“Happiness!” repeated Vincent; “happiness—there is no happiness left for me. My doom is fixed—fixed by my own folly—my own rash, headstrong folly. Madman that I was, what could tempt me to the gaming-table? Oh! if I could recall but a few days, a few hours of my existence! But remorse is vain—prudence comes too late. Do you know,” said he, fixing his eyes upon Hervey, “do you know that I am a beggar? that I have not a farthing left upon earth? Go to Belinda; tell her so: tell her, that if she had ever the slightest regard for me, I deserve it no longer. Tell her to forget, despise, detest me. Give her joy that she has escaped having a gamester for a husband.”
“I will,” said Clarence, “I will, if you please, tell her what I believe to be true, that the agony you have felt this night, the dear-bought experience you have had, will be for ever a warning.”
“A warning!” interrupted Vincent: “Oh, that it could yet be useful to me!—But I tell you it comes too late—nothing can save me.”
“I can,” said Mr. Hervey. “Swear to me, for Belinda’s sake—solemnly swear to me, that you will never more trust your happiness and hers to the hazard of a die—swear that you will never more, directly or indirectly, play at any game of chance, and I will restore to you the fortune that you have lost.”
Mr. Vincent stood as if suspended between ecstasy and despair: he dared not trust his senses: with a fervent and solemn adjuration he made the vow that was required of him; and Clarence then revealed to him the secret of the E O table.
“When Mrs. Luttridge knows that I have it in my power to expose her to public shame, she will instantly refund all that she has iniquitously won from you. Even among gamblers she would be blasted for ever by this discovery: she knows it, and if she dared to brave public opinion, we have then a sure resource in the law—prosecute her. The laws of honour, as well as the laws of the land, will support the prosecution. But she will never let the affair go into a court of justice. I will see her early, as early as I can to-morrow, and put you out of suspense.”
“Most generous of human beings!” exclaimed Vincent; “I cannot express to you what I feel; but your own heart, your own approbation—”
“Farewell, good night,” interrupted Clarence; “I see that I have made a friend—I was determined that Belinda’s husband should be my friend—I have succeeded beyond my hopes. And now I will intrude no longer,” said he, as he closed the door after him. His sensations at this instant were more delightful even than those of the man he had relieved from the depth of despair. How wisely has Providence made the benevolent and generous passions the most pleasurable!
In the silence of the night, when the hurry of action was over, and the enthusiasm of generosity began to subside, the words, which had escaped from Mr. Vincent in the paroxysm of despair and rage—the words, “Belinda loves you”—recurred to Clarence Hervey; and it required all his power over himself to banish the sound from his ear, and the idea from his mind. He endeavoured to persuade himself that these words were dictated merely by sudden jealousy, and that there could be no real foundation for the assertion: perhaps this belief was a necessary support to his integrity. He reflected, that, at all events, his engagement with Virginia could not be violated; his proffered services to Mr. Vincent could not be withdrawn: he was firm and consistent. Before two o’clock the next day, Vincent received from Clarence this short note:
“Enclosed is Mrs. Luttridge’s acknowledgment, that she has no claims upon you, in consequence of what passed last night. I said nothing about the money she had previously won, as I understand you have paid it.
“The lady fell into fits, but it would not do. The husband attempted to bully me; I told him I should be at his service, after he had made the whole affair public, by calling you out.
“I would have seen you myself this morning, but that I am engaged with lawyers and marriage settlements.
“Yours sincerely,
“CLARENCE HERVEY.”
Overjoyed at the sight of Mrs. Luttridge’s acknowledgment, Vincent repeated his vow never more to hazard himself in her dangerous society. He was impatient to see Belinda; and, full of generous and grateful sentiments, in his first moment of joy, he determined to conceal nothing from her; to make at once the confession of his own imprudence and the eulogium of Clarence Hervey’s generosity. He was just setting out for Twickenham, when he was sent for by his uncle, Governor Montford, who had business to settle with him, relative to his West India estates. He spent the remainder of the morning with his uncle; and there he received a charming letter from Belinda—that letter which she had written and sent whilst Lady Delacour was reading Clarence Hervey’s packet. It would have cured Vincent of jealousy, even if he had not, in the interim, seen Mr. Hervey, and learnt from him the news of his approaching marriage. Miss Portman, at the conclusion of her letter, informed him that Lady Delacour purposed being in Berkeley-square the next day; that they were to spend a week in town, on account of Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who had promised her ladyship a visit; and to go to Twickenham would be a formidable journey to an infirm old lady, who seldom stirred out of her house.
Whatever displeasure Lady Delacour felt towards her friend Belinda, on account of her coldness to Mr. Hervey, and her steadiness to Mr. Vincent, had by this time subsided. Angry people, who express their passion, as it has been justly said, always speak worse than they think. This was usually the case with her ladyship.
The morning after they arrived in town, she came into Belinda’s room, with an air of more than usual sprightliness and satisfaction. “Great news!—Great news!—Extraordinary news!—But it is very imprudent to excite your expectations, my dear Belinda. Pray, did you hear a wonderful noise in the square a little while ago?”
“Yes, I thought I heard a great bustle; but Marriott appeased my curiosity, by saying that it was only a battle between two dogs.”
“It is well if this battle between two dogs do not end in a duel between two men,” said Lady Delacour.
“This prospect of mischief seems to have put your ladyship in wonderfully good spirits,” said Belinda, smiling.
