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.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 62