“What association of ideas could just at that instant take you to Harrowgate? When do I go to Harrowgate? 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.
“Well, my dear, are you still poring over that letter of Helena’s?” said Lady Delacour to Miss Portman.
“I fancy your ladyship did not quite finish it,” said Belinda.
“No; I saw something about the Leverian Museum, and a swallow’s nest in a pair of garden-shears; 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 Delacour says of the lady who took her to that Museum?”
“Not I. What lady? her Aunt Margaret?”
“No; Mrs. Margaret Delacour, she says, has been so ill for some time past, that she goes no where but to Lady Anne Percival’s.”
“Poor woman,” said Lady Delacour, “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 Leverian Museum?”
“Lady Anne Percival; of whom she speaks with so much gratitude and affection, that I quite long ——”
“Lord bless me!” interrupted Lady Delacour, “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, upon my word,” said Lady Delacour, laughing.
“Why will you delight in making yourself appear less good than you are, my dear Lady Delacour?” 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 Delacour: I cannot tell you how much this Mea delights me — I am 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 a husband.”
“Not necessarily — but accidentally. When a lady accidentally sets up for being a good wife, she must of course 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 accession 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 pattern woman!’ I hate pattern women. I hope I may never see Lady Anne; for I’m sure I should detest her beyond all things living — Mrs. Luttridge not excepted.”
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 Delacour was a woman who never listened to reason, or who listened to it only that she might parry 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 Delacour,” 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 Delacour, stopping her ears. “So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose that you have said every thing 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 Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh — for my folly. Alas! my dear, ’tis hardly worth while — my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must keep it up with incessant dissipation — the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us talk of the birthnight, 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 Harrowgate, or what you will.”
Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure 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 Delacour, 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 Delacour.
Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour’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 Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections 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 Percival; then her soul breaks out: ‘Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakly-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! — Write,” said Lady Delacour, turning hastily to Belinda, “write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-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 Delacour; “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 sooth this haughty spirit: all other hope, I see, is vain.
At this moment Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay, brilliant Lady Delacour 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 coxcomb or dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacour was in love with him; he was
