CHAPTER XVII. — RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
Belinda was alone, and reading, when Mrs. Freke dashed into the room.
“How do, dear creature?” cried she, stepping up to her, and shaking hands with her boisterously—“How do?—Glad to see you, faith!—Been long here?—Tremendously hot to-day!”
She flung herself upon the sofa beside Belinda, threw her hat upon the table, and then continued speaking.
“And how d’ye go on here, poor child?—Gad! I’m glad you’re alone—expected to find you encompassed by a whole host of the righteous. Give me credit for my courage in coming to deliver you out of their hands. Luttridge and I had such compassion upon you, when we heard you were close prisoner here! I swore to set the distressed damsel free, in spite of all the dragons in Christendom; so let me carry you off in triumph in my unicorn, and leave these good people to stare when they come home from their sober walk, and find you gone. There’s nothing I like so much as to make good people stare—I hope you’re of my way o’ thinking—-you don’t look as if you were, though; but I never mind young ladies’ looks—always give the lie to their thoughts. Now we talk o’ looks—never saw you look so well in my life—as handsome as an angel! And so much the better for me. Do you know, I’ve a bet of twenty guineas on your head—on your face, I mean. There’s a young bride at Harrowgate, Lady H——, they’re all mad about her; the men swear she’s the handsomest woman in England, and I swear I know one ten times as handsome. They’ve dared me to make good my word, and I’ve pledged myself to produce my beauty at the next ball, and to pit her against their belle for any money. Most votes carry it. I’m willing to double my bet since I’ve seen you again. Come, had not we best be off? Now don’t refuse me and make speeches—you know that’s all nonsense—I’ll take all the blame upon myself.”
Belinda, who had not been suffered to utter a word whilst Mrs. Freke ran on in this strange manner, looked in unfeigned astonishment; but when she found herself seized and dragged towards the door, she drew back with a degree of gentle firmness that astonished Mrs. Freke. With a smiling countenance, but a steady tone, she said, “that she was sorry Mrs. Freke’s knight-errantry should not be exerted in a better cause, for that she was neither a prisoner, nor a distressed damsel.”
“And will you make me lose my bet?” cried Mrs. Freke “Oh, at all events, you must come to the ball!—I’m down for it. But I’ll not press it now, because you’re frightened out of your poor little wits, I see, at the bare thoughts of doing any thing considered out of rule by these good people. Well, well! it shall be managed for you—leave that to me: I’m used to managing for cowards. Pray tell me—you and Lady Delacour are off, I understand?—Give ye joy!—She and I were once great friends; that is to say, I had over her ‘that power which strong minds have over weak ones,’ but she was too weak for me—one of those people that have neither courage to be good, nor to be bad.”
“The courage to be bad,” said Belinda, “I believe, indeed, she does not possess.”
Mrs. Freke stared. “Why, I heard you had quarrelled with her!”
“If I had,” said Belinda, “I hope that I should still do justice to her merits. It is said that people are apt to suffer more by their friends than their enemies. I hope that will never be the case with Lady Delacour, as I confess that I have been one of her friends.”
“‘Gad, I like your spirit—you don’t want courage, I see, to fight even for your enemies. You are just the kind of girl I admire. I see you have been prejudiced against me by Lady Delacour; but whatever stories she may have trumped up, the truth of the matter is this, there’s no living with her, she’s so jealous—so ridiculously jealous—of that lord of hers, for whom all the time she has the impudence to pretend not to care more than I do for the sole of my boot,” said Mrs. Freke, striking it, with her whip; “but she hasn’t the courage to give him tit for tat: now this is what I call weakness. Pray, how do she and Clarence Hervey go on together?—Are they out o’ the hornbook of platonics yet?”
“Mr. Hervey was not in town when I left it,” said Belinda.
“Was not he?—Ho! ho!—He’s off then!—Ay, so I prophesied; she’s not the thing for him: he has some strength of mind—some soul—above vulgar prejudices; so must a woman be to hold him. He was caught at first by her grace and beauty, and that sort of stuff; but I knew it could not last—knew she’d dilly dally with Clary, till he would turn upon his heel and leave her there.”
“I fancy that you are entirely mistaken both with respect to Mr. Hervey and Lady Delacour,” Belinda very seriously began to say. But Mrs. Freke interrupted her, and ran on; “No! no! no! I’m not mistaken; Clarence has found her out. She’s a very woman—that he could forgive her, and so could I; but she’s a mere woman—and that he can’t forgive—no more can I.”
There was a kind of drollery about Mrs. Freke, which, with some people, made the odd things she said pass for wit. Humour she really possessed; and when she chose it, she could be diverting to those who like buffoonery in women. She had set her heart upon winning Belinda over to her party. She began by flattery of her beauty; but as she saw that this had no effect, she next tried what could be done by insinuating that she had a high opinion of her understanding, by talking to her as an esprit fort.
“For my part,” said she, “I own I should like a strong devil better than a weak angel.”
“You forget,” said Belinda, “that it is not Milton, but Satan, who says,
“You read, I see!—I did not know you were a reading girl. So was I once; but I never read now. Books only spoil the originality of genius: very well for those who can’t think for themselves—but when one has made up one’s opinion, there is no use in reading.”
