant entertainments. But I always understood that she paid fifty guineas for it, said Lady Anne. Whether she did or not, said Mrs. Delacour, her ladyship and Mrs. Stanhope, between them were the ruin of this poor old man. He was taken in to marry that jade of a waiting maid. She turned out just as you might expect from a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope's, the matchmaking Mrs. Stanhope. You know, sir. Clarence Hervey changed colour. She turned out, continued Mrs. Delacour, everything that was bad. Ruined her husband, ran away from him, and left him a beggar. Poor man, said Clarence Hervey. But now, said Lady Anne, let's come to the best part of the story. Mark how good comes out of evil. If this poor man had not lost his aloe and his wife, I probably should never have been acquainted with Mrs. Delacour, or with my little Helena, about the time that the old gardener was left a beggar, as I happened to be walking one fine evening in Sloan Street. I meant a procession of schoolgirls. An old man begged from them in a most moving voice, and as they passed, several of the young ladies threw half-pence to him. One little girl, who observed that the old man could not stoop without great difficulty, stayed behind the rest of her companions and collected the half-pence which they had thrown to him, and put them into his hat. He began to tell his story over again to her, and she stayed so long listening to it, that her companions had turned the corner of the street and were out of sight. She looked about in great distress, and never shall forget the pathetic voice with which she said, Oh! what will become of me? Every body will be angry with me. I assured her that no body should be angry with her, and she gave me her little hand with the utmost innocent confidence. I took her home to her schoolmistress, and I was so pleased with the beginning of this acquaintance that I was determined to cultivate it. One good acquaintance I have heard always leads to another. Helena introduced me to her Aunt Delacor as her best friend. Mrs. Margaret Delacor has had the goodness to let her little niece spend the holidays and all her leisure time with me, so that our acquaintance has grown into friendship. Helena has become quite one of my family. And I'm sure she has become quite a different creature, since she has been so much with you, cried Mrs. Delacor. Her spirits were quite broken by her mother's neglect of her. Young as she is, she has a great deal of real sensibility, but as to her mother's sensibility. At the recollection of Lady Delacor's neglect of her child, Mrs. Delacor was going again to launch forth into indignant invective, but Lady Anne stopped her by whispering, Take care what you say of the mother, for here is the daughter coming, and she has indeed a great deal of sensibility. Helena and her young companions now came into the room, bringing with them the solfers at which they had been looking. Mama, said little Charles Percival, We have brought the solfers to you, because there are some of them that I don't know. Wonderful, said Lady Anne, and what is not quite so wonderful, there are some of them that I don't know. The children spread the solfers upon a little table, and all the company gathered round it. Here are all the nine muses for you, said the least of the boys who had taken his seat by Clarence Hervey at dinner. Here are all the muses for you, Mr. Hervey. Which do you like best? Oh, that's the tragic muse you have chosen. You don't like the tragic better than the comic muse, do you? Clarence Hervey made no answer, for he was at that instant recollecting how Belinda looked in the character of the tragic muse. Has your ladyship ever happened to meet with the young lady, who has spent this winter with Lady Delacor, said Clarence to Lady Anne. I sat near her one night at the opera, said Lady Anne. She has a charming countenance. Who? Belinda Portman, do you mean? said Mrs. Delacor. And I am sure if I were a young man, I would not trust to the charming countenance of a young lady who was a pupil of Mrs. Stanhope's and a friend of— Helena, my dear, shut the door. The most dissipated woman in London. Indeed! said Lady Anne. Miss Portman is in a dangerous situation, but some young people learn prudence by being placed in dangerous situations. As some young horses I have heard Mr. Percival say, learn to be sure-footed by being left to pick their own way on bad roads. Here Mr. Percival, Dr. X, and some other gentleman came upstairs to tea, and the conversation took another turn. Clarence Hervey endeavored to take his share in it with his usual vivacity, but he was thinking of Belinda Portman, dangerous situations, stumbling