“Then you are not in jest, but in downright sober earnest?—Ha!” said Lady Delacour, with an arch look, “I did not know it was already come to this with you.”
And her ladyship, turning to her piano-forte, played—
“No, no,” exclaimed Clarence, laughing, “it is not come to that with me yet, Lady Delacour, I promise you; but is not it possible to say that a young lady has dignity of mind and simplicity of character without having or suggesting any thoughts of marriage?”
“You make a most proper, but not sufficiently emphatic difference between having or suggesting such thoughts,” said Lady Delacour. “A gentleman sometimes finds it for his interest, his honour, or his pleasure, to suggest what he would not for the world promise,—I mean perform.”
“A scoundrel,” cried Clarence Hervey, “not a gentleman, may find it for his honour, or his interest, or his pleasure, to promise what he would not perform; but I am not a scoundrel. I never made any promise to man or woman that I did not keep faithfully. I am not a swindler in love.”
“And yet,” said Lady Delacour, “you would have no scruple to trifle or flatter a woman out of her heart.”
“Cela est selon!” said Clarence smiling; “a fair exchange, you know, is no robbery. When a fine woman robs me of my heart, surely Lady Delacour could not expect that I should make no attempt upon hers.”—“Is this part of my message to Miss Portman?” said Lady Delacour. “As your ladyship pleases,” said Clarence; “I trust entirely to your discretion.”
“Why I really have a great deal of discretion,” said Lady Delacour; “but you trust too much to it when you expect that I should execute, both with propriety and success, the delicate commission of telling a young lady, who is under my protection, that a young gentleman, who is a professed admirer of mine, is in love with her, but has no thoughts, and wishes to suggest no thoughts, of marriage.”
“In love!” exclaimed Clarence Hervey; “but when did I ever use the expression? In speaking of Miss Portman, I simply expressed esteem and ad————”
“No additions,” said Lady Delacour; “content yourself with esteem—simply,—and Miss Portman is safe, and you too, I presume. Apropos; pray, Clarence, how do your esteem and admiration (I may go as far as that, may not I?) of Miss Portman agree with your admiration of Lady Delacour?”
“Perfectly well,” replied Clarence; “for all the world must be sensible that Clarence Hervey is a man of too much taste to compare a country novice in wit and accomplishments to Lady Delacour. He might, as men of genius sometimes do, look forward to the idea of forming a country novice for a wife. A man must marry some time or other—but my hour, thank Heaven, is not come yet.”
“Thank Heaven!” said Lady Delacour; “for you know a married man is lost to the world of fashion and gallantry.”
“Not more so, I should hope, than a married woman,” said Clarence Harvey. Here a loud knocking at the door announced the arrival of company to the concert. “You will make my peace, you promise me, with Miss Portman,” cried Clarence eagerly.
“Yes, I will make your peace, and you shall see Belinda smile upon you once more, upon condition,” continued Lady Delacour, speaking very quickly, as if she was hurried by the sound of people coming up stairs—“but we’ll talk of that another time.”
“Nay, nay, my dear Lady Delacour, now, now,” said Clarence, seizing her hand.—“Upon condition! upon what condition?”
“Upon condition that you do a little job for me—indeed for Belinda. She is to go with me to the birth-night, and she has often hinted to me that our horses are shockingly shabby for people of our condition. I know she wishes that upon such an occasion—her first appearance at court, you know—we should go in style. Now my dear positive lord has said he will not let us have a pair of the handsomest horses I ever saw, which are at Tattersal’s, and on which Belinda, I know, has secretly set her heart, as I have openly, in vain.”
“Your ladyship and Miss Portman cannot possibly set your hearts on any thing in vain—especially on any thing that it is in the power of Clarence Hervey to procure. Then,” added he, gallantly kissing her hand, “may I thus seal my treaty of peace?”
“What audacity!—don’t you see these people coming in?” cried Lady Delacour; and she withdrew her hand, but with no great precipitation. She was evidently, “at this moment, as in all the past,” neither afraid nor ashamed that Mr. Hervey’s devotions to her should be paid in public. With much address she had satisfied herself as to his views with respect to Belinda. She was convinced that he had no immediate thoughts of matrimony; but that if he were condemned to marry, Miss Portman would be his wife. As this did not interfere with her plans, Lady Delacour was content.