“But to make them up,” replied Belinda, “may it not be useful?”
“Of no use upon earth to minds of a certain class. You, who can think for yourself, should never read.”
“But I read that I may think for myself.”
“Only ruin your understanding, trust me. Books are full of trash—nonsense, conversation is worth all the books in the world.”
“And is there never any nonsense in conversation?”
“What have you here?” continued Mrs. Freke, who did not choose to attend to this question; exclaiming, as she reviewed each of the books on the table in their turns, in the summary language of presumptuous ignorance, “Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments—milk and water! Moore’s Travels—hasty pudding! La Bruyère—nettle porridge! This is what you were at when I came in, was it not?” said she, taking up a book8 in which she saw Belinda’s mark: “Against Inconsistency in our Expectations. Poor thing! who bored you with this task?”
“Mr. Percival recommended it to me, as one of the best essays in the English language.”
“The devil! they seem to have put you in a course of the bitters—a course of the woods might do your business better. Do you ever hunt?—Let me take you out with me some morning—you’d be quite an angel on horseback; or let me drive you out some day in my unicorn.”
Belinda declined this invitation, and Mrs. Freke strode away to the window to conceal her mortification, threw up the sash, and called out to her groom, “Walk those horses about, blockhead!”
Mr. Percival and Mr. Vincent at this instant came into the room.
“Hail, fellow! well met!” cried Mrs. Freke, stretching out her hand to Mr. Vincent.
It has been remarked, that an antipathy subsists between creatures, who, without being the same, have yet a strong external resemblance. Mr. Percival saw this instinct rising in Mr. Vincent, and smiled.
“Hail, fellow! well met! I say. Shake hands and be friends, man! Though I’m not in the habit of making apologies, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I beg your pardon for frightening your poor devil of a black.”
Then turning towards Mr. Percival, she measured him with her eye, as a person whom she longed to attack. She thought, that if Belinda’s opinion of the understanding of these Percivals could be lowered, she should rise in her esteem: accordingly, she determined to draw Mr. Percival into an argument.
“I’ve been talking treason, I believe, to Miss Portman,” cried she; “for I’ve been opposing some of your opinions, Mr. Percival.”
“If you opposed them all, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “I should not think it treason.”
“Vastly polite!—But I think all our politeness hypocrisy: what d’ye say to that?”
“You know that best, madam!”
“Then I’ll go a step farther; for I’m determined you shall contradict me: I think all virtue is hypocrisy.”
“I need not contradict you, madam,” said Mr. Percival, “for the terms which you make use of contradict themselves.”
“It is my system,” pursued Mrs. Freke, “that shame is always the cause of the vices of women.”
“It is sometimes the effect,” said Mr. Percival; “and, as cause and effect are reciprocal, perhaps you may, in some instances, be right.”
“Oh! I hate qualifying arguers—plump assertion or plump denial for me: you sha’n’t get off so. I say shame is the cause of all women’s vices.”
“False shame, I suppose you mean?” said Mr. Percival.
“Mere play upon words! All shame is false shame—we should be a great deal better without it. What say you, Miss Portman?—Silent, hey? Silence that speaks.”
“Miss Portman’s blushes,” said Mr. Vincent, “speak for her.”
“Against her,” said Mrs. Freke: “women blush because they understand.”
“And you would have them understand without blushing?” said Mr. Percival. “I grant you that nothing can be more different than innocence and ignorance. Female delicacy—”
“This is just the way you men spoil women,” cried Mrs. Freke, “by talking to them of the delicacy of their sex, and such stuff. This delicacy enslaves the pretty delicate dears.”
“No; it enslaves us,” said Mr. Vincent.
“I hate slavery! Vive la liberté!” cried Mrs. Freke. “I’m a champion for the Rights of Woman.”
“I am an advocate for their happiness,” said Mr. Percival, “and for their delicacy, as I think it conduces to their happiness.”
“I’m an enemy to their delicacy, as I am sure it conduces to their misery.”
“You speak from experience?” said Mr. Percival.
“No, from observation. Your most delicate women are always the greatest hypocrites; and, in my opinion, no hypocrite can or ought to be happy.”
“But you have not proved the hypocrisy,” said Belinda. “Delicacy is not, I hope, an indisputable proof of it? If you mean false delicacy——”
“To cut the matter short at once,” cried Mrs. Freke, “why, when a woman likes a man, does not she go and tell him so honestly?”
Belinda, surprised by this question from a woman, was too much abashed instantly to answer.
“Because she’s a hypocrite. That is and must be the answer.”
“No,” said Mr. Percival; “because, if she be a woman of sense, she knows that by such a step she would disgust the object of her affection.”
“Cunning!—cunning!—cunning!—the arms of the weakest.”
“Prudence! prudence!—the arms of the strongest. Taking the best means to secure our own happiness without injuring that of others is the best proof of sense and strength of mind, whether in man or woman. Fortunately for society, the same conduct in ladies which best secures their happiness most increases ours.”
Mrs. Freke beat the devil’s tattoo for some moments, and then exclaimed, “You may say what you will, but the present system of society is radically wrong:—whatever is, is wrong.”
“How would you improve the state of society?” asked Mr. Percival, calmly.
