A JEW.
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 Vincent could not be withdrawn: he was firm and consistent.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.