horses, etc., and he made several blunders which showed his absence of mind. What have you there, Mr. Hervey? said Dr. X, looking over his shoulder. The tragic muse. This tragic muse seems to rival Lady Delacor in your admiration. Oh! said Clarence, smiling. You know I was always a votery of the muses. And a favoured votery, said Dr. X. I wish for the interests of literature that poets may always be lovers, though I cannot say that I desire lovers should always be poets. But Mr. Hervey, you must never marry, remember, continued Dr. X, never for your true poet must always be miserable. You know Petrarch tells us he would not have been happy if he could. He would not have married his mistress if it had been in his power, in the end of his beautiful sonnets. Everyone to his taste, said Clarence, for my part I have even less ambition to imitate the heroism than hope of being inspired with the poetic genius of Petrarch. I have no wish to pass whole nights composing sonnets. I would, am I not right, Mr. Percival, infinitely rather be a slave of the ring than a slave of the lamp. Here the conversation ended. Clarence took his leave, and Richard Delacour said the moment he had left the room. Quite a different sort of young man from what I had expected to see. End of Section 9, Chapter 8, recorded by Tara Mendoza, Phoenix, Arizona, September 2011. Section 10, Chapter 9, of Belinda. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Belinda, by Maria Enchworth. Section 10, Chapter 9, Advice. The next morning Mr. Hervey called on Dr. X and begged that he would accompany him to Lady Delacour's. To be introduced to your tragic muse, said the doctor. Yes, said Mr. Hervey. I must have your opinion of her before I devote myself. My opinion? But of whom? Of Lady Delacour? No, but of a young lady whom you will see with her. Is she handsome? Beautiful. And young? And young. And graceful? The most graceful person you have ever beheld. Young, beautiful, graceful. Then the deuce take me, said Dr. X. If I give you my opinion of her, for the odds are that she has a thousand faults at least to balance these perfections. A thousand faults, a charitable allowance. Said Clarence, smiling. There now, said Dr. X. Touch him, and no minister so sore. To punish you for wincing at my first setting out, I promise you that if the lady have a million of faults, each of them high as huge Olympus, I will see them as with the eye of a flatterer, not of a friend. I defy you to be so good, or so bad as your word, doctor. Said Hervey, you have too much wit to make a good flatterer. And perhaps you think too much to make a good friend, said Dr. X. Not so, said Clarence. I would at any time rather be cut by a sharp knife than by a blunt one. But my dear doctor, I hope you will not be prejudiced against Belinda, merely because she is with Lady Delacour, for to my certain knowledge, she is not under her Lady Ship's influence. She judges an ax for herself, of which I have had an instance. Very possibly, interrupted Dr. X, but before we go any farther, will you please to tell me of what Belinda you are talking? Belinda Portman. I forgot that I had not told you. Miss Portman, a niece of Mrs. Stanhope's. Yes, but do not be prejudiced against her on that account, said Clarence eagerly, though I was at first myself. Then you will excuse my following your example instead of your precepts. No, said Clarence, for my precepts are far better than my example. Lady Delacour received Dr. X most courteously, and thanked Mr. Hervey for introducing to her a gentleman with whom she had long desired to converse. Dr. X had a great literary reputation, and she saw that he was a perfectly well-bred man, consequently she was ambitious of winning his admiration. She perceived also that he had considerable influence with Clarence Hervey, and this was a sufficient reason to make her wish for his good opinion. Belinda was particularly pleased with his manners and conversation. She saw that he paid her much attention, and she was desirous that he should think favorably of her, but she had the good sense and good taste to avoid a display of her abilities and accomplishments. A sensible man who has any knowledge of the world and talents for conversation can easily draw out the knowledge of those with whom he converses. Dr. X possessed this power in a superior degree. Well, cried Clarence when their visit was over, Walt is your opinion of Lady Delacour. I am blasted with excessive light, said the doctor. Her ladyship is certainly very brilliant, said Clarence, but I hope that Miss Portman did not overpower you. No! I turned my eyes from Lady Delacour upon Miss Portman as a painter turns his eyes