“But what do you think I have heard of Mr. Vincent?” continued Lady Delacour: “that Miss Annabella Luttridge is dying for love of him—or of his fortune. Knowing, as I do, the vanity of mankind, I suppose that your Mr. Vincent, all perfect as he is, was flattered by the little coquette; and perhaps he condescends to repay her in the same coin. I take it for granted—for I always fill up the gaps in a story my own way—I take it for granted that Mr. Vincent got into some entanglement with her, and that this has been the cause of the quarrel with the aunt. That there has been a quarrel is certain, for your friend Juba told Marriott so. His massa swore that he would never go to Mrs. Luttridge’s again; and this morning he took the decisive measure of sending to request that his dog might be returned. Juba went for his namesake. Miss Annabella Luttridge was the person who delivered up the dog; and she desired the black to tell his master, with her compliments, that Juba’s collar was rather too tight; and she begged that he would not fail to take it off as soon as he could. Perhaps, my dear, you are as simple as the poor negro, and suspect no finesse in this message. Miss Luttridge, aware that the faithful fellow was too much in your interests to be either persuaded or bribed to carry a billet-doux from any other lady to his master, did not dare to trust him upon this occasion; but she had the art to make him carry her letter without his knowing it. Colin maillard, vulgarly called blind man’s buff, was, some time ago, a favourite play amongst the Parisian ladies: now hide and seek will be brought into fashion, I suppose, by the fair Annabella. Judge of her talents for the game by this instance:—she hid her billet-doux within the lining of Juba’s collar. The dog, unconscious of his dignity as an ambassador, or rather as a chargé d’affaires, set out on his way home. As he was crossing Berkeley-square he was met by Sir Philip Baddely and his dog. The baronet’s insolent favourite bit the black’s heels. Juba, the dog, resented the injury immediately, and a furious combat ensued. In the height of the battle Juba’s collar fell off. Sir Philip Baddely espied the paper that was sewed to the lining, and seized upon it immediately: the negro caught hold of it at the same instant: the baronet swore; the black struggled: the baronet knocked him down. The great dog left his canine antagonist that moment, flew at your baronet, and would have eaten him up at three mouthfuls, if Sir Philip had not made good his retreat to Dangerfield’s circulating library. The negro’s head was terribly cut by the sharp point of a stone, and his ankle was sprained; but, as he has just told me, he did not feel this till afterward. He started up, and pursued his master’s enemy. Sir Philip was actually reading Miss Luttridge’s billet-doux aloud when the black entered the library. He reclaimed his master’s property with great intrepidity; and a gentleman who was present took his part immediately.
“In the mean time, Lord Delacour, who had been looking at the battle from our breakfast-room window, determined to go over to Dangerfield’s, to see what was the matter, and how all this would end. He entered the library just as the gentleman who had volunteered in favour of poor Juba was disputing with Sir Philip. The bleeding negro told my lord, in as plain words as he could, the cause of the dispute; and Lord Delacour, who, to do him justice, is a man of honour, joined instantly in his defence. The baronet thought proper at length to submit; and he left the field of battle, without having any thing to say for himself but—‘Damme!—very extraordinary, damme!’—or words to that effect.
“Now, Lord Delacour, besides being a man of honour, is also a man of humanity. I know that I cannot oblige you more, my dear Belinda, than by seasoning my discourse with a little conjugal flattery. My lord was concerned to see the poor black writhing in pain; and with the assistance of the gentleman who had joined in his defence, he brought Juba across the square to our house. Guess for what:—to try upon the strained ankle an infallible quack balsam recommended to him by the Dowager Lady Boucher. I was in the hall when they brought the poor fellow in: Marriott was called. ‘Mrs. Marriott,’ cried my lord, ‘pray let us have Lady Boucher’s infallible balsam—this instant!’ Had you but seen the eagerness of face, or heard the emphasis, with which he said ‘infallible balsam’—you must let me laugh at the recollection. One human smile must pass, and be forgiven.”
“The smile may be the more readily forgiven,” said Belinda, “since I am sure you are conscious that it reflected almost as much upon yourself as upon Lord Delacour.”
“Why, yes; belief in a quack doctor is full as bad as belief in a quack balsam, I allow. Your observation is so malicious, because so just, that to punish you for it, I will not tell you the remainder of my story for a week to come; and I assure you that the best part of it I have left untold. To return to our friend Mr. Vincent:—could you but know what reasons I have, at this instant, for wishing him in Jamaica, you would acknowledge that I am truly candid in confessing that I believe my suspicions about E O were unfounded; and I am truly generous in admitting that you are right to treat him with justice.”
This last enigmatical sentence Belinda could not prevail upon Lady Delacour to explain.
In the evening Mr. Vincent made his appearance. Lady Delacour immediately attacked him with raillery, on the subject of the fair Annabella. He was rejoiced to perceive that her suspicions took this turn, and that nothing relative to the transaction in which Clarence Hervey had been engaged had transpired. Vincent wavered in his resolution to confess the truth to Belinda. Though he had determined upon this in the first moment of joyful enthusiasm, yet the delay of four-and-twenty hours had made a material change in his feelings; his most virtuous resolves were always rather the effect of sudden impulse than of steady principle. But when the tide of passion had swept away the landmarks, he had no method of ascertaining the boundaries of right and wrong. Upon the present occasion his love for Belinda confounded all his moral calculations: one moment, his feelings as a man of honour forbade him to condescend to the meanness of dissimulation; but the next instant his feelings as a lover prevailed; and he satisfied his conscience by the idea that, as his vow must preclude all danger of his return to the gaming-table in future, it would only be creating an unnecessary alarm in Belinda’s mind to speak to her of his past imprudence. His generosity at first revolted from the thought of suppressing those praises of Clarence Hervey, which had been so well deserved; but his jealousy returned, to combat his first virtuous impulse. He considered that his own inferiority must by comparison appear more striking to his mistress; and he sophistically persuaded himself that it would be for her happiness to conceal the merits of a rival, to whom she could never be united. In this vacillating state of mind he continued during the greatest part of the evening. About half an hour before he took his leave, Lady Delacour was called out of the room by Mrs. Marriott. Left alone with Belinda, his embarrassment increased, and the unsuspecting kindness of her manner was to him the most bitter reproach. He stood in silent agony whilst in a playful tone she smiled and said,
“Where are your thoughts, Mr. Vincent? If I were of a jealous temper, I should say with the fair Annabella—”
“You would say wrong, then,” replied Mr. Vincent, in a constrained voice. He was upon the point of telling the truth; but to gain a reprieve of a few minutes, he entered into a defence of his conduct towards Miss Luttridge.
