From Dr. X—— he thought he could obtain full information, and he hastened immediately to town. When he got to Clifford-street, he found that the doctor was not at home; his servant said, he might probably be met with at Mrs. Margaret Delacour’s, as he usually finished his morning rounds at her house. Thither Mr. Hervey immediately went.
The first sound that he heard, as he went up her stairs, was the screaming of a macaw; and the first person he saw, through the open door of the drawing-room, was Helena Delacour. She was standing with her back to him, leaning over the macaw’s cage, and he heard her say in a joyful tone, “Yes, though you do scream so frightfully, my pretty macaw, I love you as well as Marriott ever did. When my dear, good Miss Portman, sent this macaw—My dear aunt! here’s Mr. Hervey!—you were just wishing to see him.”
“Mr. Hervey,” said the old lady, with a benevolent smile, “your little friend Helena tells you truth; we were just wishing for you. I am sure it will give you pleasure to hear that I am at last a convert to your opinion of Lady Delacour. She has given up all those that I used to call her rantipole acquaintance. She has reconciled herself to her husband, and to his friends; and Helena is to go home to live with her. Here is a charming note I have just received from her! Dine with me on Thursday next, and you will meet her ladyship, and see a happy family party. You have had some share in the reformation, I know, and that was the reason I wished that you should be with us on Thursday. You see I am not an obstinate old woman, though I was cross the first day I saw you at Lady Anne Percival’s. I found I was mistaken in your character, and I am glad of it. But this note of Lady Delacour’s seems to have struck you dumb.”
There were, indeed, a few words in this note, which deprived him, for some moments, of all power of utterance.
“The report you have heard (unlike most other reports) is perfectly well founded: Mr. Vincent, Belinda’s admirer, is here. I will bring him with us on Thursday.”
Mr. Hervey was relieved from the necessity of accounting to Mrs. Delacour for his sudden embarrassment, by the entrance of Dr. X—— and another gentleman, of whom, in the confusion of his mind, Clarence did not at first take any notice. Dr. X——, with his usual mixture of benevolence and raillery, addressed himself to Clarence, whilst the stranger took out of his pocket some papers, and in a low voice entered earnestly into conversation with Mrs. Delacour.
“Now, tell me, if you can, Clarence,” said Dr. X——, “which of your three mistresses you like best? I think I left you some months ago in great doubt upon this subject: are you still in that philosophic state?”
“No,” said Clarence; “all doubts are over—I am going to be married.”
“Bravo!—But you look as if you were going to be hanged. May I, as it will so soon be in the newspaper, may I ask the name of the fair lady?”
“Virginia St. Pierre. You shall know her history and mine when we are alone,” said Mr. Hervey, lowering his voice.
“You need not lower your voice,” said Dr. X——, “for Mrs. Delacour is, as you see, so much taken up with her own affairs, that she has no curiosity for those of her neighbours; and Mr. Hartley is as busy as—”
“Mr. who? Mr. Hartley did you say?” interrupted Clarence, eagerly turning his eyes upon the stranger, who was a middle-aged gentleman, exactly answering the description of the person who had been at the Asylum in search of his daughter.
“Mr. Hartley! yes. What astonishes you so much?” said X——, calmly. “He is a West Indian. I met him in Cambridgeshire last summer, at his friend Mr. Horton’s; he has been very generous to the poor people who suffered by the fire, and he is now consulting with Mrs. Delacour, who has an estate adjoining to Mr. Horton’s, about her tenants, whose houses in the village were burnt. Now I have, in as few words and parentheses as possible, told you all I know of Mr. Hartley’s history; but your curiosity still looks voracious.”
“I want to know whether he has a miniature?” said Clarence, hastily. “Introduce me to him, for Heaven’s sake, directly!”
“Mr. Hartley,” cried the doctor, raising his voice, “give me leave to introduce my friend Mr. Hervey to you, and to your miniature picture, if you have one.”
Mr. Hartley sighed profoundly as he drew from his bosom a small portrait, which he put into Mr. Hervey’s hands, saying, “Alas! sir, you cannot, I fear, give me any tidings of the original; it is the picture of a daughter, whom I have never seen since she was an infant—whom I never shall see again.”
Clarence instantly knew it to be Virginia; but as he was upon the point of making some joyful exclamation, he felt Dr. X—— touch his shoulder, and looking up at Mr. Hartley, he saw in his countenance such strong workings of passion, that he prudently suppressed his own emotion, and calmly said, “It would be cruel, sir, to give you false hopes.”
“It would kill me—it would kill me, sir!—or worse!—worse! a thousand times worse!” cried Mr. Hartley, putting his hand to his forehead. “What,” continued he impatiently, “what was the meaning of the look you gave, when you first saw that picture? Speak, if you have any humanity! Did you ever see any one that resembles that picture?”
“I have seen, I think, a picture,” said Clarence Hervey, “that has some resemblance to it.”
“When? where?—”
“My good sir,” said Dr. X——, “let me recommend it to you to consider that there is scarcely any possibility of judging, from the features of children, of what their faces may be when they grow up. Nothing can be more fallacious than these accidental resemblances between the pictures of children and of grown-up people.”
Mr. Hartley’s countenance fell.
“But,” added Clarence Hervey, “you will perhaps, sir, think it worth your while to see the picture of which I speak: you can see it at Mr. F——‘s, the painter, in Newman-street; and I will accompany you thither whenever you please.”
“This moment, if you would have the goodness: my carriage is at the door; and Mrs. Delacour will be so kind to excuse ——”
“Oh, make no apologies to me at such a time as this,” said Mrs. Delacour. “Away with you, gentlemen, as soon as you please; upon condition, that if you have any good news to tell, some of you will remember, in the midst of your joy, that such an old woman as Mrs. Margaret Delacour exists, who loves to hear good news of those who deserve it.”
“It was so late in the day when they got to Newman-street, that they were obliged to light candles. Trembling with eagerness, Mr. Hartley drew near, while Clarence held the light to the picture.
“It is so like,” said he, looking at his miniature, “that I dare not believe my senses. Dr. X——, pray do you look. My head is so dizzy, and my eyes so——What do you think, sir? What do you say, doctor?”
“That the likeness is certainly striking—but this seems to be a fancy piece.”
“A fancy piece,” repeated Mr. Hartley, with terror: “why then did you bring me here?—A fancy piece!”
“No, sir; it is a portrait,” said Clarence; “and if you will be calm, I will tell you more.”
“I will be calm—only is she alive?”
“The lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive,” replied Clarence Hervey, who was obliged to exert his utmost command over himself, to maintain that composure which he saw was necessary; “the lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive, and you shall see her to-morrow.”
“Oh, why not now? Cannot I see her now? I must see her to-night—this instant, sir!”
“It is impossible,” said Mr. Hervey, “that you should see her this instant, for she is some miles off, at Twickenham.”