upon mild green to rest them when they have been dazzled by glaring colours. She yields her charms of mind with sweet delay. I was afraid, said Hervey, that you might think her man is too reserved and cold. They are certainly become more so than they used to be, but so much the better. By and by we shall find beautiful flowers spring up from beneath the snow. A very poetical hope, said Dr. X. But in judging of the human character we must not entirely trust to analogies and illusions taken from the vegetable creation. Walt! cried Clarence Hervey, looking eagerly in the doctor's eyes. What do you mean? I am afraid you do not approve of Belinda. Your fears are almost as precipitated as your hopes. My good sir, but to put you out of pain I will tell you that I approve of all I have seen of this young lady, but that it is absolutely out of my power to form a decisive judgment of a woman's temper and character in the course of a single morning visit. Women you know, as well as men, often speak with one species of enthusiasm and act with another. I must see your Belinda act. I must study her, before I can give you any final judgment. Lady Delacour has honoured me with her commands to go to her as often as possible. For your sake, my dear Hervey, I shall obey your ladyship most punctually, that I may have frequent opportunities of seeing your Miss Paltman. Clarence expressed his gratitude with much energy. For this instance of the doctor's friendship, Belinda, who had been entertained by Dr. X's conversation during this first visit, was more and more delighted with his company as she became more and more acquainted with his understanding and character. She felt that he unfolded her powers and that with the greatest politeness and address he raised her confidence in herself without ever descending to flattery. By degrees she learned to look upon him as a friend. She imparted to him with great ingenuousness her opinions on various subjects and was both amused and instructed by his observations on the characters and manners of the company who frequented Lady Delacour's assemblies. She did not judge of the doctor's sincerity merely by the kindness he showed her, as conduct toward others. One night, at a select party at Lady Delacour's, a Spanish gentleman was amusing the company with semantic notes to prove the extraordinary passion which some of his countrymen formally showed for the game of chess. He mentioned families in which unfinished games bequeathed by will had descended from father to son and where victory was doubtful for upwards of a century. Mr. Hervey observed that gaining a battle was, at that time, so common to the court of Spain that a victory at chess seemed to confer more a club for that an abbey by losing adroitly a game at chess to the Spanish minister obtained a cardinal's hat. The foreigner was flattered by the manner in which Hervey introduced this slight circumstance and he directed to him his conversation speaking in French and Italian successively. He was sufficiently skilled in both languages but Clarence spoke them better. Till he appeared, the foreigner was the principal object of attention but he was soon eclipsed by Mr. Hervey. Nothing amusing or instructive that could be set upon the game of chess escaped him and the literary ground which the slow dawn would have taken some hours to go regularly over our hero traversed in a few minutes. From Twist to Vida, from Irwin to Sir William Jones, from Spain to India, he passed with admirable celerity and seized all that could adorn his course from Indian antiquities or Asiatic researches. By this display of knowledge he surprised even his friend Dr. X. The ladies admired his taste as a poet, the gentlemen his accuracy as a critic. Lady Delacorte loudly applauded and Belinda silently approved. Clarence was elated, the Spanish gentleman to whom he had just quoted a case in point, from Vida's Skaquilla, asked him if he were as perfect in the practice as in the theory of the game. Clarence was too proud of excelling in everything to decline the Spaniard's challenge. They sat down to chess. Lady Delacorte, as they ranged the pieces on the board, cried, Whoever wins shall be my knight and a silver chessman shall be his prize. Was it not Queen Elizabeth who gave a silver chessman to one of her courtiers as a mark of her royal favour? I am ashamed to imitate such a pedantic coquette, but since I have said it, how can I retract? Impossible, impossible! cried Clarence Harvey. A silver chessman be our prize, and if I win it, like the gallant rolle, I will wear it in my cap, and what proud Essex shall dare to challenge it. The combat now began. The spectators were silent. Clarence