The sudden return of Lady Delacour relieved him from his embarrassment, and they conversed only on general subjects during the remainder of the evening; and he at last departed, secretly rejoicing that he was, as he fancied, under the necessity of postponing his explanation; he even thought of suppressing the history of his transaction with Mrs. Luttridge. He knew that his secret was safe with Clarence Hervey: Mrs. Luttridge would be silent for her own sake; and neither Lady Delacour nor Belinda had any connexion with her society.
A few days afterward, Mr. Vincent went to Gray, the jeweller, for some trinkets which he had bespoken. Lord Delacour was there, speaking about the diamond ring, which Gray had promised to dispose of for him. Whilst his lordship and Mr. Vincent were busy about their own affairs, Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort came into the shop. Sir Philip and Mr. Vincent had never before met. Lord Delacour, to prevent him from getting into a quarrel about a lady who was so little worth fighting for as Miss Annabella Luttridge, had positively refused to tell Mr. Vincent what he knew of the affair, or to let him know the name of the gentleman who was concerned in it.
The shopman addressed Mr. Vincent by his name, and immediately Sir Philip whispered to Rochfort, that Mr. Vincent was “the master of the black.” Vincent, who unluckily overheard him, instantly asked Lord Delacour if that was the gentleman who had behaved so ill to his servant? Lord Delacour told him that it was now of no consequence to inquire. “If,” said his lordship, “either of these gentlemen choose to accost you, I shall think you do rightly to retort; but for Heaven’s sake do not begin the attack!”
Vincent’s impetuosity was not to be restrained; he demanded from Sir Philip, whether he was the person who had beaten his servant? Sir Philip readily obliged him with an answer in the affirmative; and the consequence was the loss of a finger to the baronet, and a wound in the side to Mr. Vincent, which, though it did not endanger his life, yet confined him to his room for several days. The impatience of his mind increased his fever, and retarded his recovery.
When Belinda’s first alarm for Mr. Vincent’s safety was over, she anxiously questioned Lord Delacour as to the particulars of all that had passed between Mr. Vincent and Sir Philip, that she might judge of the manner in which her lover had conducted himself. Lord Delacour, who was a man of strict truth, was compelled to confess that Mr. Vincent had shown more spirit than temper, and more courage than prudence. Lady Delacour rejoiced to perceive that this account made Belinda uncommonly serious.
Mr. Vincent now thought himself sufficiently recovered to leave his room; his physicians, indeed, would have kept him prisoner a few days longer, but he was too impatient of restraint to listen to their counsels.
“Juba, tell the doctor, when he comes, that you could not keep me at home; and that is all that is necessary to be said.”
He had now summoned courage to acknowledge to Belinda all that had happened, and was proceeding, with difficulty, down stairs, when he was suddenly struck by the sound of a voice which he little expected at this moment; a voice he had formerly been accustomed to hear with pleasure, but now it smote him to the heart:—it was the voice of Mr. Percival. For the first time in his life, he wished to deny himself to his friend. The recollection of the E O table, of Mrs. Luttridge, of Mr. Percival as his guardian, and of all the advice he had heard from him as his friend, rushed upon his mind at this instant; conscious and ashamed, he shrunk back, precipitately returned to his own room, and threw himself into a chair, breathless with agitation. He listened, expecting to hear Mr. Percival coming up stairs, and endeavoured to compose himself, that he might not betray, by his own agitation, all that he wished most anxiously to conceal. After waiting for some time, he rang the bell, to make inquiries. The waiter told him that a Mr. Percival had asked for him; but, having been told by his black that he was just gone out, the gentleman being, as he said, much hurried, had left a note; for an answer to which he would call at eight o’clock in the evening. Vincent was glad of this short reprieve. “Alas!” thought he, “how changed am I, when I fear to meet my best friend! To what has this one fatal propensity reduced me!”
He was little aware of the new difficulties that awaited him.
Mr. Percival’s note was as follows:—
“My dear friend!
“Am not I a happy man, to find a friend in my ci-devant ward? But I have no time for sentiment; nor does it become the character, in which I am now writing to you—that of a DUN. You are so rich, and so prudent, that the word in capital letters cannot frighten you. Lady Anne’s cousin, poor Mr. Carysfort, is dead. I am guardian to his boys; they are but ill provided for. I have fortunately obtained a partnership in a good house for the second son. Ten thousand pounds are wanting to establish him—we cannot raise the money amongst us, without dunning poor Mr. Vincent. Enclosed is your bond for the purchase-money of the little estate you bought from me last summer. I know that you have double the sum we want in ready money—so I make no ceremony. Let me have the ten thousand this evening, if you can, as I wish to leave town as soon as possible.
“Yours most sincerely,
“HENRY PERCIVAL.”
