Maria Edgeworth - Essential Novelists - Maria Edgeworth

Miss Portman then related all that had passed about the mysterious door, which Lord Delacour, in his fit of drunken jealousy, had insisted upon breaking open.

“Mr. Hervey,” continued Belinda, “was present when all this happened — he seemed much surprised: I should be sorry that he should remain in an error which might be fatal to my reputation — you know a woman ought not even to be suspected; yet how to remove this suspicion I know not, because I cannot enter into any explanation, without betraying Lady Delacour — she has, I know, a peculiar dread of Mr. Hervey’s discovering the truth.”

“And is it possible,” cried Dr. X— — “that any woman should be so meanly selfish, as thus to expose the reputation of her friend merely to preserve her own vanity from mortification?”

“Hush — don’t speak so loud,” said Belinda, “you will awaken her; and at present she is certainly more an object of pity than of indignation. — If you will have the goodness to come with me, I will take you by a back staircase up to the mysterious boudoir. I am not too proud to give positive proofs of my speaking truth; the key of that room now lies on Lady Delacour’s bed — it was that which she grasped in her hand during her delirium — she has now let it fall — it opens both the doors of the boudoir — you shall see,” added Miss Portman, with a smile, “that I am not afraid to let you unlock either of them.”

“As a polite man,” said Dr. X— — “I believe that I should absolutely refuse to take any external evidence of a lady’s truth; but demonstration is unanswerable even by enemies, and I will not sacrifice your interests to the foppery of my politeness — so I am ready to follow you. The curiosity of the servants may have been excited by last night’s disturbance, and I see no method so certain as that which you propose of preventing busy rumour. That goddess (let Ovid say what he pleases) was born and bred in a kitchen, or a servants’ hall. — But,” continued Dr. X— — “my dear Miss Portman, you will put a stop to a number of charming stories by this prudence of yours — a romance called the Mysterious Boudoir, of nine volumes at least, might be written on this subject, if you would only condescend to act like almost all other heroines, that is to say, without common sense.”

The doctor now followed Belinda, and satisfied himself by ocular demonstration, that this cabinet was the retirement of disease, and not of pleasure.

It was about eight o’clock in the morning when Dr. X—— got home; he found Clarence Hervey waiting for him. Clarence seemed to be in great agitation, though he endeavoured, with all the power which he possessed over himself, to suppress his emotion.

“You have been to see Lady Delacour,” said he, calmly: “is she much hurt? — It was a terrible accident.”

“She has been much hurt,” said Dr. X— — “and she has been for some hours delirious; but ask me no more questions now, for I am asleep, and must go to bed, unless you have any thing to say that can waken me: you look as if some great misfortune had befallen you; what is the matter?”

“Oh, my dear friend,” said Hervey, taking his hand, “do not jest with me; I am not able to bear your raillery in my present temper — in one word, I fear that Belinda is unworthy of my esteem: I can tell you no more, except that I am more miserable than I thought any woman could make me.”

“You are in a prodigious hurry to be miserable,” said Dr. X——. “Upon my word I think you would make a mighty pretty hero in a novel; you take things very properly for granted, and, stretched out upon that sofa, you act the distracted lover vastly well — and to complete the matter, you cannot tell me why you are more miserable than ever man or hero was before. I must tell you, then, that you have still more cause for jealousy than you suspect. Ay, start — every jealous man starts at the sound of the word jealousy — a certain symptom this of the disease.”

“You mistake me,” cried Clarence Hervey; “no man is less disposed to jealousy than I am — but ——”

“But your mistress — no, not your mistress, for you have never yet declared to her your attachment — but the lady you admire will not let a drunken man unlock a door, and you immediately suppose —”

“She has mentioned the circumstance to you!” exclaimed Hervey, in a joyful tone: “then she must be innocent.”

“Admirable reasoning! — I was going to have told you just now, if you would have suffered me to speak connectedly, that you have more reason for jealousy than you suspect, for Miss Portman has actually unlocked for me — for me! look at me — the door, the mysterious door — and whilst I live, and whilst she lives, we can neither of us ever tell you the cause of the mystery. All I can tell you is, that no lover is in the case, upon my honour — and now, if you should ever mistake curiosity in your own mind for jealousy, expect no pity from me.”

“I should deserve none,” said Clarence Hervey; “you have made me the happiest of men.”

“The happiest of men! — No, no; keep that superlative exclamation for a future occasion. But now you behave like a reasonable creature, you deserve to hear the praises of your Belinda — I am so much charmed with her, that I wish —”

“When can I see her?” interrupted Hervey; “I’ll go to her this instant.”

“Gently,” said Dr. X— — “you forget what time of the day it is — you forget that Miss Portman has been up all night — that Lady Delacour is extremely ill — and that this would be the most unseasonable opportunity you could possibly choose for your visit.”

To this observation Clarence Hervey assented; but he immediately seized a pen from the doctor’s writing table, and began a letter to Belinda. The doctor threw himself upon the sofa, saying, “Waken me when you want me,” and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

“Doctor, upon second thoughts,” said Clarence, rising suddenly, and tearing his letter down the middle, “I cannot write to her yet — I forgot the reformation of Lady Delacour: how soon do you think she will be well? Besides, I have another reason for not writing to Belinda at present — you must know, my dear doctor, that I have, or had, another mistress.”

“Another mistress, indeed!” cried Dr. X— — trying to waken himself.

“Good Heavens! I do believe you’ve been asleep.”

“I do believe I have.”

“But is it possible that you could fall sound asleep in that time?”

“Very possible,” said the doctor: “what is there so extraordinary in a man’s falling asleep? Men are apt to sleep sometime within the four-and-twenty hours, unless they have half-a-dozen mistresses to keep them awake, as you seem to have, my good friend.”

A servant now came into the room with a letter, that had just arrived express from the country for Dr. X——.

“This is another affair,” cried he, rousing himself.

The letter required the doctor’s immediate attendance. He shook hands with Clarence Hervey: “My dear friend, I am really concerned that I cannot stay to hear the history of your six mistresses; but you see that this is an affair of life and death.”

“Farewell,” said Clarence: “I have not six, I have only three goddesses; even if you count Lady Delacour for one. But I really wanted your advice in good earnest.”

“If your case be desperate, you can write, cannot you? Direct to me at Horton-hall, Cambridge. In the mean time, as far as general rules go, I can give you my advice gratis, in the formula of an old Scotch song ——

“’Tis good to be merry and wise,

’Tis good to be honest and true,

’Tis good to be off with the old love