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 farther 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 her 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,” said he, “the epithet 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 raillery, Lady Delacour grew quite ill-humoured towards her. Belinda, unconscious of having given any just cause of offence, 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 week past, 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-humoured 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 buy 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 upon 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 to 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 much vexed at this instant to understand raillery. She was inspired by anger with unwonted 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 the more surprised at her ladyship, when she recollected the history she had so lately heard of Harriot Freke and Colonel Lawless.
“You cannot but be sensible, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda, “that after the contempt I have heard Mr. Hervey express for match-making with Mrs. Stanhope’s nieces, I should degrade myself by any attempts to attract his attention. No wit, no eloquence, can change my opinion upon 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 such fear of you know not what, you must excuse me if I indulge myself in a little wholesome raillery.”—Belinda smiled.—“There now; one such smile as that for Clarence Hervey, and I’m out of debt and danger,” said Lady Delacour.
“O 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 unpractised in the ways of the world. I was not educated by my aunt Stanhope—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 mean time 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 birthnight—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 all be 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 Stanhope, if you don’t appear on the birthnight? That cannot be, my dear; besides, you know Mrs. Franks will send home your drawing-room dress to-day, and it would be so foolish to be presented for nothing—not to go to the birthnight 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 any one 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’s 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 mean time, my dear, upon second thoughts, 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.—Adieu! 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 any thing upon earth to oblige Lady Delacour; however, ten guineas made every thing 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 2nd.
“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 I see you not only forget the respect that is due to the opinions and advice of the aunt to whom you owe every thing; 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 honour to her ladyship, you cannot explain all the particulars 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, &c. that has been spent upon 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 connexions, 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 opinions? 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 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 she might be offended at your application to him. I understand from an intimate acquaintance of his, that you are a great favourite 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 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 birthnight 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 STANHOPE.”
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 Delacour, 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. That 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 her half-expressed wishes were not understood. Beside the concern 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 in having given up her intentions of going to court. Lady Delacour’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’s 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 Delacour’s man, Champfort, with Mrs. Stanhope’s draft for two hundred guineas, which the coachmaker’s man had just brought back because Miss Portman had forgotten to endorse it. Belinda’s astonishment was almost as great at this instant as Lady Delacour’s confusion.
“Come this way, my dear, and we’ll find you a pen and ink. You need not wait, Champfort; but tell the man to wait for the draft—Miss 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 Delacour would not pay for my new carriage. The coachmaker, insolent animal, would not let it out of his yard without two hundred guineas in 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 Delacour,” 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 thing’s done, and cannot be undone. But come, since I know nothing else will make you easy, I will take this mighty favour 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 honour due, my dear: so endorse the check, whilst I go and sound both the praises of your dignity of mind, and simplicity of character, &c. &c. &c. &c.”
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 favourable 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 malheureusement Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort 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 match-making 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 some one to set their stagnant ideas in motion. At last they insisted upon carrying Clarence away with them to taste some wines for Sir Philip Baddely.
In his way to St. James’s street, where the wine-merchant lived, Sir Philip Baddely 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 piqued 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 airs of a connoisseur, and asserted 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 applauses of the company, to assert, that no man in England had a more correct taste than himself.—Sir Philip Baddely could not passively submit to this 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. Rochfort 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 turns; 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 complaisant 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, blind-fold?”
“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, bacchanalian: he laughed and sang with anacreontic spirit, and finished by declaring that he deserved to be crowned with vine-leaves.
“Dine with me, Clarence,” said Rochfort, “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 a morning, though all his companions were, was much affected by the wine, and Rochfort proposed that they should take a turn in the park to cool Hervey’s head. To Hyde-park they repaired; Sir Philip boasting, all the way they walked, of the superior strength of his head.
Clarence protested that his own was stronger than any man’s in England, and observed, that at this instant he walked better than any person in company, Sir Philip Baddely not excepted. Now Sir Philip Baddely 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 Rochfort 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 coolly informed him that he had lost his wager—“Lost! lost! lost! Clarence—fairly lost.”
“Didn’t I reach 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 Hervey, “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, 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 it so, and welcome; I’ll pay ten guineas for having better manners than any of you,” cried Hervey, 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 Jove!” said Sir Philip. “I’m too hot, damme, to walk with you any more—but I’m your man if you’ve 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!
and instantly Hervey, 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. Rochfort, and all the other young men stood laughing by the river side.