Now Mr. Vincent had lost, and had actually paid to Mrs. Luttridge, the ready money which had been destined to discharge his debt to Mr. Percival: he expected fresh remittances from the West Indies in the course of a few weeks; but, in the mean time, he must raise this money immediately: this he could only do by having recourse to Jews—a desperate expedient. The Jew, to whom he applied, no sooner discovered that Mr. Vincent was under a necessity of having this sum before eight o’clock in the evening than he became exorbitant in his demands; and the more impatient this unfortunate young man became, the more difficulties he raised. At last, a bargain was concluded between them, in which Vincent knew that he was grossly imposed upon; but to this he submitted, for he had no alternative. The Jew promised to bring him ten thousand pounds at five o’clock in the evening, but it was half after seven before he made his appearance; and then he was so dilatory and circumspect, in reading over and signing the bonds, and in completing the formalities of the transaction, that before the money was actually in Vincent’s possession, one of the waiters of the hotel knocked at the door to let him know that Mr. Percival was coming up stairs. Vincent hurried the Jew into an adjoining apartment, and bid him wait there, till he should come to finish the business. Though totally unsuspicious, Mr. Percival could not help being struck with the perturbation in which he found his young friend. Vincent immediately began to talk of the duel, and his friend was led to conclude that his anxiety arose from this affair. He endeavoured to put him at ease by changing the conversation. He spoke of the business which brought him to town, and of the young man whom he was going to place with a banker. “I hope,” said he, observing that Vincent grew more embarrassed, “that my dunning you for this money is not really inconvenient.”
“Not in the least—not in the least. I have the money ready—in a few moments—if you’ll be so good as to wait here—I have the money ready in the next room.”
At this instant a loud noise was heard—the raised voices of two people quarrelling. It was Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew. Mr. Vincent had sent Juba out of the way, on some errand, whilst he had been transacting his affairs with the Jew; but the black, having executed the commission on which he had been sent, returned, and went into his master’s bedchamber, to read at his leisure a letter which he had just received from his wife. He did not at first see the Jew, and he was spelling out the words of his wife’s letter.
“My dear Juba,
“I take this op-por-tu—” —nity he would have said; but the Jew, who had held his breath in to avoid discovery, till he could hold it no longer, now drew it so loud, that Juba started, looked round, and saw the feet of a man, which appeared beneath the bottom of the window curtain. Where fears of supernatural appearances were out of the question, our negro was a man of courage; he had no doubt that the man who was concealed behind the curtain was a robber, but the idea of a robber did not unnerve him like that of an Obeah woman. With presence of mind worthy of a greater danger, Juba took down his master’s pistol, which hung over the chimney-piece, and marching deliberately up to the enemy, he seized the Jew by the throat, exclaiming—
“You rob my massa?—You dead man, if you rob my massa.”
Terrified at the sight of the pistol, the Jew instantly explained who he was, and producing his large purse, assured Juba that he was come to lend money, and not to take it from his master; but this appeared highly improbable to Juba, who believed his master to be the richest man in the world; besides, the Jew’s language was scarcely intelligible to him, and he saw secret terror in Solomon’s countenance. Solomon had an antipathy to the sight of a black, and he shrunk from the negro with strong signs of aversion. Juba would not relinquish his hold; each went on talking in his own angry gibberish as loud as he could, till at last the negro fairly dragged the Jew into the presence of his master and Mr. Percival.
It is impossible to describe Mr. Vincent’s confusion, or Mr. Percival’s astonishment. The Jew’s explanation was perfectly intelligible to him; he saw at once all the truth. Vincent, overwhelmed with shame, stood the picture of despair, incapable of uttering a single syllable.
“There is no necessity to borrow this money on my account,” said Mr. Percival, calmly; “and if there were, we could probably have it on more reasonable terms than this gentleman proposes.”
“I care not on what terms I have it—I care not what becomes of me—I am undone!” cried Vincent.
Mr. Percival coolly dismissed the Jew, made a sign to Juba to leave the room, and then, addressing himself to Vincent, said, “I can borrow the money that I want elsewhere. Fear no reproaches from me—I foresaw all this—you have lost this sum at play: it is well that it was not your whole fortune. I have only one question to ask you, on which depends my esteem—have you informed Miss Portman of this affair?”
“I have not yet told her, but I was actually half down stairs in my way to tell her.”
“Then, Mr. Vincent, you are still my friend. I know the difficulty of such an avowal—but it is necessary.”
“Cannot you, dear Mr. Percival, save me the intolerable shame of confessing my own folly? Spare me this mortification! Be yourself the bearer of this intelligence, and the mediator in my favour.”
“I will with pleasure,” said Mr. Percival; “I will go this instant: but I cannot say that I have any hope of persuading Belinda to believe in your being irrevocably reclaimed from the charms of play.”
“Indeed, my excellent friend, she may rely upon me: I feel such horror at the past, such heartfelt resolution against all future temptation, that you may pledge yourself for my total reformation.”
Mr. Percival promised that he would exert all his influence, except by pledging his own honour; to this he could not consent. “If I have any good news for you, I will return as soon as possible; but I will not be the bearer of any painful intelligence,” said he; and he departed, leaving Mr. Vincent in a state of anxiety, which, to his temper, was a punishment sufficient for almost any imprudence he could have committed.
Mr. Percival returned no more that night. The next morning Mr. Vincent received the following letter from Belinda. He guessed his fate: he had scarcely power to read the words.
“I promised you that, whenever my own mind should be decided, I would not hold yours in suspense; yet at this moment I find it difficult to keep my word.
“Instead of lamenting, as you have often done, that my esteem for your many excellent qualities never rose beyond the bounds of friendship, we have now reason to rejoice at this, since it will save us much useless pain. It spares me the difficulty of conquering a passion that might be fatal to my happiness; and it will diminish the regret which you may feel at our separation. I am now obliged to say, that circumstances have made me certain we could not add to our mutual felicity by any nearer connexion.