“It is too late to go thither now; you cannot think of it, Mr. Hartley,” continued Dr. X——, in a tone of command, to which he yielded more readily than to reason.
Clarence had the presence of mind to recollect that it would be necessary to prepare poor Virginia for this meeting, and he sent a messenger immediately to request that Mrs. Ormond would communicate the intelligence with all the caution in her power.
The next morning, Mr. Hartley and Mr. Hervey set off together for Twickenham. In their way thither Clarence gradually confirmed Mr. Hartley in the belief that Virginia was his daughter, by relating all the circumstances that he had learned from her grandmother, and from Mrs. Smith, the farmer’s wife, with whom she had formerly been acquainted: the name, the age, every particular, as it was disclosed, heightened his security and his joy.
For some time Mr. Hartley’s mind was so intent that he could not listen to any thing, but at last Clarence engaged his attention and suspended his anxiety, by giving him a history of his own connexion with Virginia, from the day of his first discovering her in the New Forest, to the letter which he had just written, to offer her his hand. The partiality which it was suspected Virginia felt for him was the only circumstance which he suppressed, because, notwithstanding all Mrs. Ormond had said, and all he had himself heard and seen, his obstinate incredulity required confirmation under her own hand, or positively from her own lips. He still fancied it was possible that change of situation might alter her views and sentiments; and he earnestly entreated that she might be left entirely to her own decision. It was necessary to make this stipulation with her father; for in the excess of his gratitude for the kindness which Clarence had shown to her, he protested that he should look upon her as a monster if she did not love him: he added, that if Mr. Hervey had not a farthing, he should prefer him to every man upon earth; he, however, promised that he would conceal his wishes, and that his daughter should act entirely from the dictates of her own mind. In the fulness of his heart, he told Clarence all those circumstances of his conduct towards Virginia’s mother which had filled his soul with remorse. She was scarcely sixteen when he ran away with her from a boarding-school; he was at that time a gay officer, she a sentimental girl, who had been spoiled by early novel-reading. Her father had a small place at court, lived beyond his fortune, educated his daughter, to whom he could give no portion, as if she were to be heiress to a large estate; then died, and left his widow absolutely in penury. This widow was the old lady who lived in the cottage in the New Forest. It was just at the time of her husband’s death, and of her own distress, that she heard of the elopement of her daughter from school. Mr. Hartley’s parents were so much incensed by the match, that he was prevailed upon to separate from his wife, and to go abroad, to push his fortune in the army. His marriage had been secret: his own friends disavowed it, notwithstanding the repeated, urgent entreaties of his wife and of her mother, who was her only surviving relation. His wife, on her death-bed, wrote to urge him to take charge of his daughter; and, to make the appeal stronger to his feelings, she sent him a picture of his little girl, who was then about four years old. Mr. Hartley, however, was intent upon forming a new connexion with the rich widow of a planter in Jamaica. He married the widow, took possession of her fortune, and all his affections soon were fixed upon a son, for whom he formed, even from the moment of his birth, various schemes of aggrandizement. The boy lived till he was about ten years old, when he caught a fever, which at that time raged in Jamaica, and, after a few days’ illness, died. His mother was carried off by the same disease; and Mr. Hartley, left alone in the midst of his wealth, felt how insufficient it was to happiness. Remorse now seized him; he returned to England in search of his deserted daughter. To this neglected child he now looked forward for the peace and happiness of the remainder of his life. Disappointment in all his inquiries for some months preyed upon his spirits to such a degree, that his intellects were at times disordered; this derangement was the cause of his not sooner recovering his child. He was in confinement during the time that Clarence Hervey’s advertisements were inserted in the papers; and his illness was also the cause of his not going to Portsmouth, and sailing in the Effingham, as he had originally intended. The history of his connexion with Mr. Horton would be uninteresting to the reader; it is enough to say, that he was prevailed upon, by that gentleman, to spend some time in the country with him, for the recovery of his health; and it was there that he became acquainted with Dr. X——, who introduced him, as we have seen, to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, at whose house he met Clarence Hervey. This is the most succinct account that we can give of him and his affairs. His own account was ten times as long; but we spare our readers his incoherences and reflections, because, perhaps, they are in a hurry to get to Twickenham, and to hear of his meeting with Virginia.
Mrs. Ormond found it no easy task to prepare Virginia for the sight of Mr. Hartley. Virginia had scarcely ever spoken of her father; but the remembrance of things which she had heard of him from her grandmother was fresh in her mind; she had often pictured him in her fancy, and she had secretly nourished the hope that she should not for ever be a deserted child. Mrs. Ormond had observed, that in those romances, of which she was so fond, every thing that related to children who were deserted by their parents affected her strongly.
The belief in what the French call la force du sang was suited to her affectionate temper and ardent imagination, and it had taken full possession of her mind. The eloquence of romance persuaded her that she should not only discover but love her father with intuitive filial piety, and she longed to experience those yearnings of affection of which she had read so much.
The first moment that Mrs. Ormond began to speak of Mr. Clarence Hervey’s hopes of discovering her father, she was transported with joy.
“My father!—How delightful that word father sounds!—My father?—May I say my father?—And will he own me, and will he love me, and will he give me his blessing, and will he fold me in his arms, and call me his daughter, his dear daughter?—Oh, how I shall love him! I will make it the whole business of my life to please him!”
“The whole business?” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.
“Not the whole,” said Virginia; “I hope my father will like Mr. Hervey. Did not you say that he is rich? I wish that my father may be very rich.”
“That is the last wish that I should have expected to hear from you, my Virginia.”
“But do you not know why I wish it?—that I may show my gratitude to Mr. Hervey.”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Ormond, “these are most generous sentiments, and worthy of you; but do not let your imagination run away with you at this rate—Mr. Hervey is rich enough.”
“I wish he were poor,” said Virginia, “that I might make him rich.”
“He would not love you the better, my dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “if you had the wealth of the Indies. Perhaps your father may not be rich; therefore do not set your heart upon this idea.”
Virginia sighed: fear succeeded to hope, and her imagination immediately reversed the bright picture that it had drawn.
“But I am afraid,” said she, “that this gentleman is not my father—how disappointed I shall be! I wish you had never told me all this, my dear Mrs. Ormond.”
“I would not have told it to you, if Mr. Hervey had not desired that I should; and you maybe sure he would not have desired it, unless he had good reason to believe that you would not be disappointed.”
“But he is not sure—he does not say he is quite sure. And, even if I were quite certain of his being my father, how can I be certain that he will not disown me—he, who has deserted me so long? My grandmother, I remember, often used to say that he had no natural affection.”
“Your grandmother was mistaken, then; for he has been searching for his child all over England, Mr. Hervey says; and he has almost lost his senses with grief and with remorse!”
“Remorse!”
“Yes, remorse, for having so long deserted you: he fears that you will hate him.”
“Hate him!—is it possible to hate a father?” said Virginia.
“He dreads that you should never forgive him.”