“I’m not tinker-general to the world,” said she.
“I’m glad of it,” said Mr. Percival; “for I have heard that tinkers often spoil more than they mend.”
“But if you want to know,” said Mrs. Freke, “what I would do to improve the world, I’ll tell you: I’d have both sexes call things by their right names.”
“This would doubtless be a great improvement,” said Mr. Percival; “but you would not overturn society to attain it, would you? Should we find things much improved by tearing away what has been called the decent drapery of life?”
“Drapery, if you ask me my opinion,” cried Mrs. Freke, “drapery, whether wet or dry, is the most confoundedly indecent thing in the world.”
“That depends on public opinion, I allow,” said Mr. Percival. “The Lacedaemonian ladies, who were veiled only by public opinion, were better covered from profane eyes than some English ladies are in wet drapery.”
“I know nothing of the Lacedaemonian ladies: I took my leave of them when I was a schoolboy—girl, I should say. But pray, what o’clock is it by you? I’ve sat till I’m cramped all over,” cried Mrs. Freke, getting up and stretching herself so violently that some part of her habiliments gave way. “Honi soit qui mal y pense!” said she, bursting into a horse laugh.
Without sharing in any degree that confusion which Belinda felt for her, she strode out of the room, saying, “Miss Portman, you understand these things better than I do; come and set me to rights.”
When she was in Belinda’s room, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and laughed immoderately.
“How I have trimmed Percival this morning!” said she.
“I am glad you think so,” said Belinda; “for I really was afraid he had been too severe upon you.”
“I only wish,” continued Mrs. Freke, “I only wish his wife had been by. Why the devil did not she make her appearance? I suppose the prude was afraid of my demolishing and unrigging her.”
“There seems to have been more danger of that for you than for any body else,” said Belinda, as she assisted to set Mrs. Freke’s rigging, as she called it, to rights.
“I do of all things delight in hauling good people’s opinions out of their musty drawers, and seeing how they look when they’re all pulled to pieces before their faces! Pray, are those Lady Anne’s drawers or yours?” said Mrs. Freke, pointing to a chest of drawers.
“Mine.”
“I’m sorry for it; for if they were hers, to punish her for shirking me, by the Lord, I’d have every rag she has in the world out in the middle of the floor in ten minutes! You don’t know me—I’m a terrible person when provoked—stop at nothing!”
As Mrs. Freke saw no other chance left of gaining her point with Belinda, she tried what intimidating her would do.
“I stop at nothing,” repeated she, fixing her eyes upon Miss Portman, to fascinate her by terror. “Friend or foe! peace or war! Take your choice. Come to the ball at Harrowgate, I win my bet, and I’m your sworn friend. Stay away, I lose my bet, and am your sworn enemy.”
“It is not in my power, madam,” said Belinda, calmly, “to comply with your request.”
“Then you’ll take the consequences,” cried Mrs. Freke. She rushed past her, hurried down stairs, and called out, “Bid my blockhead bring my unicorn.”
She, her unicorn, and her blockhead, were out of sight in a few minutes.
Good may be drawn from evil. Mrs. Freke’s conversation, though at the time it confounded Belinda, roused her, upon reflection, to examine by her reason the habits and principles which guided her conduct. She had a general feeling that they were right and necessary; but now, with the assistance of Lady Anne and Mr. Percival, she established in her own understanding the exact boundaries between right and wrong upon many subjects. She felt a species of satisfaction and security, from seeing the demonstration of those axioms of morality, in which she had previously acquiesced. Reasoning gradually became as agreeable to her as wit; nor was her taste for wit diminished, it was only refined by this process. She now compared and judged of the value of the different species of this brilliant talent.
Mrs. Freke’s wit, thought she, is like a noisy squib, the momentary terror of passengers; Lady Delacour’s like an elegant firework, which we crowd to see, and cannot forbear to applaud; but Lady Anne Percival’s wit is like the refulgent moon, we
“Miss Portman,” said Mr. Percival, “are not you afraid of making an enemy of Mrs. Freke, by declining her invitation to Harrowgate?”
“I think her friendship more to be dreaded than her enmity,” replied Belinda.
“Then you are not to be terrified by an obeah-woman?” said Mr. Vincent.
“Not in the least, unless she were to come in the shape of a false friend,” said Belinda.
“Till lately,” said Mr. Vincent, “I was deceived in the character of Mrs. Freke. I thought her a dashing, free-spoken, free-hearted sort of eccentric person, who would make a staunch friend and a jolly companion. As a mistress, or a wife, no man of any taste could think of her. Compare that woman now with one of our Creole ladies.”
“But why with a creole?” said Mr. Percival.
“For the sake of contrast, in the first place: our creole women are all softness, grace, delicacy——”
“And indolence,” said Mr. Percival.
“Their indolence is but a slight, and, in my judgment, an amiable defect; it keeps them out of mischief, and it attaches them to domestic life. The activity of a Mrs. Freke would never excite their emulation; and so much the better.”
“So much the better, no doubt,” said Mr. Percival. “But is there no other species of activity that might excite their ambition with propriety? Without diminishing their grace, softness, or delicacy, might not they cultivate their minds? Do you think ignorance, as well as indolence, an amiable defect, essential to the female character?”
