“Yes, Ormond was the name, as well as I recollect,” said Belinda, with a degree of steady composure that provoked her ladyship. “Go on, Marriott.”
“And the words were, to leave the bird at a perfumer’s in Twickenham, opposite to ——; but that’s no matter. Well, my lady, to the perfumer’s I went with the bird, this morning. Now, I had my reasons for wishing to see this Mrs. Ormond myself, because, my lady, there was one thing rather remarkable about this bullfinch, that it sings a very particular tune, which I never heard any bullfinch, or any human creature, sing anything like before: so I determined, in my own cogitations, to ask this Mrs. Ormond to name the tunes her bullfinch could sing, before I produced it; and if she made no mention of its knowing any one out of the common way, I resolved to keep my bird to myself, as I might very conscientiously and genteelly too. So, my lady, when I got to the perfumer’s, I inquired where Mrs. Ormond was to be found? I was told that she received no visits from any, at least from the female sex; and that I must leave the bird there till called for. I was considering what to do, and the strangeness of the information made about the female sex, when in there came, into the shop, a gentleman, who saved me all the indelicacy of asking particulars. The bullfinch was at this time piping away at a fine rate, and, as luck would have it, that very remarkable strange tune that I mentioned to you. Says the gentleman, as he came into the shop, fixing his eyes on the bullfinch as if they would have come fairly out of his head, ‘How did that bird come here?’—‘I brought it here, sir,’ said I. Then he began to offer me mountains of gold in a very strange way, if I could tell him any tidings of the lady to whom it belonged. The shopman from behind the counter now bent forward, and whispered the gentleman that he could give him some information, if he would make it worth his while; and they both went together to a little parlour behind the shop, and I saw no more of them. But, my lady, very opportunely for me, that was dying with curiosity, out of the parlour they turned a young woman in, to attend the shop, who proved to be an acquaintance of mine, whom I had done some little favours to when in service in London. And this young woman, when I told her my distress about the advertisement and the bullfinch, let me into the whole of the affair. ‘Ma’am,’ said she, ‘all that is known about Mrs. Ormond, in this house, or any where else, is from me; so there was no occasion for turning me out of the parlour. I lived with Mrs. Ormond, ma’am,” says she, “‘for half a year, in the very house she now occupies, and consequently nobody can be better informed than I am:’—to which I agreed. Then she told me that the reason that Mrs. Ormond never saw any company of any sort was, because she is not fit to see company—proper company—for she’s not a proper woman. She has a most beautiful young creature there, shut up, who has been seduced, and is now deserted in a most cruel manner by a Mr. Hervey. Oh, my lady! how the name struck upon my ear! I hoped, however, it was not our Mr. Hervey; but it was the identical Mr. Clarence Hervey. I made the young woman describe him, for she had often and often seen him, when he visited the unfortunate creature; and the description could suit none but our Mr. Hervey, and besides it put it beyond a doubt, she told me his linen was all marked C. H. So our Mr. Hervey, ma’am,” added Marriott, turning to Belinda, “it certainly proved to be, to my utter dismay and confusion.”
“Oh, Marriott! my poor head!” exclaimed Lady Delacour, starting from under her hands: “that cruel comb went at least half an inch into my head—heads have feeling as well as hearts, believe me.” And, as she spoke, she snatched out the comb with which Marriott had just fastened up her hair, and flung it on a sofa at some yards’ distance. While Marriott went to fetch it, Lady Delacour thought that Belinda would have time to recover from that utter dismay and confusion into which she hoped that she must now be thrown. “Come, Marriott, make haste. I have done you at least a great favour, for you have all this hair to perform upon again, and you will have leisure to finish this story of yours—which, at all events, if it is not in any other respect wonderful, we must allow is wonderfully long.”
