Mr. Hervey. “I thought —”
“No matter what you thought,” interrupted her ladyship. “Let my carriage draw up, for here’s a young friend of yours trembling so about nothing, that I am half afraid she will faint; and you know it would not be so pleasant to faint here amongst footmen. Stay! this room is empty. O, I did not mean to tell you to stay,” said she to Hervey, who involuntarily followed her in the utmost consternation.
“I’m perfectly well, now — perfectly well,” said Belinda.
“Perfectly a simpleton, I think,” said Lady Delacour. “Nay, my dear, you must be ruled; your mask must come off: didn’t you tell me you wanted air? — What now! This is not the first time Clarence Hervey has ever seen your face without a mask, is it? It’s the first time indeed he, or anybody else, ever saw it of such a colour, I believe.”
When Lady Delacour pulled off Belinda’s mask, her face was, during the first instant, pale; the next moment, crimsoned over with a burning blush.
“What is the matter with ye both? How he stands!” said Lady Delacour, turning to Mr. Hervey. “Did you never see a woman blush before? — or did you never say or do any thing to make a woman blush before? Will you give Miss Portman a glass of water? — there’s some behind you on that sideboard, man! — but he has neither eyes, ears, nor understanding. — Do go about your business,” said her ladyship, pushing him towards the door —“Do go about your business, for I haven’t common patience with you: on my conscience I believe the man’s in love — and not with me! That’s sal-volatile for you, child, I perceive,” continued she to Belinda. “O, you can walk now — but remember you are on slippery ground: remember Clarence Hervey is not a marrying man, and you are not a married woman.”
“It is perfectly indifferent to me, madam,” Belinda said, with a voice and look of proud indignation.
“Lady Delacour, your carriage has drawn up,” said Clarence Hervey, returning to the door, but without entering.
“Then put this ‘perfectly well’ and ‘perfectly indifferent’ lady into it,” said Lady Delacour.
He obeyed without uttering a syllable.
“Dumb! absolutely dumb! I protest,” said her ladyship, as he handed her in afterwards. “Why, Clarence, the casting of your serpent’s skin seems to have quite changed your nature — nothing but the simplicity of the dove left; and I expect to hear, you cooing presently — don’t you, Miss Portman?” She ordered the coachman to drive to the Pantheon.
“To the Pantheon! I was in hopes your ladyship would have the goodness to set me down at home; for indeed I shall be a burden to you and everybody else at the masquerade.”
“If you have made any appointment for the rest of the evening in Berkley-square, I’ll set you down, certainly, if you insist upon it, my dear — for punctuality is a virtue; but prudence is a virtue too, in a young lady; who, as your aunt Stanhope would say, has to establish herself in the world. Why these tears, Belinda? — or are they tears? for by the light of the lamps I can scarcely tell; though I’ll swear I saw the handkerchief at the eyes. What is the meaning of all this? You’d best trust me — for I know as much of men and manners as your aunt Stanhope at least; and in one word, you have nothing to fear from me, and every thing to hope from yourself, if you will only dry up your tears, keep on your mask, and take my advice; you’ll find it as good as your aunt Stanhope’s.”
“My aunt Stanhope’s! O,” cried Belinda, “never, never more will I take such advice; never more will I expose myself to be insulted as a female adventurer. — Little did I know in what a light I appeared; little did I know what gentlemen thought of my aunt Stanhope, of my cousins, of myself!”
“Gentlemen! I presume Clarence Hervey stands at this instant, in your imagination, as the representative of all the gentlemen in England; and he, instead of Anacharsis Cloots, is now, to be sure, l’orateur du genre humain. Pray let me have a specimen of the eloquence, which, to judge by its effects, must be powerful indeed.”
Miss Portman, not without some reluctance, repeated the conversation which she had heard. —“And is this all?” cried Lady Delacour. “Lord, my dear, you must either give up living in the world, or expect to hear yourself, and your aunts, and your cousins, and your friends, from generation to generation, abused every hour in the day by their friends and your friends; ’tis the common course of things. Now you know what a multitude of obedient humble servants, dear creatures, and very sincere and most affectionate friends, I have in my writing-desk, and on my mantel-piece, not to mention the cards which crowd the common rack from intimate acquaintance, who cannot live without the honour, or favour, or pleasure of seeing Lady Delacour twice a week; — do you think I’m fool enough to imagine that they would care the hundredth part of a straw if I were this minute thrown into the Red or the Black Sea? — No, I have not one real friend in the world except Harriot Freke; yet, you see I am the comic muse, and mean to keep it up — keep it up to the last — on purpose to provoke those who would give their eyes to be able to pity me; — I humbly thank them, no pity for Lady Delacour. Follow my example, Belinda; elbow your way through the crowd: if you stop to be civil and beg pardon, and ’hope I didn’t hurt ye,’ you will be trod under foot. Now you’ll meet those young men continually who took the liberty of laughing at your aunt, and your cousins, and yourself; they are men of fashion. Show them you’ve no feeling, and they’ll acknowledge you for a woman of fashion. You’ll marry better than any of your cousins — Clarence Hervey if you can; and then it will be your turn to laugh about nets and cages. As to love and all that —”
The carriage stopped at the Pantheon just as her ladyship came to the words “love and all that.” Her thoughts took a different turn, and during the remainder of the night she exhibited, in such a manner as to attract universal admiration, all the ease, and grace, and gaiety, of Euphrosyne.
To Belinda the night appeared long and dull: the commonplace wit of chimney-sweepers and gipsies, the antics of harlequins, the graces of flower-girls and Cleopatras, had not power to amuse her; for her thoughts still recurred to that conversation which had given her so much pain — a pain which Lady Delacour’s raillery had failed to obliterate.
“How happy you are, Lady Delacour,” said she, when they got into the carriage to go home; “how happy you are to have such an amazing flow of spirits!”
“Amazing you might well say, if you knew all,” said Lady Delacour; and she heaved a deep sigh, threw herself back in the carriage, let fall her mask, and was silent. It was broad daylight, and Belinda had a full view of her countenance, which was the picture of despair. She uttered not one syllable more, nor had Miss Portman the courage to interrupt her meditations till they came within sight, of Lady Singleton’s, when Belinda ventured to remind her that she had resolved to stop there and change dresses before Marriott saw them.
“No, it’s no matter,” said Lady Delacour; “Marriott will leave me at the last, like all the rest —’tis no matter.” Her ladyship sunk back into her former attitude; but after she had remained silent for some minutes, she started up and exclaimed —
“If I had served myself with half the zeal that I have served the world, I should not now be thus forsaken! I have sacrificed reputation, happiness, every thing to the love of frolic:— all frolic will soon be at an end with me — I am dying — and I shall die unlamented by any human being. If I were to live my life over again, what a different life it should be! — What a different person I would be![1]— But it is all over now — I am dying.”
Belinda’s astonishment at these words, and at the solemn manner in which they were