“Forgive him!—I have read of parents forgiving their children, but I never remember to have read of a daughter forgiving her father. Forgive! you should not have used that word. I cannot forgive my father: but I can love him, and I will make him quite forget all his sorrows—I mean, all his sorrows about me.”
After this conversation Virginia spent her time in imagining what sort of person her father would be; whether he was like Mr. Hervey; what words he would say; where he would sit; whether he would sit beside her; and, above all, whether he would give her his blessing.
“I am afraid,” said she, “of liking my father better than any body else.”
“No danger of that, my dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.
“I am glad of it, for it would be very wrong and ungrateful to like any thing in this world so well as Mr. Hervey.”
The carriage now came to the door: Mrs. Ormond instantly ran to the window, but Virginia had not power to move—her heart beat violently.
“Is he come?” said she.
“Yes, he is getting out of the carriage this moment!”
Virginia stood with her eyes eagerly fixed upon the door: “Hark!” said she, laying her hand upon Mrs. Ormond’s arm, to prevent her from moving: “Hush! that we may hear his voice.”
She was breathless—no voice was to be heard: “They are not coming,” said she, turning as pale as death. An instant afterwards her colour returned—she heard the steps of two people coming up the stairs.
“His step!—Do you hear it?—Is it my father?”
Virginia’s imagination was worked to the highest pitch; she could scarcely sustain herself: Mrs. Ormond supported her. At this instant her father appeared.
“My child!—the image of her mother!” exclaimed he, stopping short: he sunk upon a chair.
“My father!” cried Virginia, springing forward, and throwing herself at his feet.
“The voice of her mother!” said Mr. Hartley. “My daughter!—My long lost child!”
He tried to raise her, but could not; her arms were clasped round his knee, her face rested upon it, and when he stooped to kiss her cheek, he found it cold—she had fainted.
When she came to her senses, and found herself in her father’s arms, she could scarcely believe that it was not a dream.
“Your blessing!—give me your blessing, and then I shall know that you are indeed my father!” cried Virginia, kneeling to him, and looking up with an enthusiastic expression of filial piety in her countenance.
“God bless you, my sweet child!” said he, laying his hand upon her; “and God forgive your father!”
“My grandmother died without giving me her blessing,” said Virginia; “but now I have been blessed by my father! Happy, happy moment!—O that she could look down from heaven, and see us at this instant!”
Virginia was so much astonished and overpowered by this sudden discovery of a parent, and by the novelty of his first caresses, that after the first violent effervescence of her sensibility was over, she might, to an indifferent spectator, have appeared stupid and insensible. Mrs. Ormond, though far from an indifferent spectator, was by no means a penetrating judge of the human heart: she seldom saw more than the external symptoms of feeling, and she was apt to be rather impatient with her friends if theirs did not accord with her own.
“Virginia, my dear,” said she, in rather a reproachful tone, “Mr. Hervey, you see, has left the room, on purpose to leave you at full liberty to talk to your father; and I am going—but you are so silent!”
“I have so much to say, and my heart is so full!” said Virginia.
“Yes, I know you told me of a thousand things that you had to say to your father, before you saw him.”
“But now I see him, I have forgotten them all. I can think of nothing but of him.”
“Of him and Mr. Hervey,” said Mrs. Ormond.
“I was not thinking of Mr. Hervey at that moment,” said Virginia, blushing.
“Well, my love, I will leave you to think and talk of what you please,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling significantly as she left the room.
Mr. Hartley folded his daughter in his arms with the fondest expressions of parental affection, and he was upon the point of telling her how much he approved of the choice of her heart; but he recollected his promise, and he determined to sound her inclinations farther, before he even mentioned the name of Clarence Hervey.
He began by painting the pleasures of the world, that world from which she had hitherto been secluded.
She heard him with simple indifference: not even her curiosity was excited.
He observed, that though she had no curiosity to see, it was natural that she must have some pleasure in the thoughts of being seen.
“What pleasure?” said Virginia.
“The pleasure of being admired and loved: beauty and grace such as yours, my child, cannot be seen without commanding admiration and love.”
“I do not want to be admired,” replied Virginia, “and I want to be loved by those only whom I love.”
“My dearest daughter, you shall be entirely your own mistress; I will never interfere, either directly or indirectly, in the disposal of your heart.”
At these last words, Virginia, who had listened to all the rest unmoved, took her father’s hand, and kissed it repeatedly.
“Now that I have found you, my darling child, let me at least make you happy, if I can—it is the only atonement in my power; it will be the only solace of my declining years. All that wealth can bestow—”
“Wealth!” interrupted Virginia: “then you have wealth?”
“Yes, my child—may it make you happy! that is all the enjoyment I expect from it: it shall all be yours.”
“And may I do what I please with it?—Oh, then it will indeed make me happy. I will give it all, all to Mr. Hervey. How delightful to have something to give to Mr. Hervey!”
“And had you never any thing to give to Mr. Hervey till now?”
“Never! never! he has given me every thing. Now—oh, joyful day!—I can prove to him that Virginia is not ungrateful!”
“Dear, generous girl,” said her father, wiping the tears from his eyes, “what a daughter have I found! But tell me, my child,” continued he, smiling, “do you think Mr. Hervey will be content if you give him only your fortune? Do you think that he would accept the fortune without the heart? Nay, do not turn away that dear blushing face from me; remember it is your father who speaks to you. Mr. Hervey will not take your fortune without yourself, I am afraid: what shall we do? Must I refuse him your hand?”
“Refuse him! do you think that I could refuse him any thing, who has given me every thing?—I should be a monster indeed! There is no sacrifice I would not make, no exertion of which I am not capable, for Mr. Hervey’s sake. But, my dear father,” said she, changing her tone, “he never asked for my hand till yesterday.”
But he had won your heart long ago, I see, thought her father.
“I have written an answer to his letter; will you look at it, and tell me if you approve of it?”
“I do approve of it, my darling child: I will not read it—I know what it must be: he has a right to the preference he has so nobly earned.”
“Oh, he has—he has, indeed!” cried Virginia, with an expression of strong feeling; “and now is the time to show him that I am not ungrateful.”
“How I love you for this, my child!” cried her father, fondly embracing her. “This is exactly what I wished, though I did not dare to say so till I was sure of your sentiments. Mr. Hervey charged me to leave you entirely to yourself; he thought that your new situation might perhaps produce some change in your sentiments: I see he was mistaken; and I am heartily glad of it. But you are going to say something, my dear; do not let me interrupt you.”
“I was only going to beg that you would give this letter, my dear father, to Mr. Hervey. It is an answer to one which he wrote to me when I was poor”—and deserted, she was near saying, but she stopped herself.
“I wish,” continued she, “Mr. Hervey should know that my sentiments are precisely the same now that they have always been. Tell him,” added she, proudly, “that he did me injustice by imagining that my sentiments could alter with my situation. He little knows Virginia.” Clarence at this moment entered the room, and Mr. Hartley eagerly led his daughter to meet him.
