“That if Lady Delacour should die, Miss Portman would become the mother of Helena!”
“Good Heavens! what an absurd report! Surely you could not for an instant believe it, Mr. Hervey?”
“Not for an instant. But I resolved, as soon as I heard it, to mention it to you; for I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries—from the want of courage to speak the truth. Now that you are upon your guard, your own prudence will defend you sufficiently. I never saw any of your sex who appeared to me to have so much prudence, and so little art; but—farewell—I have not a moment to lose,” added Clarence, suddenly checking himself; and he hurried away from Belinda, who stood fixed to the spot where he left her, till she was roused by the voices of several people who came into the room to see the drawings. She started as if from a dream, and went immediately in search of Lady Delacour.
Sir Philip Baddely was in earnest conversation with her ladyship; but he stopped speaking when Belinda came within hearing, and Lady Delacour turned to Helena, and said, “My dear, if you are satisfied, for mercy’s sake let us be gone, for I am absolutely overcome with heat—and with curiosity,” added she in a low voice to Belinda: “I long to hear how Clarence Hervey likes Westall’s drawings.”
As soon as they got home, Lady Delacour sent her daughter to practise a new lesson upon the piano forte. “And now sit down, my dear Belinda,” said she, “and satisfy my curiosity. It is the curiosity of a friend, not of an impertinent busybody. Has Clarence declared himself? He chose an odd time and place; but that is no matter; I forgive him, and so do you, I dare say. But why do you tear that unfortunate carnation to pieces? Surely you cannot be embarrassed in speaking to me! What’s the matter? I once did tell you, that I would not give up my claim to Clarence’s adorations during my life; but I intend to live a few years longer after the amazonian operation is performed, you know; and I could not have the conscience to keep you waiting whole years. It is better to do things with a good grace, lest one should be forced at last to do them with an ill grace. Therefore I give up all manner of claim to every thing but—flattery! that of course you will allow me from poor Clarence. So now do not begin upon another flower; but, without any farther superfluous modesty, let me hear all the pretty things Clarence said or swore.”
Whilst Belinda was pulling the carnation to pieces, she recollected what Mr. Hervey had said to her about mysteries: his words still sounded in her ear. “I believe that half the miseries of the world arise from foolish mysteries—from the want of courage to speak the truth.” I will have the courage to speak the truth, thought she, whatever it may cost me.
“The only pretty thing that Mr. Hervey said was, that he never saw any woman who had so much prudence and so little art,” said Belinda.
“A very pretty thing indeed, my dear! But it might have been said in open court by your grandfather, or your great-grandfather. I am sorry, if that was all, that Helena did not stay to hear such a charming moral compliment—Moralité à la glace. The last thing I should have expected in a tête-à-tête with Clarence Hervey. Was it worth while to pull that poor flower to pieces for such a pretty speech as this? And so that was all?”
“No, not all: but you overpower me with your wit; and I cannot stand the ‘lightning of your eyes.’”
“There!” said her ladyship, letting down her veil over her face, “the fire of my eyes is not too much for you now.”