“Well, my lady, to be short, then—I was more curious than ever, when I heard all this, to hear more; and asked my friend how she could ever think of staying in a house with ladies of such a description! Upon which she justified herself by assuring me, upon her honour, that at first she believed the young lady was married privately to Mr. Hervey, for that a clergyman came in secret, and read prayers, and she verily believes that the unfortunate young creature was deceived barbarously, and made to fancy herself married to all intents and purposes, till all at once Mr. Hervey threw off the mask, and left off visiting her, pretending a necessity to take a journey, and handing her over to that vile woman, that Mrs. Ormond, who bid her to be comforted, and all the things that are said by such women, on such occasions, by all accounts. But the poor deluded young thing saw how it was now too plain, and she was ready to break her heart; but not in a violent, common sort of way, ma’am, but in silent grief, pining and drooping. My friend could not stand the sight, nor endure to look upon Mrs. Ormond now she knew what she was; and so she left the house, without giving any reason, immediately. I forgot to mention, that the unfortunate girl’s maiden name was St. Pierre, my lady: but her Christian name, which was rather an out o’ the way name, I quite forget.”
“No matter,” said Lady Delacour; “we can live without it; or we can imagine it.”
“To be sure—I beg pardon; such sort of people’s names can’t be of any consequence, and, I’m sure, I blame myself now for going to the house, after all I had heard.”
“You did go to the house, then?”
“To my shame be it spoken; my curiosity got the better of me, and I went—-but only on account of the bullfinch in the eyes of the world. It was a great while before I could get in: but I was so firm, that I would not give up the bird to no one but the lady herself, that I got in at last. Oh, never did my eyes light upon so beautiful a creature, nor so graceful, nor so innocent to look at!”—Belinda sighed—Marriott echoed the sigh, and continued “She was by herself, and in tears, when I was shown in, ma’am, and she started as if she had never seen any body before in her life. But when she saw the bullfinch, ma’am, she clapped her hands, and, smiling through her tears like a child, she ran up to me, and thanked me again and again, kissing the bird between times, and putting it into her bosom. Well, I declare, if she had talked to all eternity, she could never have made me pity her half so much as all this did, for it looked so much like innocence. I’m sure, nobody that was not—or, at least, that did not think themselves innocent, could have such ways, and such an innocent affection for a little bird. Not but what I know ladies of a certain description often have birds, but then their fondness is all affectation and fashion; but this poor thing was all nature. Ah! poor unfortunate girl, thought I—but it’s no matter what I thought now,” said Marriott, shutting her eyes, to hide the tears that came into them at this instant; “I was ashamed of myself, when I saw Mrs. Ormond just then come into the room, which made me recollect what sort of company I was in. La! my lady, how I detested the sight of her! She looked at me, too, more like a dragon than any thing else; though in a civil way, and as if she was frightened out of her wits, she asked Miss St. Pierre, as she called her, how I had got in (in a whisper), and she made all sorts of signs afterward to her, to go out of the room. Never having been in such a situation before, I was quite robbed of all fluency, and could not—what with the anger I felt for the one, and sorrow for the other—get out a word of common sense, or even recollect what pretence brought me into the room, till the bird very luckily put it into my head by beginning to sing; so then I asked, whether they could certify it to be theirs by any particular tune of its own? ‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss St. Pierre; and she sung the very same tune. I never heard so sweet a voice; but, poor thing, something came across her mind in the middle of it, and she stopped; but she thanked me again for bringing back the bird, which, she said, had been hers for a great many years, and that she loved it dearly. I stood, I believe, like one stupified, till I was roused by the woman’s offering to put the five guineas reward, mentioned in the advertisement, into my hand. The touch of her gold made me start, as if it had been a snake, and I pushed it from me; and when she pressed it again, I threw it on the table, scarce knowing what I did; and just then, in her iniquitous hand, I saw a letter, directed to Clarence Hervey, Esq. Oh, how I hated the sight of his name, and every thing belonging to him, ma’am, at that minute! I’m sure, I could not have kept myself from saying something quite outrageous, if I had not taken myself out of the house, as I did, that instant.
“When there are women enough born and bred good for nothing, and ladies enough to flirt with, that would desire no better, that a gentleman like Mr. Clarence Hervey, ma’am, should set his wits, as one may say, to be the ruin of such a sweet, innocent-looking young creature, and then desert her in that barbarous way, after bringing a clergyman to deceive her with a mock ceremony, and all—oh! there is no fashion, nor nothing can countenance such wickedness! ‘tis the worst of wickedness and cruelty—and I shall think and say so to the latest hour of my life.”
“Well said, Marriott,” cried Lady Delacour.