“Not essential. You do not, I hope, imagine that I am so much prejudiced in favour of my countrywomen, that I can neither see nor feel the superiority in some instances of European cultivation? I speak only in general.”
“And in general,” said Lady Anne Percival, “does Mr. Vincent wish to confine our sex to the bliss of ignorance?”
“If it be bliss,” said Mr. Vincent, “what reason would they have for complaint?”
“If,” said Belinda; “but that is a question which you have not yet decided.”
“And how can we decide it?” said Mr. Vincent, “The taste and feelings of individuals must be the arbiters of their happiness.”
“You leave reason quite out of the question, then,” said Mr. Percival, “and refer the whole to taste and feeling? So that if the most ignorant person in the world assert that he is happier than you are, you are bound to believe him.”
“Why should not I?” said Mr. Vincent.
“Because,” said Mr. Percival, “though he can judge of his own pleasures, he cannot judge of yours; his are common to both, but yours are unknown to him. Would you, at this instant, change places with that ploughman yonder, who is whistling as he goes for want of thought? or, would you choose to go a step higher in the bliss of ignorance, and turn savage?”
Mr. Vincent laughed, and protested that he should be very unwilling to give up his title to civilized society; and that, instead of wishing to have less knowledge, he regretted that he had not more. “I am sensible,” said he, “that I have many prejudices;—Miss Portman has made me ashamed of some of them.”
There was a degree of candour in Mr. Vincent’s manner and conversation, which interested every body in his favour; Belinda amongst the rest. She was perfectly at ease in Mr. Vincent’s company, because she considered him as a person who wished for her friendship, without having any design to engage her affections. From several hints that dropped from him, from Mr. Percival, and from Lady Anne, she was persuaded that he was attached to some creole lady; and all that he said in favour of the elegant softness and delicacy of his countrywomen confirmed this opinion.
Miss Portman was not one of those young ladies who fancy that every gentleman who converses freely with them will inevitably fall a victim to the power of their charms, and will see in every man a lover, or nothing.
CHAPTER XVIII. — A DECLARATION.
“I’ve found it!—I’ve found it, mamma!” cried little Charles Percival, running eagerly into the room with a plant in his hand. “Will you send this in your letter to Helena Delacour, and tell her that is the thing that gold fishes are so fond of? And tell her that it is called lemna, and that it may be found in any ditch or pool.”
“But how can she find ditches and pools in Grosvenor-square, my dear?”
“Oh, I forgot that. Then will you tell her, mamma, that I will send her a great quantity?”
“How, my dear?”
“I don’t know, mamma, yet—but I will find out some way.”
“Would it not be as well, my dear,” said his mother, smiling, “to consider how you can perform your promises before you make them?”
“A gentleman,” said Mr. Vincent, “never makes a promise that he cannot perform.”
“I know that very well,” said the boy, proudly: “Miss Portman, who is very good-natured, will, I am sure, be so good, when she goes back to Lady Delacour, as to carry food for the gold fishes to Helena—you see that I have found out a way to keep my promise.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Belinda; “for I am not going back to Lady Delacour’s.”
“Then I am very glad of it!” said the boy, dropping the weed, and clapping his hands joyfully; “for then I hope you will always stay here, don’t you, mamma?—don’t you, Mr. Vincent? Oh, you do, I am sure, for I heard you say so to papa the other day! But what makes you grow so red?”
His mother took him by the hand, as he was going to repeat the question, and leading him out of the room, desired him to show her the place where he found the food for the gold fishes.
Belinda, to Mr. Vincent’s great relief, seemed not to take any notice of the child’s question, nor to have any sympathy in his curiosity; she was intently copying Westall’s sketch of Lady Anne Percival and her family, and she had been roused, by the first mention of Helena Delacour’s name, to many painful and some pleasing recollections. “What a charming woman, and what a charming family!” said Mr. Vincent, as he looked at the drawing; “and how much more interesting is this picture of domestic happiness than all the pictures of shepherds and shepherdesses, and gods and goddesses, that ever were drawn!”
“Yes,” said Belinda, “and how much more interesting this picture is to us, from our knowing that it is not a fancy-piece; that the happiness is real, not imaginary: that this is the natural expression of affection in the countenance of the mother; and that these children, who crowd round her, are what they seem to be—the pride and pleasure of her life!”
“There cannot,” exclaimed Mr. Vincent, with enthusiasm, “be a more delightful picture! Oh, Miss Portman, is it possible that you should not feel what you can paint so well?”
“Is it possible, sir,” said Belinda, “that you should suspect me of such wretched hypocrisy, as to affect to admire what I am incapable of feeling?”
“You misunderstand—you totally misunderstand me. Hypocrisy! No; there is not a woman upon earth whom I believe to be so far above all hypocrisy, all affectation. But I imagined—I feared—”
As he spoke these last words he was in some confusion, and hastily turned over the prints in a portfolio which lay upon the table. Belinda’s eye was caught by an engraving of Lady Delacour in the character of the comic muse. Mr. Vincent did not know the intimacy that had subsisted between her ladyship and Miss Portman—she sighed from the recollection of Clarence Hervey, and of all that had passed at the masquerade.