“The hope of enjoying domestic happiness with a person whose manners, temper, and tastes suited my own, inclined me to listen to your addresses. But this happiness I could never enjoy with one who has any propensity to the love of play.
“For my own sake, as well as for yours, I rejoice that your fortune has not been materially injured; as this relieves me from the fear that my present conduct should be imputed to interested motives. Indeed, such is the generosity of your own temper, that in any situation I should scarcely have reason to apprehend from you such a suspicion.
“The absolute impossibility of my forming at present a connexion with another, will prevent you from imagining that I am secretly influenced by sentiments different from those which I avow; nor can any weak doubts on this subject expose me to my own reproaches.
“You perceive, sir, that I am not willing utterly to lose your esteem, even when I renounce, in the most unequivocal manner, all claim upon your affections. If any thing should appear to you harsh in this letter, I beg you to impute it to the real cause—my desire to spare you all painful suspense, by convincing you at once that my determination is irrevocable. With sincere wishes for your happiness, I bid you farewell.
“BELINDA PORTMAN.”
A few hours after Mr. Vincent had read this letter he threw himself into a post-chaise, and set out for Germany. He saw that all hopes of being united to Belinda were over, and he hurried as far from her as possible. Her letter rather soothed than irritated his temper; her praises of his generosity were highly gratifying, and they had so powerful an effect upon his mind, that he was determined to prove that they were deserved. His conscience reproached him with not having made sufficiently honourable mention of Clarence Hervey’s conduct, on the night when he was on the point of destroying himself. Before he left London he wrote a full account of this whole transaction, to be given to Miss Portman after his departure.
Belinda was deeply touched by this proof of his generosity. His letter—his farewell letter—she could not read without great emotion. It was written with true feeling, but in a manly style, without one word of vain lamentation.
“What a pity,” thought Belinda, “that with so many good and great qualities, I should be forced to bid him adieu for ever!”
Though she strongly felt the pain of this separation, yet she could not recede from her decision: nothing could tempt her to connect herself with a man who had the fatal taste for play. Even Mr. Percival, much as he loved his ward, much as he wished for his union with Belinda, dared not pledge his honour for Mr. Vincent on this point.
Lady Anne Percival, in a very kind and sensible letter, expressed the highest approbation of Belinda’s conduct; and the most sincere hope that Belinda would still continue to think of her with affection and esteem, though she had been so rash in her advice, and though her friendship had been apparently so selfish.
“Do not expect that I should pretend to be sorry for Mr. Vincent,” said Lady Delacour. “Let him be as generous and as penitent as he pleases, I am heartily glad that he is on his way to Germany. I dare say he will find in the upper or lower circles of the empire some heroine in the Kotzebue taste, who will alternately make him miserable till he is happy, and happy till he is miserable. He is one of those men who require great emotions: fine lovers these make for stage effect—but the worst husbands in the world!
“I hope, Belinda, you give me credit, for having judged better of Mr. Vincent than Lady Anne Percival did?”
“For having judged worse of him, you mean? Lady Anne always judges as well as possible of every body.”
“I will allow you to play upon words in a friend’s defence, but do not be alarmed for the reputation of Lady Anne’s judgment. If it will be any satisfaction to you, I can with thorough sincerity assure you that I never liked her so well in my life as since I have detected her in a mistake. It saves her, in my imagination, from the odium of being a perfect character.”
“And there was something so handsome in her manner of writing to me, when she found out her error,” said Belinda.
“Very true, and my friend Mr. Percival behaved handsomely. Where friendships clash, it is not every man who has clearness of head sufficient to know his duty to his neighbour. Mr. Percival said no more than just the thing he ought, for his ward. You have reason to be obliged to him: and as we are returning thanks to all persons concerned in our deliverance from this imminent danger, Juba, the dog, and Juba, the black, and Solomon, the Jew, ought to come in for their share; for without that wrestling match of theirs, the truth might never have been dragged to light, and Mr. Vincent would have been in due course of time your lord and master. But the danger is over; you need not look so terrified: do not be like the man who dropped down dead with terror, when he was shown by daylight the broken bridge which he had galloped over in the dark.”
Lady Delacour was in such high spirits that, without regard to connexion, she ran on from one subject to another.
“You have proved to me, my dear,” said she, “that you are not a girl to marry, because the day was fixed, or because things had gone so far. I give you infinite credit for your civil courage, as Dr. X—— calls it: military courage, as he said to me yesterday—military courage, that seeks the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth, may be had for sixpence a day. But civil courage, such as enabled the Princess Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, to go straight up the hill to her object, though the magical multitude of advising and abusive voices continually called to her to turn back, is one of the rarest qualities in man or woman, and not to be had for love, money, or admiration.”
“You place admiration not only above money, but above love, in your climax, I perceive,” said Belinda, smiling.
“I will give you leave to be as philosophically sarcastic as you please, my dear, if you will only smile, and if you will not look as pale as Seneca’s Paulina, whose story we heard—from whom?”
“From Mr. Hervey, I believe.”
“His name was ready upon your lips; I hope he was not far from your thoughts?”
“No one could be farther from my thoughts,” said Belinda.
“Well, very likely—I believe it, because you say it; and because it is impossible.”
“Rally me as much as you please, my dear Lady Delacour, I assure you that I speak the simple truth.”
“I cannot suspect you of affectation, my dear. Therefore honestly tell me, if Clarence Hervey were at your feet this instant, would you spurn him from you?”
“Spurn him! no—I would neither spurn him, nor motion him from me; but without using any of the terms in the heroine’s dictionary——”
“You would refuse him?” interrupted Lady Delacour, with a look of indignation—“you would refuse him?”
“I did not say so, I believe.”
