“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 su
spense, 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.
CHAPTER XXX. — NEWS.
“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 con
jure 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?”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 64