“What a contrast!” said Mr. Vincent, placing the print of Lady Delacour beside the picture of Lady Anne Percival. “What a contrast! Compare their pictures—compare their characters—compare—”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Belinda; “Lady Delacour was once my friend, and I do not like to make a comparison so much to her disadvantage. I have never seen any woman who would not suffer by a comparison with Lady Anne Percival.”
“I have been more fortunate, I have seen one—one equally worthy of esteem—admiration—love.”
Mr. Vincent’s voice faltered in pronouncing the word love; yet Belinda, prepossessed by the idea that he was attached to some creole lady, simply answered, without looking up from her drawing, “You are indeed very fortunate—peculiarly fortunate. Are the West-Indian ladies——”
“West-Indian ladies!” interrupted Mr. Vincent. “Surely, Miss Portman cannot imagine that I am at this instant thinking of any West-Indian lady!” Belinda looked up with an air of surprise. “Charming Miss Portman,” continued he, “I have learnt to admire European beauty, European excellence! I have acquired new ideas of the female character—ideas—feelings that must henceforward render me exquisitely happy or exquisitely miserable.”
Miss Portman had been too often called “charming” to be much startled or delighted by the sound: the word would have passed by unnoticed, but there was something so impassioned in Mr. Vincent’s manner, that she could no longer mistake it for common gallantry, and she was in evident confusion. Now for the first time the idea of Mr. Vincent as a lover came into her mind: the next instant she accused herself of vanity, and dreaded that he should read her thoughts. “Exquisitely miserable!” said she, in a tone of raillery: “I should not suppose, from what I have seen of Mr. Vincent, that any thing could make him exquisitely miserable.”
“Then you do not know my character—you do not know my heart: it is in your power to make me exquisitely miserable. Mine is not the cold, hackneyed phrase of gallantry, but the fervid language of passion,” cried he, seizing her hand.
At this instant one of the children came in with some flowers to Belinda; and, glad of the interruption, she hastily put up her drawings and left the room, observing that she should scarcely have time to dress before dinner. However, as soon as she found herself alone, she forgot how late it was; and though she sat down before the glass to dress, she made no progress in the business, but continued for some time motionless, endeavouring to recollect and to understand all that had passed. The result of her reflections was the conviction that her partiality for Clarence Hervey was greater than she ever had till this moment suspected. “I have told my aunt Stanhope,” thought she, “that the idea of Mr. Hervey had no influence in my refusal of Sir Philip Baddely; I have said that my affections are entirely at my own command: then why do I feel this alarm at the discovery of Mr. Vincent’s views? Why do I compare him with one whom I thought I had forgotten?—And yet how are we to judge of character? How can we form any estimate of what is amiable, of what will make us happy or miserable, but by comparison? Am I to blame for perceiving superiority? Am I to blame if one person be more agreeable, or seem to be more agreeable, than another? Am I to blame if I cannot love Mr. Vincent?”
Before Belinda had answered these questions to her satisfaction, the dinner-bell rang. There happened to dine this day at Mr. Percival’s a gentleman who had just arrived from Lisbon, and the conversation turned upon the sailors’ practice of stilling the waves over the bar of Lisbon by throwing oil upon the water. Charles Percival’s curiosity was excited by this conversation, and he wished to see the experiment. In the evening his father indulged his wishes. The children were delighted at the sight, and little Charles insisted upon Belinda’s following him to a particular spot, where he was well convinced that she could see better than any where else in the world. “Take care,” cried Lady Anne, “or you will lead your friend into the river, Charles.” The boy paused, and soon afterwards asked his father several questions about swimming and drowning, and bringing people to life after they had been drowned. “Don’t you remember, papa,” said he, “that Mr. Hervey, who was almost drowned in the Serpentine river in London?”—Belinda coloured at hearing unexpectedly the name of the person of whom she was at that instant thinking, and the child continued—“I liked that Mr. Hervey very much—I liked him from the first day I saw him. What a number of entertaining things he told us at dinner! We used to call him the good-natured gentleman: I like him very much—I wish he was here this minute. Did you ever see him, Miss Portman? Oh, yes, you must have seen him; for it was he who carried Helena’s gold fishes to her mother, and he used often to be at Lady Delacour’s—was not he?”
“Yes, my dear, often.”
“And did not you like him very much?”—This simple question threw Belinda into inexpressible confusion: but fortunately the crimson on her face was seen only by Lady Anne Percival. To Belinda’s great satisfaction, Mr. Vincent forbore this evening any attempt to renew the conversation of the morning; he endeavoured to mix, with his usual animation and gaiety, in the family society; and her embarrassment was much lessened when she heard the next day, at breakfast, that he was gone to Harrowgate. Lady Anne Percival took notice that she was this morning unusually sprightly.
After breakfast, as they were passing through the hall to take a walk in the park, one of the little boys stopped to look at a musical instrument which hung up against the wall.
“What is this, mamma?—It is not a guitar, is it?”
“No, my dear, it is called a banjore; it is an African instrument, of which the negroes are particularly fond. Mr. Vincent mentioned it the other day to Miss Portman, and I believe she expressed some curiosity to see one. Juba went to work immediately to make a banjore, I find. Poor fellow! I dare say that he was very sorry to go to Harrowgate, and to leave his African guitar half finished; especially as it was intended for an offering to Miss Portman. He is the most grateful, affectionate creature I ever saw.”