made an error in his first move, for his attention was distracted by seeing Belinda behind his adversary's chair. The Spaniard was deceived by this mistake into a contemptuous opinion of his opponent. Belinda changed her place. Clarence recovered his presence of mind and convinced him that he was not a man to be despised. The combat was long doubtful, but at length to the surprise of all present Clarence Harvey was victorious. Exalting in his success, he looked round for Lady Delacour, from whom he expected the honours of his triumph. She had left the room, but soon she returned, dressed in the character of Queen Elizabeth, in which she had once appeared at a masquerade, with a large ruff and all the costume of the times. Clarence Harvey, throwing himself at her feet, addressed her in that high-flown style which her Majesty was want to hear from the Galant Rale, or the accomplished Essex. Soon the coquetry of the Queen entirely conquered her prudery and the favoured coutière evidently elated by his situation was as enthusiastic as her Majesty's most insatiable vanity could desire. The characters were well supported, both the actor and actress were highly animated, and seemed so fully possessed by their parts as to be insensible to the comments that were made upon the scene. Clarence Harvey was first recalled to himself by the deep blush which he saw on Belinda's cheek, when Queen Elizabeth addressed her as one of her maids of honour, of whom she affected to be jealous. He was conscious that he had been hurried by the enthusiasm of the moment farther than he either wished or intended. It was difficult to recede when her Majesty seemed disposed to advance, but Sir Walter Rale, with much presence of mind, turned to the foreigner whom he accosted as the Spanish ambassador. Your Excellency sees, said he, how this great Queen turns the heads of her faithful subjects, and afterwards has the art of paying them with nothing but words. Has the New World afforded you any coin half so valuable? The Spanish gentleman's grave replies to this playful question gave a new turn to the conversation and relieved Clarence Harvey from his embarrassment. Lady Delacorte, though still in high spirits, was easily diverted to other objects. She took the Spaniard wither to the next room to show him a picture of Mary, Queen of Scots. Pause. The company followed her. Clarence Harvey remained with Dr. Axe and Belinda, who had just asked the doctor to teach her chest. Lady Delacorte has charming spirits, said Clarence Harvey. They inspire everybody with gaiety. Everybody? They incline me more to melancholy than mirth. Said Dr. Axe. These high spirits do not seem quite natural. The vivacity of youth and of health, Miss Portman, always charms me. But this gaiety of Lady Delacorte's does not appear to me that of a sound mind in a sound body. The doctor's penetration went so near the truth that Belinda, afraid of betraying her friend's secrets, never raised her eyes from the chessboard whilst he spoke, but went on setting up the fallen castles and bishops and kings with expeditious diligence. You are putting the bishop into the place of the night, said Clarence. Lady Delacorte, continued the doctor, seems to be in a perpetual fever, either of mind or body, I cannot tell which. And as a rational man, I really have some curiosity to determine the question. If I could feel her pulse, I could instantly decide. But I have heard her say that she has a horror against having her pulse felt, and a lady's horror is invincible, by reason, but not by address, said Clarence, and I can tell you a method of counting her pulse without her knowing it, without her seeing it, without your seeing her. Indeed, said Dr. X, smiling, that may be a useful secret in my profession, pray, impart it to me, you who excel in everything. Are you an honest, Mr. Hervey? said Belinda. Perfectly an honest. My secret is quite simple. Look through the door at the shadow of Queen Elizabeth's Ruff. Observe how it vibrates. The motion, as well as the figure, is magnified in detail. Cannot you count every pulsation distinctly? I can, said Dr. X. And I give you credit for making an ingenious use of a trifling observation. The doctor paused and looked round. Those people cannot hear what we are saying, I believe. Oh, no! said Belinda. They are intent upon themselves. Dr. X fixed his eyes mildly upon Clarence Hervey, and exclaimed in an earnest, friendly tone. What a pity, Mr. Hervey, that a young man of your talent and acquirements, a man who might be anything, should pardon the expression, choose to be nothing, should waste upon petty objects, powers suited to the greatest, should lend his soul to every