Tales and Novels, vol 3 | Page 7

hand and kissed it.
CHAPTER II.
MASKS
"Where were we when all this began?" cried Lady Delacour, forcing
herself to resume an air of gaiety--"O, masquerade was the order of the
day---tragedy or comedy? which suits your genius best, my dear?"
"Whichever suits your ladyship's taste least."
"Why, my woman, Marriott, says I ought to be tragedy; and, upon the
notion that people always succeed best when they take characters
diametrically opposite to their own--Clarence Hervey's
principle--perhaps you don't think that he has any principles; but there
you are wrong; I do assure you, he has sound principles--of taste."
"Of that," said Belinda, with a constrained smile, "he gives the most

convincing proof, by his admiring your ladyship so much."
"And by his admiring Miss Portman so much more. But whilst we are
making speeches to one another, poor Marriott is standing in distress,
like Garrick, between tragedy and comedy."
Lady Delacour opened her dressing-room door, and pointed to her as
she stood with the dress of the comic muse on one arm, and the tragic
muse on the other.
"I am afraid I have not spirits enough to undertake the comic muse,"
said Miss Portman.
Marriott, who was a personage of prodigious consequence, and the
judge in the last resort at her mistress's toilette, looked extremely out of
humour at having been kept waiting so long; and yet more so at the
idea that her appellant jurisdiction could be disputed.
"Your ladyship's taller than Miss Portman by half ahead," said Marriott,
"and to be sure will best become tragedy with this long train; besides, I
had settled all the rest of your ladyship's dress. Tragedy, they say, is
always tall; and, no offence, your ladyship's taller than Miss Portman
by half a head."
"For head read inch," said Lady Delacour, "if you please."
"When things are settled, one can't bear to have them unsettled--but
your ladyship must have your own way, to be sure--I'll say no more,"
cried she, throwing down the dresses.
"Stay, Marriott," said Lady Delacour, and she placed herself between
the angry waiting-maid and the door.
"Why will you, who are the best creature in the world, put yourself into
these furies about nothing? Have patience with us, and you shall be
satisfied."
"That's another affair," said Marriott.

"Miss Portman," continued her ladyship, "don't talk of not having
spirits, you that are all life!--What say you, Belinda?--O yes, you must
be the comic muse; and I, it seems, must be tragedy, because Marriott
has a passion for seeing me 'come sweeping by.' And because Marriott
must have her own way in every thing--she rules me with a rod of iron,
my dear, so tragedy I needs must be.--Marriott knows her power."
There was an air of extreme vexation in Lady Delacour's countenance
as she pronounced these last words, in which evidently more was meant
than met the ear. Upon many occasions Miss Portman had observed,
that Marriott exercised despotic authority over her mistress; and she
had seen, with surprise, that a lady, who would not yield an iota of
power to her husband, submitted herself to every caprice of the most
insolent of waiting-women. For some time, Belinda imagined that this
submission was merely an air, as she had seen some other fine ladies
proud of appearing to be governed by a favourite maid; but she was
soon convinced that Marriott was no favourite with Lady Delacour; that
her ladyship's was not proud humility, but fear. It seemed certain that a
woman, extravagantly fond of her own will, would never have given it
up without some very substantial reason. It seemed as if Marriott was
in possession of some secret, which should for ever remain unknown.
This idea had occurred to Miss Portman more than once, but never so
forcibly as upon the present occasion. There had always been some
mystery about her ladyship's toilette: at certain hours doors were bolted,
and it was impossible for any body but Marriott to obtain admission.
Miss Portman at first imagined that Lady Delacour dreaded the
discovery of her cosmetic secrets, but her ladyship's rouge was so
glaring, and her pearl powder was so obvious, that Belinda was
convinced there must be some other cause for this toilette secrecy.
There was a little cabinet beyond her bedchamber, which Lady
Delacour called her boudoir, to which there was an entrance by a back
staircase; but no one ever entered there but Marriott. One night, Lady
Delacour, after dancing with great spirit at a ball, at her own house,
fainted suddenly: Miss Portman attended her to her bedchamber, but
Marriott begged that her lady might be left alone with her, and she
would by no means suffer Belinda to follow her into the boudoir. All
these things Belinda recollected in the space of