Essential Novelists - Maria Edgeworth. Maria Edgeworth
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Luttridge not excepted.”
Belinda was surprised and shocked at the malignant vehemence with which her ladyship uttered these words; it was in vain, however, that she remonstrated on the injustice of predetermining to detest Lady Anne, merely because she had shown kindness to Helena, and because she bore a high character. Lady Delacour was a woman who never listened to reason, or who listened to it only that she might parry it by wit. Upon this occasion, her wit had not its usual effect upon Miss Portman; instead of entertaining, it disgusted her.
“You have called me your friend, Lady Delacour,” said she; “I should but ill deserve that name, if I had not the courage to speak the truth to you — if I had not the courage to tell you when I think you are wrong.”
“But I have not the courage to hear you, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, stopping her ears. “So your conscience may be at ease; you may suppose that you have said every thing that is wise, and good, and proper, and sublime, and that you deserve to be called the best of friends; you shall enjoy the office of censor to Lady Delacour, and welcome; but remember, it is a sinecure place, though I will pay you with my love and esteem to any extent you please. You sigh — for my folly. Alas! my dear, ’tis hardly worth while — my follies will soon be at an end. Of what use could even the wisdom of Solomon be to me now? If you have any humanity, you will not force me to reflect: whilst I yet live, I must keep it up with incessant dissipation — the teetotum keeps upright only while it spins: so let us talk of the birthnight, or the new play that we are to see to-night, or the ridiculous figure Lady H—— made at the concert; or let us talk of Harrowgate, or what you will.”
Pity succeeded to disgust and displeasure in Belinda’s mind, and she could hardly refrain from tears, whilst she saw this unhappy creature, with forced smiles, endeavour to hide the real anguish of her soul: she could only say, “But, my dear Lady Delacour, do not you think that your little Helena, who seems to have a most affectionate disposition, would add to your happiness at home?”
“Her affectionate disposition can be nothing to me,” said Lady Delacour.
Belinda felt a hot tear drop upon her hand, which lay upon Lady Delacour’s lap.
“Can you wonder,” continued her ladyship, hastily wiping away the tear which she had let fall; “can you wonder that I should talk of detesting Lady Anne Percival? You see she has robbed me of the affections of my child. Helena asks to come home: yes, but how does she ask it? Coldly, formally — as a duty. But look at the end of her letter; I have read it all — every bitter word of it I have tasted. How differently she writes — look even at the flowing hand — the moment she begins to speak of Lady Anne Percival; then her soul breaks out: ‘Lady Anne has offered to take her to Oakly-park — she should be extremely happy to go, if I please.’ Yes, let her go; let her go as far from me as possible; let her never, never see her wretched mother more! — Write,” said Lady Delacour, turning hastily to Belinda, “write in my name, and tell her to go to Oakly-park, and to be happy.”
“But why should you take it for granted that she cannot be happy with you?” said Belinda. “Let us see her — let us try the experiment.”
“No,” said Lady Delacour; “no — it is too late: I will never condescend in my last moments to beg for that affection to which it may be thought I have forfeited my natural claim.”
Pride, anger, and sorrow, struggled in her countenance as she spoke. She turned her face from Belinda, and walked out of the room with dignity.
Nothing remains for me to do, thought Belinda, but to sooth this haughty spirit: all other hope, I see, is vain.
At this moment Clarence Hervey, who had no suspicion that the gay, brilliant Lady Delacour was sinking into the grave, had formed a design worthy of his ardent and benevolent character. The manner in which her ladyship had spoken of his friend Dr. X— — the sigh which she gave at the reflection that she might have been a very different character if she had early had a sensible friend, made a great impression upon Mr. Hervey. Till then, he had merely considered her ladyship as an object of amusement, and an introduction to high life; but he now felt so much interested for her, that he determined to exert all his influence to promote her happiness. He knew that influence to be considerable: not that he was either coxcomb or dupe enough to imagine that Lady Delacour was in love with him; he was perfectly sensible that her only wish was to obtain his admiration, and he resolved to show her that it could no longer be secured without deserving his esteem. Clarence Hervey was a thoroughly generous young man: capable of making the greatest sacrifices, when encouraged by the hope of doing good, he determined to postpone the declaration of his attachment to Belinda, that he might devote himself entirely to his new project. His plan was to wean Lady Delacour by degrees from dissipation, by attaching her to her daughter, and to Lady Anne Percival. He was sanguine in all his hopes, and rapid, but not unthinking, in all his decisions. From Lady Delacour he went immediately to Dr. X— — to whom he communicated his designs.
“I applaud your benevolent intentions,” said the doctor: “but have you really the presumption to hope, that an ingenuous young man of four-and-twenty can reform a veteran coquet of four-and-thirty?”
“Lady Delacour is not yet thirty,” said Clarence; “but the older she is, the better the chance of her giving up a losing game. She has an admirable understanding, and she will soon — I mean as soon as she is acquainted with Lady Anne Percival — discover that she has mistaken the road to happiness. All the difficulty will be to make them fairly acquainted with each other; for this, my dear doctor, I must trust to you. Do you prepare Lady Anne to tolerate Lady Delacour’s faults, and I will prepare Lady Delacour to tolerate Lady Anne’s virtues.”
“You have generously taken the more difficult task of the two,” replied Dr. X——. “Well, we shall see what can be done. After the birthday, Lady Delacour talks of going to Harrowgate: you know, Oakly-park is not far from Harrowgate, so they will have frequent opportunities of meeting. But, take my word for it, nothing can be done till after the birthday; for Lady Delacour’s head is at present full of crape petticoats, and horses, and carriages, and a certain Mrs. Luttridge, whom she hates with a hatred passing that of women.”
Chapter 10. — The Mysterious Boudoir.
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ACCUSTOMED TO STUDY human nature, Dr. X—— had acquired peculiar sagacity in judging of character. Notwithstanding the address with which Lady Delacour concealed the real motives for her apparently thoughtless conduct, he quickly discovered that the hatred of Mrs. Luttridge was her ruling passion. Above nine years of continual warfare had exasperated the tempers of both parties, and no opportunities of manifesting their mutual antipathy were ever neglected. Extravagantly as Lady Delacour loved admiration, the highest possible degree of positive praise was insipid to her taste, if it did not imply some superiority over the woman whom she considered as a perpetual rival.
Now it had been said by the coachmaker, that Mrs. Luttridge would sport a most elegant new vis-à-vis on the king’s birthday. Lady Delacour was immediately ambitious to outshine her in equipage; and it was this paltry ambition that made her condescend to all the meanness of the transaction by which she obtained Miss Portman’s draft, and Clarence Hervey’s two hundred guineas. The great, the important day, at length arrived — her ladyship’s triumph in the morning at the drawing-room was complete. Mrs. Luttridge’s dress, Mrs. Luttridge’s vis-à-vis, Mrs. Luttridge’s horses were nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison with Lady Delacour’s: her ladyship enjoyed the full exultation of vanity; and at night she went in high spirits to the ball.
“Oh, my dearest Belinda,” said she, as she left her dressing-room, “how terrible a thing it is that you cannot go with me! — None of the joys of this life are without alloy! —’Twould be too much to see in one night Mrs. Luttridge’s mortification, and my Belinda’s triumph. Adieu! my love: we shall live to see another birthday, it is to be hoped. Marriott, my drops. Oh, I have taken them.”