contest for frivolous superiority, when the same energy concentrated might ensure honourable preeminence among the first men in his country. Shall he, who might not only distinguish himself in any science or situation, who might not only acquire personal fame, but, oh, far more noble motive, who might be permanently useful to his fellow-creatures, content himself with being the evanescent amusement of a drawing-room? Shall one who might be great in public, or happy in private life, waste in this deplorable manner the best years of his existence? Time that can never be recalled, this is declamation. No, it is truth put into the strongest language that I have power to use. In the hope of making some impression, I speak from my heart, for I have a sincere regard for you, Mr. Hervey, and if I have been impertinent you must forgive me. Forgive you!" cried Clarence Hervey, taking Dr. X by the hand. I think you a real friend. You shall have the best thanks, not in words, but in actions. You have roused my ambition, and I will pursue noble ends by noble means. A few years have been sacrificed, but the lessons that they have taught me remain. I cannot presumptuous as I am, flatter myself that my possessions can be of any material utility to my fellow creatures. But what I can do, I will, my excellent friend. If I be hereafter, either successful in public or happy in private life, it is to you I shall owe it. Belinda was touched by the candor and good sense with which Clarence Hervey spoke. His character appeared in a new light. She was proud of her own judgment in having discerned his merit, and for a moment she permitted herself to feel unreproved pleasure in his company. The next morning Sir Philip Badley and Mr. Rogford called at Lady Delacour's. Mr. Hervey was present. Her ladyship was summoned to Mrs. Frank's, and Belinda was left with these gentlemen. Why damn, Clarence! You have been a lost man! cried Sir Philip, never since you were drowned. Damn me! Why did you not come to dine with us that day? Now I recollect it. We were all famously merry, but for your comfort. Clarence, we missed you cursedly, and would damned sorry you ever took that unlucky jump into the Serpentine River. Damned sorry, word not, we roped foot. Oh! said Clarence in an ironical tone. You need no vouchers to convince me of the reality of your sorrow. You know I can never forget your jumping so courageously into the river to save the life of your friend. No poo! dammit! said Sir Philip. What signifies who pulled you out? Now you are safe and sound? By the by, Clarence. Did you ever quiz that doctor, as I desired you? No. That I'm sure you didn't. But I think he has made a quiz of you. For damn me, I believe you have taken such a fancy to the old quizzical fellow that you can't live without him. Miss Portman, don't you admire Hervey's taste? In this instance, I certainly do admire Mr. Hervey's taste, said Belinda, for the best of all possible reasons, because it entirely agrees with my own. Very extraordinary! Faith! said Sir Philip. And what the devil can you find to like in him, Clarence? continued Mr. Rogford. For one wouldn't be so rude to put that question to a lady. Ladies, you know, are never to be questions about their likings and dislikings. Some have pet dogs. Some have pet cats. Then why not a pet quiz? Ha! Ha! Ha! That's a good one, Rogford. A pet quiz! Ha! Ha! Doctor X, shall be Miss Portman's pet quiz. Put it about, put it about, Rogford! continued the witty baronette, and he and his facetious companion continued to laugh as long as they possibly could at this happy hit. Belinda, without being in the least discomposed by their insolent folly, as soon as they had finished laughing, very coolly observed that she could have no objection to give her reasons for preferring Dr. X's company, but for fear they might give offence to Sir Philip and his friends. She then defended the doctor with so much firmness, and yet with so much propriety, that Clarence Hervey was absolutely enchanted with her, and with his own penetration in having discovered her real character, notwithstanding her being Mrs. Stanhope's niece. I never argue for my part, cried Rogford. Pon honoured has a deal too much trouble. A lady, a handsome lady, I mean, is always in the right with me. But, as to you, Hervey, said Sir Philip, damn me, do you know, my boy, that our club has come to a determination to blackball you? If you keep company with that famous doctor, your club, Sir Philip, will do me an honour by such an ostracism. Ostracism! repeated Sir Philip, in plain English, does that mean that you choose to be blackballed by us? Why, damn it, Clarence, you'll be nobody. But follow