“Take her hand,” cried he; “you have her heart—you deserve it; and she has just been very angry with me for doubting. But read her letter,—that will speak better for her, and more to your satisfaction, no doubt, than I can.”
Virginia hastily put the letter into Mr. Hervey’s hand, and, breaking from her father, retired to her own apartment.
With all the trepidation of a person who feels that the happiness of his life is to be decided in a few moments, Clarence tore open Virginia’s letter, and, conscious that he was not able to command his emotion, he withdrew from her father’s inquiring eyes. Mr. Hartley, however, saw nothing in this agitation but what he thought natural to a lover, and he was delighted to perceive that his daughter had inspired so strong a passion.
Virginia’s letter contained but these few lines:
“Most happy shall I be if the whole of my future life can prove to you how deeply I feel your goodness.
“VIRGINIA ST. PIERRE.”
[End of C. Hervey’s packet.]
An acceptance so direct left Clarence no alternative: his fate was decided. He determined immediately to force himself to see Belinda and Mr. Vincent; for he fancied that his mind would be more at ease when he had convinced himself by ocular demonstration that she was absolutely engaged to another; that, consequently, even if he were free, he could have no chance of gaining her affections. There are moments when we desire the conviction which at another time would overwhelm us with despair: it was in this temper that Mr. Hervey paid his visit to Lady Delacour; but we have seen that he was unable to support for many minutes that philosophic composure to which, at his first entrance into the room, he had worked up his mind. The tranquillity which he had expected would be the consequence of this visit, he was farther than ever from obtaining. The extravagant joy with which Lady Delacour received him, and an indescribable something in her manner when she looked from him to Belinda, and from Belinda to Mr. Vincent, persuaded him her ladyship wished that he were in Mr. Vincent’s place. The idea was so delightful, that his soul was entranced, and for a few minutes Virginia, and every thing that related to her, vanished from his remembrance. It was whilst he was in this state that Lady Delacour (as the reader may recollect) invited him into her lord’s dressing-room, to tell her the contents of the packet, which had not then reached her hands. The request suddenly recalled him to his senses, but he felt that he was not at this moment able to trust himself to her ladyship’s penetration; he therefore referred her to his letter for that explanation which he dreaded to make in person, and he escaped from Belinda’s presence, resolving never more to expose himself to such danger.
What effect his packet produced on Lady Delacour’s mind and on Belinda’s, we shall not at present stop to inquire; but having brought up Clarence Hervey’s affairs to the present day, we shall continue his history.
CHAPTER XXVIII. — E O.
Though Clarence Hervey was not much disposed to see either Virginia or her father whilst he was in the state of perturbation into which he had been thrown by his interview with Belinda, yet he did not delay to send his servant home with a note to Mrs. Ormond, to say that he would meet Mr. Hartley, whenever he pleased, at his lawyer’s, to make whatever arrangements might be necessary for proper settlements.
As he saw no possibility of receding with honour, he, with becoming resolution, desired to urge things forward as fast as possible, and to strengthen in his mind the sense of the necessity of the sacrifice that he was bound to make. His passions were naturally impetuous, but he had by persevering efforts brought them under the subjection of his reason. His power over himself was now to be put to a severe trial.
As he was going to town, he met Lord Delacour, who was riding in the park: he was extremely intent upon his own thoughts, and was anxious to pass unnoticed. In former times this would have been the most feasible thing imaginable, for Lord Delacour used to detest the sight of Clarence Hervey, whom he considered as the successor of Colonel Lawless in his lady’s favour; but his opinion and his feelings had been entirely changed by the perusal of those letters, which were perfumed with ottar of roses: even this perfume had, from that association, become agreeable to him. He now accosted Clarence with a warmth and cordiality in his manner that at any other moment must have pleased as much as it surprised him; but Clarence was not in a humour to enter into conversation.
“You seem to be in haste, Mr. Hervey,” said his lordship, observing his impatience; “but, as I know your good-nature, I shall make no scruple to detain you a quarter of an hour.”
As he spoke he turned his horse, and rode with Clarence, who looked as if he wished that his lordship had been more scrupulous, and that he had not such a reputation for good-nature.
“You will not refuse me this quarter of an hour, I am sure,” continued Lord Delacour, “when you hear that, by favouring me with your attention, you may perhaps materially serve an old, or rather a young, friend of yours, and one whom I once fancied was a particular favourite—I mean, Miss Belinda Portman.”
At the name of Belinda Portman, Clarence Hervey became all attention: he assured his lordship that he was in no haste; and all his difficulty now was to moderate the eagerness of his curiosity.
“We can take a turn or two in the park, as well as any where,” said his lordship: “nobody will overhear us, and the sooner you know what I have to say the better.”
“Certainly,” said Clarence.
The most malevolent person upon earth could not have tired poor Clarence’s patience more than good-natured Lord Delacour contrived to do, with the best intentions possible, by his habitual circumlocution.
He descanted at length upon the difficulties, as the world goes, of meeting with a confidential friend, whom it is prudent to trust in any affair that demands delicacy, honour, and address. Men of talents were often, he observed, devoid of integrity, and men of integrity devoid of talents. When he had obtained Hervey’s assent to this proposition, he next paid him sundry handsome, but long-winded compliments: then he complimented himself for having just thought of Mr. Hervey as the fittest person he could apply to: then he congratulated himself upon his good luck in meeting with the very man he was just thinking of. At last, after Clarence had returned thanks for all his kindness, and had given assent to all his lordship’s truisms, the substance of the business came out.
Lord Delacour informed Mr. Hervey, “that he had been lately commissioned, by Lady Delacour, to discover what attractions drew a Mr. Vincent so constantly to Mrs. Luttridge’s——”
Here he was going to explain who Mr. Vincent was; but Clarence assured him that he knew perfectly well that he had been a ward of Mr. Percival’s, that he was a West Indian of large fortune, &c.
“And a lover of Miss Portman’s—that is the most material part of the story to me,” continued Lord Delacour; “for otherwise, you know, Mr. Vincent would be no more to me than any other gentleman. But in that point of view—I mean as a lover of Belinda Portman, and I may say, not quite unlikely to be her husband—he is highly interesting to my Lady Delacour, and to me, and to you, as Miss Portman’s well-wisher, doubtless.”
“Doubtless!” was all Mr. Hervey could reply.
“Now, you must know,” continued his lordship, “that Lady Delacour has, for a woman, an uncommon share of penetration, and can put things together in a wonderful way: in short, it has come to her (my Lady Delacour’s) knowledge, that before Miss Portman was at Oakly-park last summer, and after she left it this autumn, Mr. Vincent was a constant visitor at Mrs. Luttridge’s, whilst at Harrowgate, and used to play high (though unknown to the Percivals, of course) at billiards with Mr. Luttridge—a man, I confess, I disliked always, even when I carried the election for them. But no matter: it is not from enmity I speak now. But it is very well known that Luttridge has but a small fortune, and yet lives as if he had a large one; and all the young men who like high play are sure to be well received at his house. Now, I hope Mr. Vincent is not well received on that footing.
