of any thing worse. The idea of a divorce, the public brand of a shameful life, shocked me in spite of all my real and all my assumed levity. O that I had, at this instant, dared to be myself! But my fear of ridicule was greater than my fear of vice. ‘Bless me, my dear Lady Delacour,’ whispered Harriot, as we left this house, ‘what can make you in such a desperate hurry to get home? You gape and fidget: one would think you had never sat up a night before in your life. I verily believe you are afraid to trust yourself with us. Which of us are you afraid of, Lawless, or me, or yourself?’ There was a tone of contempt in the last words which piqued me to the quick; and however strange it may seem, I was now anxious only to convince Harriot that I was not afraid of myself. False shame made me act as if I had no shame. You would not suspect me of knowing any thing of false shame, but depend upon it, my dear, many, who appear to have as much assurance as I have, are secretly its slaves. I moralize, because I am come to a part of my story which I should almost be glad to omit; but I promised you that there should be no sins of omission. It was light, but not broad daylight, when we got to Knightsbridge. Lawless, encouraged (for I cannot deny it) by the levity of my manner, as well as of Harriot’s, was in higher and more familiar spirits than I ever saw him. Mrs. Freke desired me to set her down at her sister’s, who lived in Grosvenor-place: I did so, and I beg you to believe that I was in an agony, to get rid of my colonel at the same time; but you know I could not, before Harriot Freke, absolutely say to him, ‘Get out!’ Indeed, to tell things as they were, it was scarcely possible to guess by my manner that I was under any anxiety, I acted my part so well, or so ill. As Harriot Freke jumped out of the coach, a cock crowed in the area of her sister’s house: ‘There!’ cried Harriot, ‘do you hear the cock crow, Lady Delacour? Now it’s to be hoped your fear of goblins is over, else I would not be so cruel as to leave the pretty dear all alone.’ ‘All alone!’ answered I: ‘your friend the colonel Is much obliged to you for making nobody of him.’ ‘My friend the colonel,’ whispered Harriot, leaning with her bold masculine arms on the coach door —‘my friend the colonel is much obliged to me, I’m sure, for remembering what the cunning or the knowing woman told us just now: so when I said I left you alone, I was not guilty of a bull, was I?’ I had the grace to be heartily ashamed of this speech, and called out, in utter confusion, ‘To Berkley-square. But where shall I set you down, colonel? Harriot, good morning: don’t forget you are in man’s clothes.’ I did not dare to repeat the question of ‘where shall I set you down, colonel?’ at this instant, because Harriot gave me such an arch, sneering look, as much as to say, ‘Still afraid of yourself!’ We drove on: I’m persuaded that the confusion which, in spite of all my efforts, broke through my affected levity, encouraged Lawless, who was naturally a coxcomb and a fool, to believe that I was actually his, else he never could have been so insolent. In short, my dear, before we had got through the turnpike gate, I was downright obliged to say to him, ‘Get out!’ which I did with a degree of indignation that quite astonished him. He muttered something about ladies knowing their minds; and I own, though I went off with flying colours, I secretly blamed myself as much as I did him, and I blamed Harriot more than I did either. I sent for her the next day, as soon as I could, to consult her. She expressed such astonishment, and so much concern at this catastrophe of our night’s frolic, and blamed herself with so many oaths, and execrated Lawless for a coxcomb, so much to the ease and satisfaction of my conscience, that I was confirmed in my good opinion of her, and indeed felt for her the most lively affection and esteem; for observe, with me esteem ever followed affection, instead of affection following esteem. Woe be to all who in morals preposterously put the cart before the horse! But to proceed with my history: all fashionable historians stop to make reflections, supposing that no one else can have the sense to make any. My esteemed friend agreed with me that it would be best for all parties concerned to hush up this business; that as Lawless was going out of town in a few days, to be elected for a borough, we should get rid of him in the best way possible, without ‘more last words;’ that he had been punished sufficiently on the spot, and that to punish twice for the same offence, once in private and once in public, would be contrary to the laws of Englishmen and Englishwomen, and in my case would be contrary to the evident dictates of prudence, because I could not complain without calling upon Lord Delacour to call Lawless out; this I could not do without acknowledging that his lordship had been in the right, in warning me about his honour and my own, which old phrase I dreaded to hear for the ninety-ninth time: besides, Lord Delacour was the last man in the world I should have chosen for my knight, though unluckily he was my lord; besides, all things considered, I thought the whole story might not tell so well in the world for me, tell it which way I would: we therefore agreed that it would be most expedient to hold our tongues. We took it for granted that Lawless would hold his, and as for my people, they knew nothing, I thought, or if they did, I was sure of them. How the thing got abroad I could not at the time conceive, though now I am well acquainted with the baseness and treachery of the woman I called my friend. The affair was known and talked of every where the next day, and the story was told especially at odious Mrs. Luttridge’s, with such exaggerations as drove me almost mad. I was enraged, inconceivably enraged with Lawless, from whom I imagined the reports originated.
“I was venting my indignation against him in a room full of company, where I had just made my story good, when a gentleman, to whom I was a stranger, came in breathless, with the news that Colonel Lawless was killed in a duel by Lord Delacour; that they were carrying him home to his mother’s, and that the body was just going by the door. The company all crowded to the windows immediately, and I was left standing alone till I could stand no longer. What was said or done after this I do not remember; I only know that when I came to myself, the most dreadful sensation I ever experienced was the certainty that I had the blood of a fellow-creature to answer for. — I wonder,” said Lady Delacour, breaking off at this part of her history, and rising suddenly, “I wonder what is become of Marriott! — surely it is time for me to have my drops. Miss Portman, have the goodness to ring, for I must have something immediately.” Belinda was terrified at the wildness of her manner. Lady Delacour became more composed, or put more constraint upon herself, at the sight of Marriott. Marriott brought from the closet in her lady’s room the drops, which Lady Delacour swallowed with precipitation. Then she ordered coffee, and afterward chasse-café, and at last, turning to Belinda, with a forced smile, she said —
“Now shall the Princess Scheherazade go on with her story?”
Chapter 4. — Lady Delacour’s History Continued.
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“I LEFT OFF WITH THE true skill of a good story-teller, at the most interesting part — a duel; and yet duels are so common now that they are really vulgar incidents.
“But we think that a duel concerning ourselves must be more extraordinary than any other. We hear of men being shot in duels about nothing every day, so it is really a weakness in me to think so much about poor Lawless’s death, as Harriot Freke said to me at the time. She expected to see me show sorrow in public; but very fortunately for me, she roused my pride, which was always stronger than my reason; and I behaved myself upon the occasion as became a fine lady. There were some things, however, I could hardly stand. You must know that Lawless, fool and coxcomb as he was, had some magnanimity, and showed it — as some people do from whom it is least expected — on his death-bed. The last words he said were, ‘Lady Delacour is innocent — I charge you, don’t prosecute Lord Delacour.’ This he said to his mother, who, to complete my misery, is one of the most respectable women in England, and was most desperately fond of Lawless, who was an only son. She never has recovered his loss. Do you remember asking me who a tall elderly lady in mourning was, that you saw getting into her carriage one day, at South Audley-street chapel, as we passed by in our way to the park? That was Lady Lawless: I believe I didn’t answer you at the time. I meet her every now and then — to me a spectre of dismay. But, as Harriot Freke said, certainly such a man as poor Lawless was a useless being in society, however he may be regretted by a doting mother. We should see things in a philosophical light, if we can. I should not have suffered half as much as I did if he had been a man of a stronger understanding; but he was a poor, vain, weak creature, that I actually drew on and duped with my own coquetry,