your own genius. Damn me if I take it upon me to understand your men of genius. They are in the serpentine river one day, and in the clouds the next. So fare you well, Clarence. I expect to see you a doctor of physics, or a Methodist Parsons soon. Damn me if I don't. So fare you well, Clarence. Is blackball your last word, or will you think better on it? And give up the doctor. I can never give up Dr. X's friendship. I would sooner be blackballed by every club in London. The good lesson you gave me, Sir Philip, the day I was fool enough to jump into the serpentine river, has made me wiser for life. I know, for I have felt the difference between real friends and fashionable acquaintance. Give up Dr. X? Never, never. Then fare you well, Clarence. Said Sir Philip, you're no longer one of us. Then fare you well, Clarence. You're no longer the man for me, said Rokefoot. Don't be, sin don't move, said Clarence, and so they parted. As they left the room, Clarence Hervey involuntarily turned to Belinda, and he thought that he read, in her ingenuous animated countenance, full approbation of his conduct. Psst! Are they gone? Quite gone! said Lady Delacorte, entering the room from a joining apartment. They have stayed an inconscionable time, how much I am obliged to Mrs. Franks for detaining me. I have escaped their vapid impertence, and in truth, this morning I have such a multiplicity of business, that I have scarcely a moment even for wit, and Clarence Hervey. Belinda, my dear, will you have the charity to look over some of these letters for me, which, as Mariette tells me, have been lying in my writing-table this week? Expecting most unreasonably that I should have the grace to open them. We are always punished for our indolence, as your friend Dr. X said the other day, if we suffer business to accumulate, it drifts with every ill wind like snow, till it last an avalanche of it comes down at once, and quite overwhelms us. Ask me, Clarence. Continued her ladyship, as she opened her letters. This is very rude, but I know I have secured my pardon from you by remembering your friend's wit. Wisdom, I should say. How seldom are wit and wisdom joined. They might have been joined in Lady Delacorte, perhaps. There's vanity, if she had early met with such a friend as Dr. X. But it's too late now," said she, with a deep sigh. Ms. Hervey heard it, and it made a great impression upon his benevolent imagination. Why too late? said he to himself. Mrs. Margaret Delacorte is mistaken if she thinks this woman wants sensibility. What have you got there, Miss Portman? said Lady Delacorte, taking from Belinda's hand one of the letters which she had begged her to look over. Something wondrous, pathetic, I should guess, by your countenance? Helena Delacorte! Read it to yourself, my dear. A school girl's letters is a thing I abominate. I make it a rule never to read Helena's epistles. Let me prevail upon your ladyship to make an exception to the general rule, then," said Belinda. I can assure you, this is not a common school girl's letter. Miss Delacorte seems to inherit her mother's eloquent stipulate. Miss Portman seems to possess by inheritance, by instinct, by magic, or otherwise, powers of persuasion which no one can resist. There's complement for complement, my dear. Is there anything half so well turned in Helena's letter? Really, tis vastly well," continued her ladyship as she read the letter. Where did the little gypsy learn to write so charmingly? I protest I should like of all things to have her at home with me this summer. The twenty-first of June. Well, after the birthday, I shall have time to think about it. But then we shall be going out of town, and at Heraldgate I should not know what to do with her. She had better—much better—go to her humdrum and Margaret's, as she always does. She is a fixture in Grosvenor Square. These stationary good people, these Zufi friends are sometimes very convenient, and Mrs. Margaret Delacorte is the most unexceptionable Zufi in the creation. She has, it is true, an antipathy to me, because I am of such a different nature from herself. But then her antipathy does not extend to my offspring. She is kind beyond measure to Helena, on purpose, I believe, to provoke me. Now I provoke her, in my turn, by never being provoked. And she saves me a vast deal of trouble, for which she is overpaid, by the pleasure of abusing me. This is the way of the world, Clarence. Don't look so serious. You have not come yet to daughters and sons, and schools and holidays, and all the evils of domestic life. Evils—repeated Clarence Hervey in a tone, which surprised her ladyship. She looked immediately with a significant smile at Belinda. Why