“Since my Lady Delacour and I have been such good friends,” continued his lordship, “I have dropped all connexion with the Luttridges; so cannot go there myself: moreover, I do not wish to be tempted to lose any more thousands to the lady. But you never play, and you are not likely to be tempted to it now; so you will oblige me and Lady Delacour if you will go to Luttridge’s to-night: she is always charmed to see you, and you will easily discover how the land lies. Mr. Vincent is certainly a very agreeable, open-hearted young man; but, if he game, God forbid that Miss Portman should ever be his wife!”
“God forbid!” said Clarence Hervey.
“The man,” resumed Lord Delacour, “must, in my opinion, be very superior indeed who is deserving of Belinda Portman. Oh, Mr. Hervey, you do not—you cannot know her merit, as I do. It is one thing, sir, to see a fine girl in a ball-room, and another—quite another—to live in the house with her for months, and to see her, as I have seen Belinda Portman, in every-day life, as one may call it. Then it is one can judge of the real temper, manners, and character; and never woman had so sweet a temper, such charming manners, such a fair, open, generous, decided yet gentle character, as this Miss Portman.”
“Your lordship speaks con amore,” said Clarence.
“I speak, Mr. Hervey, from the bottom of my soul,” cried Lord Delacour, pulling in his horse, and stopping short. “I should be an unfeeling, ungrateful brute, if I were not sensible of the obligations—yes, the obligations—which my Lady Delacour and I have received from Belinda Portman. Why, sir, she has been the peacemaker between us—but we will not talk of that now. Let us think of her affairs. If Mr. Vincent once gets into Mrs. Luttridge’s cursed set, there’s no knowing where it will end. I speak from my own experience, for I really never was fond of high play; and yet, when I got into that set, I could not withstand it. I lost by hundreds and thousands; and so will he, before he is aware of it, no doubt. Mrs. Luttridge will look upon him as her dupe, and make him such. I always—but this is between ourselves—suspected that I did not lose my last thousand to her fairly. Now, Hervey, you know the whole, do try and save Mr. Vincent, for Belinda Portman’s sake.”
Clarence Hervey shook hands with Lord Delacour, with a sentiment of real gratitude and affection; and assured him that his confidence was not misplaced. His lordship little suspected that he had been soliciting him to save his rival. Clarence’s love was not of that selfish sort which the moment that it is deprived of hope sinks into indifference, or is converted into hatred. Belinda could not be his; but, in the midst of the bitterest regret, he was supported by the consciousness of his own honour and generosity: he felt a noble species of delight in the prospect of promoting the happiness of the woman upon whom his fondest affections had been fixed; and he rejoiced to feel that he had sufficient magnanimity to save a rival from ruin. He was even determined to make that rival his friend, notwithstanding the prepossession which, he clearly perceived, Mr. Vincent felt against him.
“His jealousy will be extinguished the moment he knows my real situation,” said Clarence to himself. “He will be convinced that I have a soul incapable of envy; and, if he suspect my love for Belinda, he will respect the strength of mind with which I can command my passions. I take it for granted that Mr. Vincent must possess a heart and understanding such as I should desire in a friend, or he could never be—what he is to Belinda.”
Full of these generous sentiments, Clarence waited with impatience for the hour when he might present himself at Mrs. Luttridge’s. He went there so early in the evening, that he found the drawing-room quite empty; the company, who had been invited to dine, had not yet left the dining-room, and the servants had but just set the card-tables and lighted the candles. Mr. Hervey desired that nobody should be disturbed by his coming so early; and, fortunately, Mrs. Luttridge was detained some minutes by Lady Newland’s lingering glass of Madeira. In the mean time, Clarence executed his design. From his former observations, and from the hints that Lord Delacour had let fall, he suspected that there was sometimes in this house not only high play, but foul play: he recollected that once, when he played there at billiards, he had perceived that the table was not perfectly horizontal; and it occurred to him, that perhaps the E O table might be so contrived as to put the fortunes of all who played at it in the power of the proprietor. Clarence had sufficient ingenuity to invent the method by which this might be done; and he had the infallible means in his possession of detecting the fraud. The E O table was in an apartment adjoining to the drawing-room: he found his way to it; and he discovered, beyond a possibility of doubt, that it was constructed for the purposes of fraud. His first impulse was to tell this immediately to Mr. Vincent, to put him on his guard; but, upon reflection, he determined to keep his discovery to himself, till he was satisfied whether that gentleman had or had not any passion for play.
“If he have,” thought Clarence, “it is of the utmost consequence to Miss Portman that he should early in life receive a shock that may leave an indelible impression upon his mind. To save him a few hours of remorse, I will not give up the power of doing him the most essential service. I will let him go on—if he be so inclined—to the very verge of ruin and despair: I will let him feel all the horrors of a gamester’s fate, before I tell him that I have the means to save him. Mrs. Luttridge must, when I call upon her, refund whatever he may lose: she will not brave public shame—she cannot stand a public prosecution.”
Scarcely had Clarence arranged his scheme, when he heard the voices of the ladies, who were coming up stairs.
Mrs. Luttridge made her appearance, accompanied by a very pretty, modish, affected young lady, Miss Annabella Luttridge, her niece. Her little coquettish airs were lost upon Clarence Hervey, whose eye was intently fixed upon the door, watching for the entrance of Mr. Vincent. He was one of the dinner party, and he came up soon after the ladies. He seemed prepared for the sight of Mr. Hervey, to whom he bowed with a cold, haughty air; and then addressed himself to Miss Annabella Luttridge, who showed the most obvious desire to attract his attention.
From all that passed this evening, Mr. Hervey was led to suspect, notwithstanding the reasons which made it apparently improbable, that the fair Annabella was the secret cause of Mr. Vincent’s frequent visits at her aunt’s. It was natural that Clarence should be disposed to this opinion, from the circumstances of his own situation. During three hours that he stayed at Mrs. Luttridge’s, Mr. Vincent never joined any of the parties at play; but, just as he was going away, he heard some one say—“How comes it, Vincent, that you’ve been idle all night?” This question revived Mr. Hervey’s suspicions; and, uncertain what report he should make to Lord Delacour, he resolved to defer making any, till he had farther opportunities of judging.