“But why, mamma,” said Charles Percival, “is Mr. Vincent gone away? I am sorry he is gone; I hope he will soon come back. In the mean time, I must run and water my carnations.”
“His sorrow for his friend Mr. Vincent’s departure does not seem to affect his spirits much,” said Lady Anne. “People who expect sentiment from children of six years old will be disappointed, and will probably teach them affectation. Surely it is much better to let their natural affections have time to expand. If we tear the rosebud open we spoil the flower.” Belinda smiled at this parable of the rosebud, which, she said, might be applied to men and women, as well as to children.
“And yet, upon reflection,” said Lady Anne, “the heart has nothing in common with a rosebud. Nonsensical allusions pass off very prettily in conversation. I mean, when we converse with partial friends: but we should reason ill, and conduct ourselves worse, if we were to trust implicitly to poetical analogies. Our affections,” continued Lady Anne, “arise from circumstances totally independent of our will.”
“That is the very thing I meant to say,” interrupted Belinda, eagerly.
“They are excited by the agreeable or useful qualities that we discover in things or in persons.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Belinda.
“Or by those which our fancies discover,” said Lady Anne.
Belinda was silent; but, after a pause, she said, “That it was certainly very dangerous, especially for women, to trust to fancy in bestowing their affections.” “And yet,” said Lady Anne, “it is a danger to which they are much exposed in society. Men have it in their power to assume the appearance of every thing that is amiable and estimable, and women have scarcely any opportunities of detecting the counterfeit.”
“Without Ithuriel’s spear, how can they distinguish the good from the evil?” said Belinda. “This is a common-place complaint, I know; the ready excuse that we silly young women plead, when we make mistakes for which our friends reproach us, and for which we too often reproach ourselves.”
“The complaint is common-place precisely because it is general and just,” replied Lady Anne. “In the slight and frivolous intercourse, which fashionable belles usually have with those fashionable beaux who call themselves their lovers, it is surprising that they can discover any thing of each other’s real character. Indeed they seldom do; and this probably is the cause why there are so many unsuitable and unhappy marriages. A woman who has an opportunity of seeing her lover in private society, in domestic life, has infinite advantages; for if she has any sense, and he has any sincerity, the real character of both may perhaps be developed.”
“True,” said Belinda (who now suspected that Lady Anne alluded to Mr. Vincent); “and in such a situation a woman would readily be able to decide whether the man who addressed her would suit her taste or not; so she would be inexcusable if, either from vanity or coquetry, she disguised her real sentiments.”
“And will Miss Portman, who cannot, by any one to whom she is known, be suspected of vanity or coquetry, permit me to speak to her with the freedom of a friend?”
Belinda, touched by the kindness of Lady Anne’s manner, pressed her hand, and exclaimed, “Yes, dear Lady Anne, speak to me with freedom—you cannot do me a greater favour. No thought of my mind, no secret feeling of my heart, shall be concealed from you.”
“Do not imagine that I wish to encroach upon the generous openness of your temper,” said Lady Anne; “tell me when I go too far, and I will be silent. One who, like Miss Portman, has lived in the world, has seen a variety of characters, and probably has had a variety of admirers, must have formed some determinate idea of the sort of companion that would make her happy, if she were to marry—unless,” said Lady Anne, “she has formed a resolution against marriage.”
“I have formed no such resolution,” said Belinda. “Indeed, since I have seen the happiness which you and Mr. Percival enjoy in your own family, I have been much more disposed to think that a union—that a union such as yours, would increase my happiness. At the same time, my aversion to the idea of marrying from interest, or convenience, or from any motives but esteem and love, is increased almost to horror. O Lady Anne! there is nothing that I would not do to please the friends to whom I am under obligations, except sacrificing my peace of mind, or my integrity, the happiness of my life, by—”
Lady Anne, in a gentle tone, assured her, that she was the last person in the world who would press her to any union which would make her unhappy. “You perceive that Mr. Vincent has spoken to me of what passed between you yesterday. You perceive that I am his friend, but do not forget that I am also yours. If you fear undue influence from any of your relations in favour of Mr. Vincent’s large fortune, &c. let his proposal remain a secret between ourselves, till you can decide, from farther acquaintance with him, whether it will be in your power to return his affection.”
“I fear, my dear Lady Anne,” cried Belinda, “that it is not in my power to return his affection.”
“And may I ask your objections?”
“Is it not a sufficient objection, that I am persuaded I cannot love him?”
“No; for you may be mistaken in that persuasion. Remember what we said a little while ago, about fancy and spontaneous affections. Does Mr. Vincent appear to you defective in any of the qualities which you think essential to happiness? Mr. Percival has known him from the time he was a man, and can answer for his integrity and his good temper. Are not these the first points you would consider? They ought to be, I am sure, and I believe they are. Of his understanding I shall say nothing, because you have had full opportunities of judging of it from his conversation.”
“Mr. Vincent appears to have a good understanding,” said Belinda.
“Then to what do you object?—Is there any thing disgusting to you in his person or manners?”