do you not echo evils, Miss Portman? Pray, Lady Delacorte. Interrupted Clarence Hervey. When do you go to Heraldgate? What a sudden transition!" said Lady Delacorte. What association of ideas could just at that instant take you to Heraldgate? When do I go to Heraldgate? Immediately after the birthday, I believe we shall. I advise you to be of the party. Your ladyship does me a great deal of honour," said Hervey. I shall, if it be possible, do myself the honour of attending you. And soon after this arrangement was made, Mr. Hervey took his leave. My dear, are you still pouring over that letter of Helena's?" said Lady Delacorte, Miss Portman. I fancy your ladyship did not quite finish it, said Belinda. No. I saw something about the Laverian Museum, and a swallow's nest in a pair of gardens she is, and I was afraid I was to have a catalogue of curiosities, for which I have little taste and less time. You did not see, then, what Miss Delacorte says of the lady who took her to the museum. Not I. What lady? Her Aunt Margaret. No. Mrs. Margaret Delacorte, she says, has been so ill for some time past that she goes nowhere but to Lady Anne Percival's. Poor woman! said Lady Delacorte. She will die soon, and then I shall have Helena upon my hands, unless some other kind friend takes a fancy to her. Who is this lady that has carried her to the Laverian Museum, and Lady Anne Percival, of whom she speaks with so much gratitude and affection, that I quite long, Lord bless me! interrupted Lady Delacorte. Lady Anne Percival! Helena has mentioned this Lady Anne Percival to me before. I recollect in some of her letters. Then you did read some of her letters. Half. I never read more than half about my word, said Lady Delacorte laughing. Why will you delight in making yourself appear less good than you are, my dear Lady Delacorte? said Belinda, taking her hand. Because I hate to be like other people. said her Ladyship, who delight in making themselves appear better than they are. But I was going to tell you, that I do believe I did provoke Percival by marrying Lord Delacorte. I cannot tell you how much this mere delights me. I was sure that the man has a lively remembrance of me, or else he would never make his wife take so much notice of my daughter. Surely your Ladyship does not think, said Belinda, that a wife is a being whose actions are necessarily governed by her husband. Not necessarily, but accidentally. When a lady accidentally sets up for being a good wife, she must have caused love, honour, and obey. Now you understand. I am not in the least obliged to Lady Anne for her kindness to Helena, because it all goes under the head of obedience in my imagination, and her Ladyship is paid for it by an ascension of character. She has the reward of having it said, Oh, Lady Anne Percival is the best wife in the world. Oh, Lady Anne Percival is quite a patterned woman. I hate patterned women. I hope I may never see Lady Anne, for I am sure I should test her beyond all things living. Mrs. Lutridge not accepted. Belinda was surprised, and shocked at the malignant vehemence with which her Ladyship uttered these words. It was in vain, however, that she remonstrated on the injustice of predetermining to detest Lady Anne, merely because she had shown kindness to Helena, and because she bore a high character. Lady Delacorte was a woman who never listened to reason, or who listened to it only that she might perry it by wit. Upon this occasion, her wit had not its usual effect upon Miss Portman. Instead of entertaining, it disgusted her. You have called me your friend, Lady Delacorte," said she. I should but ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to you, if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong. But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear," said Lady Delacorte, stopping her ears. So your conscience may be at ease. You may suppose that you have said everything that is wise and good and proper and sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends. You shall enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacorte and welcome, but remember, it is a sinicure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh, for my folly, alas, my dear, it is hardly worthwhile. My follies will soon be at an end, of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now. If you have had any humanity, you will not force me to reflect whilst I yet live. I must keep it up with incessant dissipation. The tea totem keeps upright only while it spins. So let us talk of the birth-night, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or the ridiculous figure Lady H. made at the concert, or let us talk of Heraldgate, or what you will. Pity succeeded to disgust, and his pleasure in Belinda's mind, and she could hardly refrain from tears whilst she saw this unhappy creature with forced smiles endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul. She could only say, But my dear Lady Delacorte, do not you think that your little Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to your happiness at home? Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me, said Lady Delacorte. Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay up on Lady Delacorte's lap. Can you wonder, continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear which she had let fall, can you wonder that I should talk of detesting Lady Anne Perceville? You see she has robbed me of the factions of my child. Helena asks to come home, yes, but how does she ask it, coldly, formally, as a duty? But look at the end of her letter. I have read it all, every bitter word of it. I have tasted how differently she writes. Look, even at the flowing hand, the moment she begins to speak of Lady Anne Perceville, then her soul breaks out. Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakley Park. She should be extremely happy to go, if I please. Yes, let her go. Let her go as far from me as possible. Let her never, never see her wretched mother more. Right! said Lady Delacorte, turning hastily to Belinda. Write in my name and tell her to go to Oakley Park, and to be happy. But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with you? said Belinda. Let us see her. Let us try the experiment. No! said Lady Delacorte. No! it is too late. I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim. Pride, anger, and sorrow struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She turned her face from Belinda and walked out of the room with dignity. Nothing remains for me to do, thought Belinda, but to soothe this hotty spirit. All other hope I see is vain. At this moment, Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay, brilliant Lady Delacorte was sinking into the grave, had formed a design worthy of his ardent and benevolent character. The manner in which her ladyship had spoken of his friend Dr. X, the sigh which she gave at the reflection that she might have been a very different character if she had early had a sensible friend, made a great impression upon Mr. Hervey. Till then he had merely considered her ladyship as an object of amusement and an introduction to high life, but he now felt so much interested for her that he determined to exert all his influence to promote her happiness. He knew that influence to be considerable. Not that he was either cox-combered dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacorte was in love with him. He was perfectly sensible that her only wish was to obtain his admiration, and he resolved to show her that it could no longer be secured without deserving his esteem. Clarence Hervey was a thoroughly generous young man capable of making the greatest sacrifices when encouraged by the hope of doing good. He determined to postpone the declaration of his attachment to Belinda that he might devote himself entirely to his new project. His plan was to wean Lady Delacorte by degrees from dissipation, by attaching her to her daughter, and to Lady Anne Percival. He was sanguine in all his hopes and rapid but not unthinking in all his decisions. From Lady Delacorte he went immediately to Dr. X, to whom he communicated his designs. I applaud your benevolent intentions, said the doctor. But have you really the presumption to hope that an ingenuous young man of four-and-twenty can reform a veteran coquette of four-and-thirty? Lady Delacorte is not yet thirty, said Clarence. But the older she is, the better the chance of her giving up a losing game. She has an admirable understanding, and she will soon, I mean, as soon as she is acquainted with Lady Anne Percival, discover that she has mistaken the road to happiness. All the difficulty will be to make them fairly acquainted with them, for this, my dear doctor, I must trust to you. Do you prepare Lady Anne to tolerate Lady Delacorte's faults, and I will prepare Lady Delacorte to tolerate Lady Anne's virtues? You have generously taken the more difficult task of the two, replied Dr. X. Well, we shall see what can be done. After the birthday Lady Delacorte talks of going to Heraldgate, you know, Oakley Park is not far from Heraldgate, so they will have to take my word for it. Nothing can be done till after the birthday. For Lady Delacorte's head is at present full of craped petticoats and horses and carriages, and a certain Mrs. Lutridge, whom she hates, with a hatred passing that of women.