When Mr. Hervey asked himself how it was possible that the pupil of Mr. Percival could become a gamester, he forgot that Mr. Vincent had not been educated by his guardian; that he had lived in the West Indies till he was eighteen; and that he had only been under the care of Mr. Percival for a few years, after his habits and character were in a great measure formed. The taste for gambling he had acquired whilst he was a child; but, as it was then confined to trifles, it had been passed over, as a thing of no consequence, a boyish folly, that would never grow up with him: his father used to see him, day after day, playing with eagerness at games of chance, with his negroes, or with the sons of neighbouring planters; yet he was never alarmed: he was too intent upon making a fortune for his family to consider how they would spend it; and he did not foresee that this boyish fault might be the means of his son’s losing, in a few hours, the wealth which he had been many years amassing. When young Vincent came over to England, Mr. Percival had not immediate opportunities of discovering this particular foible in his ward; but he perceived that in his mind there was that presumptuous belief in his special good fortune which naturally leads to the love of gambling. Instead of lecturing him, his guardian appealed to his understanding, and took opportunities of showing him the ruinous effects of high play in real life. Young Vincent was touched, and, as he thought, convinced; but his emotion was stronger than his conviction—his feelings were always more powerful than his reason. His detestation of the selfish character of a gamester was felt and expressed with enthusiasm and eloquence; and his indignation rose afterwards at the slightest hint that he might ever in future be tempted to become what he abhorred. Unfortunately he disdained prudence, as the factitious virtue of inferior minds: he thought that the feelings of a man of honour were to be his guide in the first and last appeal; and for his conduct through life, as a man and as a gentleman, he proudly professed to trust to the sublime instinct of a good heart. His guardian’s doubts of the infallibility and even of the existence of this moral instinct wounded Mr. Vincent’s pride instead of alarming his understanding; and he was rather eager than averse to expose himself to the danger, that he might prove his superiority to the temptation. How different are the feelings in different situations! Yet often as this has been repeated, how difficult it is to impress the truth upon inexperienced, sanguine minds!—Whilst young Vincent was immediately under his guardian’s eye at Oakly-park, his safety from vice appeared to him inglorious; he was impatient to sally forth into the world, confident rather of his innate than acquired virtue.
When he first became acquainted with Mrs. Luttridge at Harrowgate, he knew that she was a professed gambler, and he despised the character; yet without reflecting on the danger, or perhaps for the pleasure of convincing Mr. Percival that he was superior to it, he continued his visits. For some time he was a passive spectator. Billiards, however, was a game of address, not chance; there was a billiard-table at Oakly-park, as well as at Mr. Luttridge’s, and he had played with his guardian. Why, then, should he not play with Mr. Luttridge? He did play: his skill was admired; he betted, and his bets were successful: but he did not call this gaming, for the bets were not to any great amount, and it was only playing at billiards. Mr. Percival was delayed in town some weeks longer than usual, and he knew nothing of the manner in which his young friend spent his time. As soon as Mr. Vincent heard of his arrival at Oakly-park, he left half finished his game at billiards; and, fortunately for him, the charms of Belinda made him forget for some months that such a thing as a billiard-table existed. All that had happened at Mr. Luttridge’s passed from his mind as a dream; and whilst his heart was agitated by his new passion, he could scarcely believe that he had ever been interested by any other feelings. He was surprised when he accidentally recollected the eagerness with which he used to amuse himself in Mr. Luttridge’s company; but he was certain that all this was passed for ever; and precisely because he was under the dominion of one strong passion, he thought he could never be under the dominion of another. Thus persisting in his disdain of reason as a moral guide, Mr. Vincent thought, acted, and suffered as a man of feeling. Scarcely had Belinda left Oakly-park for one week when the ennui consequent to violent passion became insupportable; and to console himself for her absence he flew to the billiard-table. Emotion of some kind or other was become necessary to him; he said that not to feel was not to live; and soon the suspense, the anxiety, the hopes, the fears, the perpetual vicissitudes of a gamester’s life, seemed to him almost as delightful as those of a lover’s. Deceived by these appearances, Mrs. Luttridge thought that his affection for Belinda either was or might be conquered, and her hopes of obtaining his fortune for her niece Annabella revived. As Mr. Vincent could not endure Mrs. Freke, she abstained, at her friend’s particular desire, from appearing at her house whilst he was there, and Mrs. Luttridge interested him much in her own favour, by representing her indignation at Harriot’s conduct to be such that it had occasioned a total breach in their friendship. Mrs. Freke’s sudden departure from Harrowgate confirmed the probability of this quarrel; yet these two ladies were secretly leagued together in a design of breaking off Mr. Vincent’s match with Belinda, against whom Mrs. Freke had vowed revenge. The anonymous letter, which she hoped would work her purpose, produced, however, an effect totally unexpected upon his generous mind: he did not guess the writer; but his indignation against such base accusations burst forth with a violence that astounded Mrs. Luttridge. His love for Belinda appeared ten times more enthusiastic than before—the moment she was accused, he felt himself her defender, as well as her lover. He was dispossessed of the evil spirit of gambling as if by a miracle; and the billiard-table, and Mrs. Luttridge, and Miss Annabella, vanished from his view. He breathed nothing but love; he would ask no permission, he would wait for none from Belinda: he declared that instant he would set out in search of her, and he would tear that infamous letter to atoms in her presence; he would show her how impossible suspicion was to his nature. The first violence of the hurricane Mrs. Luttridge could not stand, and thought not of opposing; but whilst his horses and curricle were getting ready, she took such an affectionate leave of his dog Juba, and she protested so much that she and Annabella should not know how to live without poor Juba, that Mr. Vincent, who was excessively fond of his dog, could not help sympathizing in their sorrow: reasoning just as well as they wished, he extended his belief in their affection for this animal to friendship, if not love, for his master. He could not grant Mrs. Luttridge’s earnest supplication to leave the dog behind him under her protection; but he promised—and laid his hand upon his heart when he promised—that Juba should wait upon Mrs. Luttridge as soon as she went to town. This appointment being made, Miss Annabella permitted herself to be somewhat consoled. It would be injustice to omit that she did all that could be done by a cambric handkerchief to evince delicate sensibility in this parting scene. Mrs. Luttridge also deserves her share of praise for the manner in which she reproved her niece for giving way to her feelings, and for the address with which she wished to Heaven that poor Annabella had the calm philosophic temper of which Miss Portman was, she understood, a most uncommon example.
As Mr. Vincent drove toward London he reflected upon these last words; and he could not help thinking that if Belinda had more faults she would be more amiable.