“You would accept him?”
“I did not say so, I am sure.”
“Oh, you would tell him that you were not accustomed to him?”
“Not exactly in those words, perhaps.”
“Well, we shall not quarrel about words,” said Lady Delacour; “I only beg you to remember your own principles; and if ever you are put to the trial, be consistent. The first thing in a philosopher is to be consistent.”
“Fortunately, for the credit of my philosophy, there is no immediate danger of its being put to the test.”
“Unfortunately, you surely mean; unless you are afraid that it might not stand the test. But I was going, when I spoke of consistency, to remind you that all your own and Mr. Percival’s arguments about first loves may now, with equal propriety, be turned against you.”
“How against me?”
“They are evidently as applicable to second as to first loves, I think.”
“Perhaps they are,” said Belinda; “but I really and truly am not inclined to think of love at present; particularly as there is no necessity that I should.”
Belinda took up a book, and Lady Delacour for one half hour abstained from any farther raillery. But longer than half an hour she could not be silent on the subject uppermost in her thoughts.
“If Clarence Hervey,” cried she, “were not the most honourable of blockheads, he might be the most happy of men. This Virginia!—oh, how I hate her!—I am sure poor Clarence cannot love her.”
“Because you hate her—or because you hate her without having ever seen her?” said Belinda.
“Oh, I know what she must be,” replied Lady Delacour: “a soft, sighing, dying damsel, who puts bullfinches into her bosom. Smile, smile, my dear; you cannot help it; in spite of all your generosity, I know you must think as I do, and wish as I do, that she were at the bottom of the Black Sea this instant.”
Lady Delacour stood for some minutes musing, and then exclaimed, “I will move heaven and earth to break off this absurd match.”
“Good Heavens! my dear Lady Delacour, what do you mean?”
“Mean! my dear—I mean what I say, which very few people do: no wonder I should surprise you.”
“I conjure you,” cried Belinda, “if you have the least regard for my honour and happiness—”
“I have not the least, but the greatest; and depend upon it, my dear, I will do nothing that shall injure that dignity of mind and delicacy of character, which I admire and love, as much as Clarence Hervey did, and does. Trust to me: not Lady Anne Percival herself can be more delicate in her notions of propriety than I am for my friends, and, since my reformation, I hope I may add, for myself. Fear nothing.” As she finished these words, she rang for her carriage. “I don’t ask you to go out with me, my dear Belinda; I give you leave to sit in this armchair till I come back again, with your feet upon the fender, a book in your hand, and this little table beside you, like Lady S.‘s picture of Comfort.”
Lady Delacour spent the rest of the morning abroad; and when she returned home, she gave no account of what she had been doing, or of what or whom she had seen. This was so unusual, that Belinda could not avoid taking notice of it. Notwithstanding her ladyship’s eulogium upon her own delicate sense of propriety, Miss Portman could not confide, with perfect resignation, in her prudence.
“Your ladyship reproached me once,” said she, in a playful tone, “for my provoking want of curiosity: you have completely cured me of this defect, for never was woman more curious than I am, at this instant, to know the secret scheme that you have in agitation.”
“Have patience a little longer, and the mystery will be unravelled. In the mean time, trust that every thing I do is for the best. However, as you have behaved pretty well, I will give you one leading hint, when you have explained to me what you meant by saying that your heart is not at present inclined to love. Pray, have you quarrelled with love for ever?”
“No; but I can exist without it.”
“Have you a heart?”
“I hope so.”
“And it can exist without love? I now understand what was once said to me by a foolish lordling:—’ Of what use is the sun to the dial?’” 10
Company came in, and relieved Belinda from any further raillery. Lady Boucher and Mrs. Margaret Delacour were, amongst a large party, to dine at Lady Delacour’s. At dinner, the dowager seized the first auspicious moment of silence to announce a piece of intelligence, which she flattered herself would fix the eyes of all the world upon her.
“So Mr. Clarence Hervey is married at last!”
“Married!” cried Lady Delacour: she had sufficient presence of mind not to look directly at Belinda; but she fixed the dowager’s eyes, by repeating, “Married! Are you sure of it?”
“Positive—positive! He was privately married yesterday at his aunt, Lady Almeria’s apartments, at Windsor, to Miss Hartley. I told you it was to be, and now it is over; and a very extraordinary match Mr. Hervey has made of it, after all. Think of his going at last, and marrying a girl who has been his mistress for years! Nobody will visit her, to be sure. Lady Almeria is excessively distressed; she did all she could to prevail on her brother, the bishop, to marry his nephew, but he very properly refused, giving it as a reason, that the girl’s character was too well known.”
“I thought the bishop was at Spa,” interposed a gentleman, whilst the dowager drew breath.
“O dear, no, sir; you have been misinformed,” resumed she. “The bishop has been returned from Spa this great while, and he has refused to see his nephew, to my certain knowledge. After all, I cannot but pity poor Clarence for being driven into this match. Mr. Hartley has a prodigious fine fortune, to be sure, and he hurried things forward at an amazing rate, to patch up his daughter’s reputation. He said, as I am credibly informed, yesterday morning, that if Clarence did not marry the girl before night, he would carry her and her fortune off the next day to the West Indies. Now the fortune was certainly an object.”
“My dear Lady Boucher,” interrupted Lord Delacour, “you must be misinformed in that particular: fortune is no object to Clarence Hervey; he is too generous a fellow to marry for fortune. What do you think—what do you say, Lady Delacour?”
“I say, and think, and feel, as you do, my lord,” said Lady Delacour.
“You say, and think, and feel the same as my lord.—Very extraordinary indeed!” said the dowager. “Then if it were not for the sake of the fortune, pray why did Mr. Hervey marry at all? Can any body guess?”