“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 every body.”
“The foremost is Percival, of Oakly-park, I think, ‘pon 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 Hervey 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 Hervey’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 Hervey 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 Hervey 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 any where? Damn you, Rochfort, yonder it is.”
“Damme, so it is,” said Rochfort; “but he’s so heavy in his clothes, he’d pull me down along with him to Davy’s locker:—damme, if I’ll go after him.”
“Damn it, though, can’t some of ye swim? Can’t some of ye 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 instant leaped into the river, and seized hold of the drowning Clarence. It was with great difficulty that he dragged him to the shore.—Sir Philip’s party, as soon as the danger was over, officiously offered their assistance. Clarence Hervey 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.” 2
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. Hervey’s suspended animation. Whilst he was employed in this benevolent manner, Clarence’s worthy friends were sneering at him, and whispering to one another; “Ecod, he talks as if he was a doctor,” said Rochfort.
“‘Pon honour, I do believe,” said St. George, “he is the famous Dr. X——; I met him at a circulating library t’other day.”
“Dr. X—— the writer, 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 Rochfort; “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, ‘pon my honour,” said St. George, “I should like of all things to see myself in print; ‘twould 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 any thing 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?”
“Hervey’s in good hands,” said Rochfort, “and this here’s 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 Clary after us, when he’s ready for dinner and good company again, you know—ha! ha! ha!”
Away the faithful friends went to the important business of their day.
When Clarence Hervey came to his senses he started up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about, exclaiming—“What’s all this?—Where am I?—Where’s Baddely?—Where’s Rochfort?—Where are they all?”
“Gone home to dinner,” answered Mr. St. George, who was a hanger-on of Sir Philip’s; “but they left me to bring you after them. Faith, Clary, you’ve had a squeak for your life! ‘Pon 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, Clary, and we shall be at dinner as soon as the best of ‘em after all, by jingo! I leave you in good hands with the 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 Hervey—“here’s a note for you from Sir Philip and Rochfort: read it, do you mind, to yourself.”
“If I can,” said Clarence; “but Sir Philip writes a bloody bad hand.” 3
“Oh, he’s a baronet,” said St. George, “ha! ha! ha!” and, charmed with his own wit, he left the boat-house.
Clarence with some difficulty deciphered the note, which contained these words:
“Quiz the doctor, Clary, as soon as you are up to it—he’s an author—so fair game—quiz the doctor, and we’ll drink your health with three times three in Rochfort’s burgundy.
“Yours, &c.
“PHIL. BADDELY.
“P.S. Burn this when read.”
With the request contained in the postscript 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. X——!” 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. X——: “give me leave, Mr. Percival, to introduce to you 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 Sir Philip Baddely.”
“You have lost as little of your satirical wit, Dr. X——, as of your active benevolence, I perceive,” said Clarence Hervey, “since I met you abroad. But as I cannot submit to your unjust charge of humility, will you tell me where you are to be found in town, and to-morrow———”
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” said Dr. X——: “why not to-day?”
“I am engaged,” said Clarence, hesitating and laughing—-“I am unfortunately engaged to-day to dine with Mr. Rochfort and Sir Philip Baddely, and in the evening I am to be at Lady Delacour’s.”
“Lady Delacour! Not the same Lady Delacour 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. X——, “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
“Come, come, Dr. X——,” cried Mr. Percival, “no more wit at Lady Delacour’s expense: I have a fellow-feeling for Mr. Hervey.”
“Why, you are not in love with her ladyship, are you?” said Dr. X——. “I am not in love with Lady Delacour’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.
“To-morrow 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 to-morrow, as you have promised, to Upper Grosvenor-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.—“Clary, let’s away, here’s the coach,” said Mr. St. George. “Why, my boy—that’s a famous fellow, faith!—why, you look the better for being drowned. ‘Pon 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.—“Pray, St. George, by-the-bye, what were 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 coach; “but for my share, I will do my friend Rochfort the justice to say that no one lives as well as he does.”
“If 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 Grosvenor-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 Hervey, “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, finely 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 allusion and illustrations,” concluded Dr. X——, “for here we are, thank God, in Upper Grosvenor-street.”