“He is very handsome, he is well bred, and his manners are unaffected,” said Belinda; “but—do not accuse me of caprice—altogether he does not suit my taste; and I cannot think it sufficient not to feel disgust for a husband—though I believe this is the fashionable doctrine.”
“It is not mine, I assure you,” said Lady Anne. “I am not one of those who think it ‘safest to begin with a little aversion;’ but since you acknowledge that Mr. Vincent possesses the essential good qualities that entitle him to your esteem, I am satisfied. We gradually acquire knowledge of the good qualities of those who endeavour to please us; and if they are really amiable, their persons become agreeable to us by degrees, when we become accustomed to them.”
“Accustomed!” said Belinda, smiling: “one does grow accustomed even to disagreeable things certainly; but at this rate, my dear Lady Anne, I do not doubt but one might grow accustomed to Caliban.”
“My belief in the reconciling power of custom does not go quite so far,” said Lady Anne. “It does not extend to Caliban, or even to the hero of La Belle et La Bête; but I do believe, that, in a mind so well regulated as yours, esteem may certainly in time be improved into love. I will tell Mr. Vincent so, my dear.”
“No, my dear Lady Anne! no; you must not—indeed you must not. You have too good an opinion of me—my mind is not so well regulated—I am much weaker, much sillier, than you imagine—than you can conceive,” said Belinda.
Lady Anne soothed her with the most affectionate expressions, and concluded with saying, “Mr. Vincent has promised not to return from Harrowgate, to torment you with his addresses, if you be absolutely determined against him. He is of too generous, and perhaps too proud a temper, to persecute you with vain solicitations; and however Mr. Percival and I may wish that he could obtain such a wife, we shall have the common, or uncommon, sense and good-nature to allow our friends to be happy their own way.”
“You are very good—too good. But am I then to be the cause of banishing Mr. Vincent from all his friends—from Oakly-park?”
“Will he not do what is most prudent, to avoid the charming Miss Portman,” said Lady Anne, smiling, “if he must not love her? This was at least the advice I gave him, when he consulted us yesterday evening. But I will not sign his writ of banishment lightly. Nothing but the assurance that the heart is engaged can be a sufficient cause for despair; nothing else could, in my eyes, justify you, my dear Belinda, from the charge of caprice.”
“I can give you no such assurance, I hope—I believe,” said Belinda, in great confusion; “and yet I would not for the world deceive you: you have a right to my sincerity.” She paused; and Lady Anne said with a smile, “Perhaps I can spare you the trouble of telling me in words what a blush told me, or at least made me suspect, yesterday evening, when we were standing by the river side, when little Charles asked you—”
“Yes, I remember—I saw you look at me.”
“Undesignedly, believe me.”
“Undesignedly, I am sure; but I was afraid you would think—”
“The truth.”
“No; but more than the truth. The truth you shall hear; and the rest I will leave to your judgment and to your kindness.”
Belinda gave a full account of her acquaintance with Clarence Hervey; of the variations in his manner towards her; of his excellent conduct with respect to Lady Delacour (of this, by-the-by, she spoke at large). But she was more concise when she touched upon the state of her own heart; and her voice almost failed when she came to the history of the lock of beautiful hair, the Windsor incognita, and the picture of Virginia. She concluded by expressing her conviction of the propriety of forgetting a man, who was in all probability attached to another, and she declared it to be her resolution to banish him from her thoughts. Lady Anne said, “that nothing could be more prudent or praiseworthy than forming such a resolution—except keeping it.” Lady Anne had a high opinion of Mr. Hervey; but she had no doubt, from Belinda’s account, and from her own observations on Mr. Hervey, and from slight circumstances which had accidentally come to Mr. Percival’s knowledge, that he was, as Belinda suspected, attached to another person. She wished, therefore, to confirm Miss Portman in this belief, and to turn her thoughts towards one who, beside being deserving of her esteem and love, felt for her the most sincere affection. She did not, however, press the subject farther at this time, but contented herself with requesting that Belinda would take three days (the usual time given for deliberation in fairy tales) before she should decide against Mr. Vincent.
The next day they went to look at a porter’s lodge, which Mr. Percival had just built; it was inhabited by an old man and woman, who had for many years been industrious tenants, but who, in their old age, had been reduced to poverty, not by imprudence, but by misfortune. Lady Anne was pleased to see them comfortably settled in their new habitation; and whilst she and Belinda were talking to the old couple, their grand-daughter, a pretty looking girl of about eighteen, came in with a basket of eggs in her hand. “Well, Lucy,” said Lady Anne, “have you overcome your dislike to James Jackson?” The girl reddened, smiled, and looked at her grand-mother, who answered for her in an arch tone, “Oh, yes, my lady! We are not afraid of Jackson now; we are grown very great friends. This pretty cane chair for my good man was his handiwork, and these baskets he made for me. Indeed, he’s a most industrious, ingenious, good-natured youth; and our Lucy takes no offence at his courting her now, my lady, I can assure you. That necklace, which is never off her neck now, he turned for her, my lady; it is a present of his. So I tell him he need not be discouraged, though so be she did not take to him at the first; for she’s a good girl, and a sensible girl—I say it, though she’s my own; and the eyes are used to a face after a time, and then it’s nothing. They say, fancy’s all in all in love: now in my judgment, fancy’s little or nothing with girls that have sense. But I beg pardon for prating at this rate, more especially when I am so old as to have forgot all the little I ever knew about such things.”