“I should guess because he was in love,” said Lord Delacour “for I remember that was the reason I married myself.”
“My dear good lord—but when I tell you the girl had been his mistress, till he was tired of her—”
“My Lady Boucher,” said Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who had hitherto listened in silence, “my Lady Boucher, you have been misinformed; Miss Hartley never was Clarence Hervey’s mistress.”
“I’m mighty glad you think so, Mrs. Delacour; but I assure you nobody else is so charitable. Those who live in the world hear a great deal more than those who live out of the world. I can promise you, nobody will visit the bride, and that is the thing by which we are to judge.”
Then the dowager and the rest of the company continued to descant upon the folly of the match. Those who wished to pay their court to Lady Delacour were the loudest in their astonishment at his throwing himself away in this manner. Her ladyship smiled, and kept them in play by her address, on purpose to withdraw all eyes from Miss Portman, whilst, from time to time, she stole a glance at Belinda, to observe how she was affected by what passed: she was provoked by Belinda’s self-possession. At last, when it had been settled that all the Herveys were odd, but that this match of Clarence’s was the oddest of all the odd things that any of the family had done for many generations, Mrs. Delacour calmly said, “Are you sure, Lady Boucher, that Mr. Hervey is married?”
“Positive! as I said before, positive! Madam, my woman had it from Lady Newland’s Swiss, who had it from Lady Singleton’s Frenchwoman, who had it from Longueville, the hairdresser, who had it from Lady Almeria’s own woman, who was present at the ceremony, and must know if any body does.”
“The report has come to us zigzag as quick as lightning, yet it does not flash conviction upon me,” said Lady Delacour.
“Nor upon me,” said Mrs. Delacour, “for this simple reason. I have seen Miss Hartley within these two hours, and I had it from herself that she is not married.”
“Not married!” cried the dowager with terror.
“I rather think not; she is now with her father, at my house at dinner, I believe, and Clarence Hervey is at Lady Almeria’s, at Windsor: her ladyship is confined by a fit of the gout, and sent for her nephew yesterday. If people who live out of the world hear less, they sometimes hear more correctly than those who live in it.”
“Pray when does Mr. Hervey return from Windsor?” said the incorrigible dowager.
“To-morrow, madam,” said Mrs. Delacour. “As your ladyship is going to several parties this evening, I think it but charitable to set you right in these particulars, and I hope you will be so charitable as to contradict the report of Miss Hartley’s having been Clarence’s mistress.”
“Why, as to that, if the young lady is not married, we must presume there are good reasons for it,” said the dowager. “Pray, on which side was the match broken off?”
“On neither side,” answered Mrs. Delacour.
“The thing goes on then; and what day is the marriage to take place?” said Lady Boucher.
“On Monday—or Tuesday—or Wednesday—or Thursday—or Friday—or Saturday—-or Sunday, I believe,” replied Mrs. Delacour, who had the prudent art of giving answers effectually baffling to the curiosity of gossips.
The dowager consoled herself in her utmost need with a full plate of brandy peaches, and spoke not a word more during the second course. When the ladies retired after the dessert, she again commenced hostilities: she dared not come to open war with Mrs. Delacour; but in a bye-battle, in a corner, she carried every thing before her; and she triumphantly whispered, “We shall see, ma’am, that it will turn out, as I told you, that Miss Rachel, or Virginia, or whatever he pleases to call her, has been what I said; and, as I said, nobody will visit her, not a soul: fifty people I can count who have declared to me they’ve made up their minds; and my own’s made up, I candidly confess; and Lady Delacour, I am sure by her silence and looks, is of my way of thinking, and has no opinion of the young lady: as to Miss Portman, she is, poor thing, of course, so wrapped up in her own affairs, no wonder she says nothing. That was a sad business of Mr. Vincent’s! I am surprised to see her look even so well as she does after it. Mr. Percival, I am told,” said the well-informed dowager, lowering her voice so much that the lovers of scandal were obliged to close their heads round her—“Mr. Percival, I am informed, refused his consent to his ward (who is not of age) on account of an anonymous letter, and it is supposed Mr. Vincent desired it for an excuse to get off handsomely. Fighting that duel about her with Sir Philip Baddely settled his love—so he is gone to Germany, and she is left to wear the willow, which, you see, becomes her as well as everything else. Did she eat any dinner, ma’am? you sat next her.”
“Yes; more than I did, I am sure.”
“Very extraordinary! Then perhaps Sir Philip Baddely’s on again—Lord bless me, what a match would that be for her! Why, Mrs. Stanhope might then, indeed, deserve to be called the match-maker general. The seventh of her nieces this. But look, there’s Mrs. Delacour leading Miss Portman off into the trictrac cabinet, with a face full of business—her hand in hers—Lord, I did not know they were on that footing! I wonder what’s going forward. Suppose old Hartley was to propose for Miss Portman—there would be a dénouement! and cut his daughter off with a shilling! Nothing’s impossible, you know. Did he ever see Miss Portman? I must go and find out, positively.”
In the mean time, Mrs. Delacour, unconscious of the curiosity she had excited, was speaking to Belinda in the trictrac cabinet.
“My dear Miss Portman,” said she, “you have a great deal of good-nature, else I should not venture to apply to you on the present occasion. Will you oblige me, and serve a friend of mine—a gentleman who, as I once imagined, was an admirer of yours?”
“I will do any thing in my power to oblige any friend of yours, madam,” said Belinda; “but of whom are you speaking?”
“Of Mr. Hervey, my dear young lady.”
“Tell me how I can serve him as a friend,” said Belinda, colouring deeply.
