“Do not expect that I should pretend to be sorry for Mr. Vincent,” said Lady Delacour. “Let him be as generous and as penitent as he pleases, I am heartily glad that he is on his way to Germany. I dare say he will find in the upper or lower circles of the empire some heroine in the Kotzebue taste, who will alternately make him miserable till he is happy, and happy till he is miserable. He is one of those men who require great emotions: fine lovers these make for stage effect—but the worst husbands in the world!
“I hope, Belinda, you give me credit, for having judged better of Mr. Vincent than Lady Anne Percival did?”
“For having judged worse of him, you mean? Lady Anne always judges as well as possible of every body.”
“I will allow you to play upon words in a friend’s defence, but do not be alarmed for the reputation of Lady Anne’s judgment. If it will be any satisfaction to you, I can with thorough sincerity assure you that I never liked her so well in my life as since I have detected her in a mistake. It saves her, in my imagination, from the odium of being a perfect character.”
“And there was something so handsome in her manner of writing to me, when she found out her error,” said Belinda.
“Very true, and my friend Mr. Percival behaved handsomely. Where friendships clash, it is not every man who has clearness of head sufficient to know his duty to his neighbour. Mr. Percival said no more than just the thing he ought, for his ward. You have reason to be obliged to him: and as we are returning thanks to all persons concerned in our deliverance from this imminent danger, Juba, the dog, and Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew, ought to come in for their share; for without that wrestling match of theirs, the truth might never have been dragged to light, and Mr. Vincent would have been in due course of time your lord and master. But the danger is over; you need not look so terrified: do not be like the man who dropped down dead with terror, when he was shown by daylight the broken bridge which he had galloped over in the dark.”
Lady Delacour was in such high spirits that, without regard to connexion, she ran on from one subject to another.
“You have proved to me, my dear,” said she, “that you are not a girl to marry, because the day was fixed, or because things had gone so far. I give you infinite credit for your civil courage, as Dr. X—— calls it: military courage, as he said to me yesterday—military courage, that seeks the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth, may be had for sixpence a day. But civil courage, such as enabled the Princess Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, to go straight up the hill to her object, though the magical multitude of advising and abusive voices continually called to her to turn back, is one of the rarest qualities in man or woman, and not to be had for love, money, or admiration.”
“You place admiration not only above money, but above love, in your climax, I perceive,” said Belinda, smiling.
“I will give you leave to be as philosophically sarcastic as you please, my dear, if you will only smile, and if you will not look as pale as Seneca’s Paulina, whose story we heard—from whom?”