“But you have the best right in the world to speak about such things, and your grand-daughter has the best reason in the world to listen to you,” said Lady Anne, “because, in spite of all the crosses of fortune, you have been an excellent and happy wife, at least ever since I can remember.”
“And ever since I can remember, that’s more; no offence to your ladyship,” said the old man, striking his crutch against the ground. “Ever since I can remember, she has made me the happiest man in the whole world, in the whole parish, as every body knows, and I best of all!” cried he, with a degree of enthusiasm that lighted up his aged countenance, and animated his feeble voice.
“And yet,” said the honest dame, “if I had followed my fancy, and taken up with my first love, it would not ha’ been with he, Lucy. I had a sort of a fancy (since my lady’s so good as to let me speak), I had a sort of a fancy for an idle young man; but he, very luckily for me, took it into his head to fall in love with another young woman, and then I had leisure enough left me to think of your grandfather, who was not so much to my taste like at first. But when I found out his goodness and cleverness, and joined to all, his great tenderness for me, I thought better of it, Lucy (as who knows but you may do, though there shall not be a word said on my part to press you, for poor Jackson?); and my thinking better is the cause why I have been so happy ever since, and am so still in my old age. Ah, Lucy! dear, what a many years that same old age lasts, after all! But young folks, for the most part, never think what’s to come after thirty or forty at farthest. But I don’t say this for you, Lucy; for you are a good girl, and a sensible girl, though my own grand-daughter, as I said before, and therefore won’t be run away with by fancy, which is soon past and gone: but make a prudent choice, that you won’t never have cause to repent of. But I’ll not say a word more; I’ll leave it all to yourself and James Jackson.”
“You do right,” said Lady Anne: “good morning to you! Farewell, Lucy! That’s a pretty necklace, and is very becoming to you—fare ye well!”
She hurried out of the cottage with Belinda, apprehensive that the talkative old dame might weaken the effect of her good sense and experience by a farther profusion of words.
“One would think,” said Belinda, with an ingenuous smile, “that this lesson upon the dangers of fancy was intended for me: at any rate, I may turn it to my own advantage!”
“Happy those who can turn all the experience of others to their own advantage!” said Lady Anne: “this would be a more valuable privilege than the power of turning every thing that is touched to gold.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes; and then Miss Portman, pursuing the train of her own thoughts, and unconscious that she had not explained them to Lady Anne, abruptly exclaimed, “But if I should be entangled, so as not to be able to retract!—and if it should not be in my power to love him at last, he will think me a coquette, a jilt, perhaps: he will have reason to complain of me, if I waste his time, and trifle with his affections. Then is it not better that I should avoid, by a decided refusal, all possibility of injury to Mr. Vincent, and of blame to myself?”
“There is no danger of Mr. Vincent’s misunderstanding or misrepresenting you. The risk that he runs is by his voluntary choice; and I am sure that if, after farther acquaintance with him, you find it impossible to return his affection, he will not consider himself as ill-used by your refusal.”
“But after a certain time—after the world suspects that two people are engaged to each other, it is scarcely possible for the woman to recede: when they come within a certain distance, they are pressed to unite, by the irresistible force of external circumstances. A woman is too often reduced to this dilemma: either she must marry a man she does not love, or she must be blamed by the world—either she must sacrifice a portion of her reputation, or the whole of her happiness.”
“The world is indeed often too curious, and too rash in these affairs,” said Lady Anne. “A young woman is not in this respect allowed sufficient time for freedom of deliberation. She sees, as Mr. Percival once said, ‘the drawn sword of tyrant custom suspended over her head by a single hair.’”
“And yet, notwithstanding you are so well aware of the danger, your ladyship would expose me to it?” said Belinda.
“Yes; for I think the chance of happiness, in this instance, overbalances the risk,” said Lady Anne. “As we cannot alter the common law of custom, and as we cannot render the world less gossiping, or less censorious, we must not expect always to avoid censure; all we can do is, never to deserve it—and it would be absurd to enslave ourselves to the opinion of the idle and ignorant. To a certain point, respect for the opinion of the world is prudence; beyond that point, it is weakness. You should also consider that the world at Oakly-park and in London are two different worlds. In London if you and Mr. Vincent were seen often in each other’s company, it would be immediately buzzed about that Miss Portman and Mr. Vincent were going to be married; and if the match did not take place, a thousand foolish stories might be told to account for its being broken off. But here you are not surrounded by busy eyes and busy tongues. The butchers, bakers, ploughmen, and spinsters, who compose our world, have all affairs of their own to mind. Besides, their comments can have no very extensive circulation; they are used to see Mr. Vincent continually here; and his staying with us the remainder of the autumn will not appear to them any thing wonderful or portentous.”
Their conversation was interrupted. Mr. Vincent returned to Oakly-park—but upon the express condition that he should not make his attachment public by any particular attentions, and that he should draw no conclusions in his favour from Belinda’s consenting to converse with him freely upon every common subject. To this treaty of amity Lady Anne Percival was guarantee.