These thoughts were, however, driven from his mind, and scarcely left a trace behind them, when he once more saw and conversed with her. The dignity, sincerity, and kindness which she showed the evening that he put the anonymous letter into her hands charmed and touched him, and his real feelings and his enthusiasm conspired to make him believe that his whole happiness depended on her smiles. The confession which she made to him of her former attachment to Clarence Hervey, as it raised in Vincent’s mind strong emotions of jealousy, increased his passion as much as it piqued his pride; and she appeared in a new and highly interesting light when he discovered that the coldness of manner which he had attributed to want of sensibility arose probably from its excess—that her heart should have been preoccupied was more tolerable to him than the belief of her settled indifference. He was so intent upon these delightful varieties in his love for Belinda that it was not till he had received a reproachful note from Mrs. Luttridge, to remind him of his promised visit with Juba, that he could prevail upon himself to leave Twickenham, even for a few hours. Lady Delacour’s hatred or fear of Juba, which he accidentally mentioned to Miss Annabella, appeared to her and to her aunt “the most extraordinary thing upon earth;” and when it was contrasted with their excessive fondness, it seemed to him indeed unaccountable. From pure consideration for her ladyship’s nerves, Mrs. Luttridge petitioned Vincent to leave the dog with her, that Helena might not be in such imminent danger from “the animal’s monstrous jaws.” The petition was granted; and as the petitioners foresaw, Juba became to them a most useful auxiliary. Juba’s master called daily to see him, and sometimes when he came in the morning Mrs. Luttridge was not at home, so that his visits were repeated in the evening; and the evening in London is what in other places is called the night. Mrs. Luttridge’s nights could not be passed without deep play. The sight of the E O table at first shocked Mr. Vincent: he thought of Mr. Percival, and he turned away from it; but to his active social disposition it was extremely irksome to stand idle and uninterested where all were busy and eager in one common pursuit; to his generous temper it seemed ungentlemanlike to stand by the silent censor of the rest of the company; and when he considered of how little importance a few hundreds or even thousands could be to a man of his large fortune, he could not help feeling that it was sordid, selfish, avaricious, to dread their possible loss; and thus social spirit, courage, generosity, all conspired to carry our man of feeling to the gaming-table. Once there, his ruin was inevitable. Mrs. Luttridge, whilst she held his doom in her power, hesitated only whether it would be more her interest to marry him to her niece, or to content herself with his fortune. His passion for Belinda, which she saw had been by some means or other increased, in spite of the anonymous letter, gave her little hopes of Annabella’s succeeding, even with the assistance of Juba and delicate sensibility. So the aunt, careless of her niece’s disappointment, determined that Mr. Vincent should be her victim; and sensible that she must not give him time for reflection, she hurried him on, till, in the course of a few evenings spent at the E O table, he lost not only thousands, but tens of thousands. One lucky night, she assured him, would set all to rights; the run could not always be against him, and fortune must change in his favour, if he tried her with sufficient perseverance.
The horror, the agony of mind, which he endured at this sudden ruin which seemed impending over him—the recollection of Belinda, of Mr. Percival, almost drove him to distraction. He retreated from the E O table one night, swearing that he never would hazard another guinea. But his ruin was not yet complete—he had thousands yet to lose, and Mrs. Luttridge would not thus relinquish her prey. She persuaded him to try his fortune once more. She now suffered him to regain courage, by winning back some of his own money. His mind was relieved from the sense of immediate danger; he rejoiced to be saved from the humiliation of confessing his losses to Mr. Percival and Belinda. The next day he saw her with unusual pleasure, and this was the very morning Clarence Hervey paid his visit. The imprudence of Lady Delacour, joined perhaps to his own consciousness that he had a secret fault, which ought to lower him in the esteem of his mistress, made him misinterpret every thing that passed—his jealousy was excited in the most sudden and violent manner. He flew from Lady Delacour’s to Mrs. Luttridge’s—he was soothed and flattered by the apparent kindness with which he was received by Annabella and her aunt; but after dinner, when one of the servants whispered to Mrs. Luttridge, who sat next to him, that Mr. Clarence Hervey was above stairs, he gave such a start, that the fair Annabella’s lap did not escape a part of the bumper of wine which he was going to drink to her health. In the confusion and apologies which this accident occasioned, Mrs. Luttridge had time to consider what might be the cause of the start, and she combined her suspicions so quickly and judiciously that she guessed the truth—that he feared to be seen at the E O table by a person who might find it for his interest to tell the truth to Belinda Portman. “Mr. Vincent,” said she, in a low voice, “I have such a terrible headache, that I am fit for nothing—I am not up to E O to-night, so you must wait for your revenge till to-morrow.”
Mr. Vincent was heartily glad to be relieved from his engagement, and he endeavoured to escape Clarence’s suspicions, by devoting his whole time this evening to Annabella, not in the least apprehensive that Mr. Hervey would return the next night. Mr. Vincent was at the E O table at the usual hour, for he was excessively anxious to regain what he had lost, not so much for the sake of the money, which he could afford to lose, but lest the defalcation in his fortune should lead Mr. Percival to the knowledge of the means which had occasioned it. He could not endure, after his high vaunts, to see himself humbled by his rash confidence in himself, and he secretly vowed, that if he could but reinstate himself, by one night’s good luck, he would for ever quit the society of gamblers. A few months before this time, he would have scorned the idea of concealing any part of his conduct, any one of his actions, from his best friend, Mr. Percival; but his pride now reconciled him to the meanness of concealment; and here, the acuteness of his feelings was to his own mind an excuse for dissimulation: so fallacious is moral instinct, unenlightened or uncontrolled by reason and religion.
Mr. Vincent was disappointed in his hopes of regaining what he had lost. This was not the fortunate night, which Mrs. Luttridge’s prognostics had vainly taught him to expect: he played on, however, with all the impetuosity of his natural temper; his judgment forsook him; he scarcely knew what he said or did; and, in the course of a few hours, he was worked up to such a pitch of insanity, that in one desperate moment he betted nearly all that he was worth in the world—and lost! He stood like one stupified: the hum of voices scarcely reached his ear—he saw figures moving before him; but he did not distinguish who or what they were.
Supper was announced, and the room emptied fast, whilst he remained motionless leaning on the E O table. He was roused by Mrs. Luttridge saying, as she passed, “Don’t you sup to-night, Mr. Hervey?”—Vincent looked up, and saw Clarence Hervey opposite to him. His countenance instantly changed, and the lightning of anger flashed through the gloom of despair: he uttered not a syllable; but his looks said, “How is this, sir? Here again to-night to watch me?—to enjoy my ruin?—to be ready to carry the first news of it to Belinda?”
At this last thought, Vincent struck his closed hand with violence against his forehead; and rushing by Mr. Hervey, who in vain attempted to speak to him, he pressed into the midst of the crowd on the stairs, and let himself be carried along with them into the supper-room. At supper he took his usual seat between Mrs. Luttridge and the fair Annabella; and, as if determined to brave the observing eyes of Clarence Hervey, who was at the same table, he affected extravagant gaiety; he ate, drank, talked, and laughed, more than any of the company. Toward the end of the supper, his dog, who was an inmate at Mrs. Luttridge’s, licked his hand to put him in mind that he had given him nothing to eat.
