Tales and Novels, vol 3 | Page 6

influence could probably be obtained by the lady; that the most certain method for Miss Portman to expose herself to the ridicule of one of the parties, and to the total neglect of the other, would be to betray anxiety or jealousy; that, in short, if she were fool enough to lose her own heart, there would be little chance of her being wise enough to win that of------, who was evidently a man of gallantry rather than of sentiment, and who was known to play his cards well, and to have good luck whenever hearts were trumps.
Belinda's fears of Lady Delacour, as a dangerous rival, were much quieted by the artful insinuations of Mrs. Stanhope, with respect to her age, &c.; and in proportion as her fears subsided, she blamed herself for having written too harshly of her ladyship's conduct. The idea that whilst she appeared as Lady Delacour's friend she ought not to propagate any stories to her disadvantage, operated powerfully upon Belinda's mind, and she reproached herself for having told even her aunt what she had seen in private. She thought that she had been guilty of treachery, and she wrote again immediately to Mrs. Stanhope, to conjure her to burn her last letter; to forget, if possible, its contents; and to believe that not a syllable of a similar nature should ever more be heard from her: she was just concluding with the words--"I hope my dear aunt will consider all this as an error of my judgment, and not of my heart," when Lady Delacour burst into the room, exclaiming, in a tone of gaiety, "Tragedy or comedy, Belinda? The masquerade dresses are come. But how's this?" added she, looking full in Belinda's face--"tears in the eyes! blushes in the cheeks! tremors in the joints! and letters shuffling away! But, you novice of novices, how awkwardly shuffled!--A niece of Mrs. Stanhope's, and so unpractised a shuffler!--And is it credible she should tremble in this ridiculous way about a love-letter or two?"
"No love-letters, indeed, Lady Delacour," said Belinda, holding the paper fast, as her ladyship, half in play, half in earnest, attempted to snatch it from her.
"No love-letters! then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all that's good, or by all that's bad--I see the name of Delacour!"--and her ladyship absolutely seized the letters by force, in spite of all Belinda's struggles and entreaties.
"I beg, I request, I conjure you not to read it!" cried Miss Portman, clasping her hands. "Read mine, read mine, if you must, but don't read my aunt Stanhope's--Oh! I beg, I entreat, I conjure you!" and she threw herself upon her knees.
"You beg! you entreat! you conjure! Why, this is like the Duchess de Brinvilliers, who wrote on her paper of poisons, 'Whoever finds this, I entreat, I conjure them, in the name of more saints than I can remember, not to open the paper any farther.'--What a simpleton, to know so little of the nature of curiosity!"
As she spoke, Lady Delacour opened Mrs. Stanhope's letter, read it from beginning to end, folded it up coolly when she had finished it, and simply said, "The person alluded to is almost as bad as her name at full length: does Mrs. Stanhope think no one can make out an inuendo in a libel, or fill up a blank, but an attorney-general?" pointing to a blank in Mrs. Stanhope's letter, left for the name of Clarence Hervey.
Belinda was in too much confusion either to speak or think.
"You were right to swear they were not love-letters," pursued her ladyship, laying down the papers. "I protest I snatched them by way of frolic--I beg pardon. All I can do now is not to read the rest."
"Nay--I beg--I wish--I insist upon your reading mine," said Belinda.
When Lady Delacour had read it, her countenance suddenly changed--"Worth a hundred of your aunt's, I declare," said she, patting Belinda's cheek. "What a treasure to meet with any thing like a new heart!--all hearts, now-a-days, are second-hand, at best."
Lady Delacour spoke with a tone of feeling which Belinda had never heard from her before, and which at this moment touched her so much, that she took her ladyship's 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