“That you shall know immediately,” said Mrs. Delacour, rummaging and rustling for a considerable time amongst a heap of letters, which she had pulled out of the largest pockets that ever woman wore, even in the last century.
“Oh, here it is,” continued she, opening and looking into them. “May I trouble you just to look over this letter? It is from poor Mr. Hartley; he is, as you will see, excessively fond of his daughter, whom he has so fortunately discovered after his long search: he is dreadfully nervous, and has been terribly annoyed by these idle gossiping stories. You find, by what Lady Boucher said at dinner, that they have settled it amongst them that Virginia is not a fit person to be visited; that she has been Clarence’s mistress instead of his pupil. Mr. Hartley, you see by this letter, is almost out of his senses with the apprehension that his daughter’s reputation is ruined. I sent my carriage to Twickenham, the moment I received this letter, for the poor girl and her gouvernante. They came to me this morning; but what can I do? I am only one old woman against a confederacy of veteran gossips; but if I could gain you and Lady Delacour for my allies, I should fear no adversaries. Virginia is to stay with me for some days; and Lady Delacour, I see, has a great mind to come to see her; but she does not like to come without you, and she says that she does not like to ask you to accompany her. I don’t understand her delicacy about the matter—I have none; believing, as I do, that there is no foundation whatever for these malicious reports, which, entre nous, originated, I fancy, with Mrs. Marriott. Now, will you oblige me? If you and Lady Delacour will come and see Virginia to-morrow, all the world would follow your example the next day. It’s often cowardice that makes people ill-natured: have you the courage, my good Miss Portman, to be the first to do a benevolent action? I do assure you,” continued Mrs. Delacour with great earnestness, “I do assure you I would as soon put my hand into that fire, this moment, as ask you to do any thing that I thought improper. But forgive me for pressing this point; I am anxious to have your suffrage in her favour: Miss Belinda Portman’s character for prudence and propriety stands so high, and is fixed so firmly, that she may venture to let us cling to it; and I am as well convinced of the poor girl’s innocence as I am of yours; and when you see her, you will be of my opinion.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Delacour,” said Belinda, “that you have wasted a great deal of eloquence upon this occasion, for—”
“I am sorry for it,” interrupted Mrs. Delacour, rising from her seat, with a look of some displeasure. “I meant not to distress or offend you, Miss Portman, by my eloquence: I am only concerned that I should have so far mistaken your character as to expose myself to this refusal.”
“I have given no refusal,” said Belinda, mildly: “you did not let me finish my sentence.”
“I beg pardon; that is a foolish old trick of mine.”
“Mrs. Delacour, I was going to say, has wasted a great deal of eloquence: for I am entirely of her opinion, and I shall, with the greatest readiness, comply with her request.”
“You are a charming, generous girl, and I am a passionate old fool—thank you a thousand times.”
“You are not at all obliged to me,” said Belinda. “When I first heard this story, I believed it, as Lady Boucher now does—but I have had reason to alter my opinion, and perhaps the same means of information would have changed hers; once convinced, it is impossible to relapse into suspicion.”
“Impossible to you: the most truly virtuous women are always the least suspicious and uncharitable in their opinion of their own sex. Lady Anne Percival inspired me with this belief, and Miss Portman confirms it. I admire your courage in daring to come forward in the defence of innocence. I am very rude, alas! for praising you so much.”
“I have not a right to your admiration,” said Belinda; “for I must honestly confess to you that I should not have this courage if there were any danger in the case. I do not think that in doubtful cases it is the business of a young woman to hazard her own reputation by an attempt to preserve another’s: I do not imagine, at least, that I am of sufficient consequence in the world for this purpose; therefore I should never attempt it. It is the duty of such women as Mrs. Delacour, whose reputation is beyond the power of scandal, to come forward in the defence of injured innocence; but this would not be courage in Belinda Portman, it would be presumption and temerity.”
“Well, if you will not let me admire your courage, or your generosity, or your prudence,” said Mrs. Delacour laughing, “you must positively let me admire you altogether, and love you too, for I cannot help it. Farewell.”
After the company was gone, Lady Delacour was much surprised by the earnestness with which Belinda pressed the request that they might the next morning pay a visit to Virginia.
“My dear,” said Lady Delacour, “to tell you the truth, I am full of curiosity, and excessively anxious to go. I hesitated merely on your account: I fancied that you would not like the visit, and that if I went without you, it might be taken notice of; but I am delighted to find that you will come with me: I can only say that you have more generosity than I should have in the same situation.”
The next morning they went together to Mrs. Delacour’s. In their way thither, Belinda, to divert her own thoughts, and to rouse Lady Delacour from the profound and unnatural silence into which she had fallen, petitioned her to finish the history of Sir Philip Baddely, the dog, Miss Annabella Luttridge, and her billet-doux.
“For some of my high crimes and misdemeanours, you vowed that you would not tell me the remainder of the story till the whole week had elapsed; now will you satisfy my curiosity? You recollect that you left off just where you said that you were come to the best part of the story.”
“Was I? did I?—Very true, we shall have time enough to finish it by-and-by, my dear,” said Lady Delacour; “at present my poor head is running upon something else, and I have left off being an accomplished actress, or I could talk of one subject and think of another as well as the best of you.—Stop the carriage, my dear; I am afraid they have forgot my orders.”
“Did you carry what I desired this morning to Mrs. Delacour?” said her ladyship to one of the footmen.
“I did, my lady.”
“And did you say from me, that it was not to be opened till I came?’
“Yes, my lady.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“In Mrs. Delacour’s dressing-room, my lady:—she desired me to take it up there, and she locked the door, and said no one should go in till you came.”
“Very well—go on. Belinda, my dear, I hope that I have worked up your curiosity to the highest pitch.”