“Drink, Juba!—drink, and never have done, boy!” cried Vincent, holding a bumper of wine to the dog’s mouth; “he’s the only dog I ever saw taste wine.” Then snatching up some of the flowers, which ornamented the table, he swore that Juba should henceforward be called Anacreon, and that he deserved to be crowned with roses by the hand of beauty. The fair Annabella instantly took a hothouse rose from her bosom, and assisted in making the garland, with which she crowned the new Anacreon. Insensible to his honours, the dog, who was extremely hungry, turned suddenly to Mrs. Luttridge, by whom he had, till this night, regularly been fed with the choicest morsels, and lifting up his huge paw, laid it, as he had been wont to do, upon her arm. She shook it off: he, knowing nothing of the change in his master’s affairs, laid the paw again upon her arm; and with that familiarity to which he had long been encouraged, raised his head almost close to the lady’s cheek.
“Down, Juba!—down, sir, down!” cried Mrs. Luttridge, in a sharp voice.
“Down, Juba!—down, sir!” repeated Mr. Vincent, in a tone of bitter feeling, all his assumed gaiety forsaking him at this instant: “Down, Juba!—down, sir, down!” as low as your master, thought he; and pushing back his chair, he rose from table, and precipitately left the room.
Little notice was taken of his retreat; the chairs closed in; and the gap which his vacant place left was visible but for a moment: the company were as gay as before; the fair Annabella smiled with a grace as attractive; and Mrs. Luttridge exulted in the success of her schemes—whilst her victim was in the agonies of despair.
Clarence Hervey, who had watched every change of Vincent’s countenance, saw the agony of soul with which he rose from the table, and quitted the room: he suspected his purpose, and followed him immediately; but Mr. Vincent had got out of the house before he could overtake him; which way he was gone no one could tell, for no one had seen him; the only information he could gain was, that he might possibly be heard of at Nerot’s Hotel, or at Governor Montford’s, in Portland-place. The hotel was but a few yards from Mrs. Luttridge’s. Clarence went there directly. He asked for Mr. Vincent. One of the waiters said, that he was not yet come in; but another called out, “Mr. Vincent, sir, did you say? I have just shown him up to his room.”
“Which is the room?—I must see him instantly,” cried Hervey.
“Not to-night—you can’t see him now, sir. Mr. Vincent won’t let you in, I can assure you, sir. I went up myself three minutes ago, with some letters, that came whilst he was away, but he would not let me in. I heard him double-lock the door, and he swore terribly. I can’t go up again at this time o’night—for my life I dare not, sir.”
“Where is his own man?—Has Mr. Vincent any servant here?—Mr. Vincent’s man!” cried Clarence; “let me see him!”
“You can’t, sir. Mr. Vincent has just sent his black, the only servant he has here, out on some message. Indeed, sir, there’s no use in going up,” continued the waiter, as Clarence sprang up two or three stairs at once: “Mr. Vincent has desired nobody may disturb him. I give you my word, sir, he’ll be very angry; and, besides, ‘twould be to no purpose, for he’ll not unlock the door.”
“Is there but one door to the room?” said Mr. Hervey; and, as he asked the question, he pulled a guinea out of his pocket, and touched the waiter’s hand with it.
“Oh, now I recollect—yes, sir, there’s a private door through a closet: may be that mayn’t be fastened.”
Clarence put the guinea into the waiter’s hand, who instantly showed him the way up the back staircase to the door that opened into Mr. Vincent’s bed-chamber.
“Leave me now,” whispered he, “and make no noise.”
The man withdrew; and as Mr. Hervey went close to the concealed door, to try if it was fastened, he distinctly heard a pistol cocked. The door was not fastened: he pushed it softly open, and saw the unfortunate man upon his knees, the pistol in his hand, his eyes looking up to heaven. Clarence was in one moment behind him; and, seizing hold of the pistol, he snatched it from Vincent’s grasp with so much calm presence of mind and dexterity, that, although the pistol was cocked, it did not go off.
“Mr. Hervey!” exclaimed Vincent, starting up. Astonishment overpowered all other sensations. But the next instant recovering the power of speech, “Is this the conduct of a gentleman, Mr. Hervey—of a man of honour,” cried he, “thus to intrude upon my privacy; to be a spy upon my actions; to triumph in my ruin; to witness my despair; to rob me of the only—”
He looked wildly at the pistol which Clarence held in his hand; then snatching up another, which lay upon the table, he continued, “You are my enemy—I know it; you are my rival; I know it; Belinda loves you! Nay, affect not to start—this is no time for dissimulation—Belinda loves you—you know it: for her sake, for your own, put me out of the world—put me out of torture. It shall not be called murder: it shall be called a duel. You have been a spy upon my actions—I demand satisfaction. If you have one spark of honour or of courage within you, Mr. Hervey, show it now—fight me, sir, openly as man to man, rival to rival, enemy to enemy—fire.”
“If you fire upon me, you will repent it,” replied Clarence calmly; “for I am not your enemy—I am not your rival.”
“You are,” interrupted Vincent, raising his voice to the highest pitch of indignation: “you are my rival, though you dare not avow it! The denial is base, false, unmanly. Oh, Belinda, is this the being you prefer to me? Gamester—wretch, as I am, my soul never stooped to falsehood! Treachery I abhor; courage, honour, and a heart worthy of Belinda, I possess. I beseech you, sir,” continued he, addressing himself, in a tremulous tone of contempt, to Mr. Hervey, “I beseech you, sir, to leave me to my own feelings—and to myself.”
“You are not yourself at this moment, and I cannot leave you to such mistaken feelings,” replied Hervey: “command yourself for a moment, and hear me; use your reason, and you will soon be convinced that I am your friend.”
“My friend!”
“Your friend. For what purpose did I come here? to snatch this pistol from your hand? If it were my interest, my wish, that you were out of the world, why did I prevent you from destroying yourself? Do you think that the action of an enemy? Use your reason.”
“I cannot,” said Vincent, striking his forehead; “I know not what to think—I am not master of myself. I conjure you, sir, for your own sake, to leave me.”
“For my own sake!” repeated Hervey, disdainfully: “I am not thinking of myself; nor can any thing you have said provoke me from my purpose. My purpose is to save you from ruin, for the sake of a woman, whom, though I am no longer your rival, I have loved longer, if not better, than you have.”
There was something so open in Hervey’s countenance, such a strong expression of truth in his manner, that it could not be resisted, and Vincent, in an altered voice, exclaimed, “You acknowledge that you have loved Belinda—and could you cease to love her? Impossible!—And, loving her, must you not detest me?”
“No,” said Clarence, holding out his hand to him; “I wish to be your friend. I have not the baseness to wish to deprive others of happiness because I cannot enjoy it myself. In one word, to put you at ease with me for ever, I have no pretensions, I can have none, to Miss Portman. I am engaged to another woman—in a few days you will hear of my marriage.”
Mr. Vincent threw the pistol from him, and gave his hand to Hervey.
“Pardon what I said to you just now,” cried he; “I knew not what I said—I spoke in the agony of despair: your purpose is most generous—but it is in vain—you come too late—I am ruined, past all hope.”
He folded his arms, and his eyes reverted involuntarily to his pistols.
“The misery that you have this night experienced,” said Mr. Hervey, “was necessary to the security of your future happiness.”