Lord Delacour, when the paper was shown to him, recognized it immediately by a private mark which he had put on the outside sheet of a division of letter paper, which, indeed, he had never given to Champfort, but which he had missed about the time Marriott mentioned. Between the leaves of this paper his lordship had put, as it was often his practice, some bank notes: they were notes but of small value, and when he missed them he was easily persuaded by Champfort that, as he had been much intoxicated the preceding night, he had thrown them away with some useless papers. He rummaged through his writing-desk in vain, and then gave up the search. It was true that on this very occasion he gave Champfort the remainder of some mourning paper, which he made no scruple, therefore, of producing openly. Certain that he could swear to his own private mark, and that he could identify his notes by their numbers, &c., of which he had luckily a memorandum, Lord Delacour, enraged to find himself both robbed and duped by a favourite servant, in whom he had placed implicit confidence, was effectually roused from his natural indolence: he took such active and successful measures, that Mr. Champfort was committed to gaol, to take his trial for the robbery. To make peace for himself, he confessed that he had been instigated by Mrs. Freke to get the anonymous letter written. This lady was now suffering just punishment for her frolics, and Lady Delacour thought her fallen so much below indignation, that she advised Belinda to take no manner of notice of her conduct, except by simply returning the letter to her, with “Miss Portman’s, Mr. Vincent’s, and Lord and Lady Delacour’s, compliments and thanks to a sincere friend, who had been the means of bringing villany to justice.”
So much for Mrs. Freke and Mr. Champfort, who, both together, scarcely deserve an episode of ten lines.
Now to return to Mr. Vincent. Animated by fresh hope, he pressed his suit with Belinda with all the ardour of his sanguine temper. Though little disposed to fear any future evil, especially in the midst of present felicity, yet he was aware of the danger that might ensue to him from Clarence Hervey’s arrival; he was therefore impatient for the intermediate day to pass, and it was with heartfelt joy that he saw the carriages at last at the door, which were actually to convey them to Oakly-park. Mr. Vincent, who had all the West Indian love for magnificence, had upon this occasion an extremely handsome equipage. Lady Delacour, though she was disappointed by Clarence Hervey’s not appearing, did not attempt to delay their departure. She contented herself with leaving a note, to be delivered to him on his arrival, which, she still flattered herself, would induce him immediately to go to Harrowgate. The trunks were fastened upon the carriages, the imperial was carrying out, Marriott was full of a world of business, Lord Delacour was looking at his horses as usual, Helena was patting Mr. Vincent’s great dog, and Belinda was rallying her lover upon his taste for “the pomp, pride, and circumstance” of glorious travelling—when an express arrived from Oakly-park. It was to delay their journey for a few weeks. Mr. Percival and Lady Anne wrote word, that they were unexpectedly called from home by—. Lady Delacour did not stay to read by what, or by whom, she was so much delighted by this reprieve. Mr. Vincent bore the disappointment as well as could be expected; particularly when Belinda observed, to comfort him, that “the mind is its own place;” and that hers, she believed, would be the same at Twickenham as at Oakly-park. Nor did she give him any reason to regret that she was not immediately under the influence of his own friends. The dread of being unduly biassed by Lady Delacour, and the strong desire Belinda felt to act honourably by Mr. Vincent, to show him that she was not trifling with his happiness, and that she was incapable of the meanness of retaining a lover as a pis-aller, were motives which acted more powerfully in his favour than all that even Lady Anne Percival could have looked or said. The contrast between the openness and decision of his conduct towards her, and Clarence Hervey’s vacillation and mystery; the belief that Mr. Hervey was or ought to be attached to another woman; the conviction that Mr. Vincent was strongly attached to her, and that he possessed many of the good qualities essential to her happiness, operated every day more and more strongly upon Belinda’s mind.
Where was Clarence Hervey all this time? Lady Delacour, alas! could not divine. She every morning was certain that he would appear that day, and every night she was forced to acknowledge her mistake. No inquiries—and she had made all that could be made, by address and perseverance—no inquiries could clear up the mystery of Virginia and Mrs. Ormond; and her impatience to see her friend Clarence every hour increased. She was divided between her confidence in him and her affection for Belinda; unwilling to give him up, yet afraid to injure her happiness, or to offend her, by injudicious advice, and improper interference. One thing kept Lady Delacour for some time in spirits—Miss Portman’s assurance that she would not bind herself by any promise or engagement to Mr. Vincent, even when decided in his favour; and that she should hold both him and herself perfectly free till they were actually married. This was according to Lady Anne and Mr. Percival’s principles; and Lady Delacour was never tired of expressing directly or indirectly her admiration of the prudence and propriety of their doctrine.
Lady Delacour recollected her own promise, to give her sincere congratulations to the victorious knight; and she endeavoured to treat Mr. Vincent with impartiality. She was, however, now still less inclined to like him, from a discovery, which she accidentally made, of his being still upon good terms with odious Mrs. Luttridge. Helena, one morning, was playing with Mr. Vincent’s large dog, of which he was excessively fond. It was called Juba, after his faithful servant.
“Helena, my dear,” said Lady Delacour, “take care! don’t trust your hand in that creature’s monstrous mouth.”
“I can assure your ladyship,” cried Mr. Vincent, “that he is the very quietest and best creature in the world.”
“No doubt,” said Belinda, smiling, “since he belongs to you; for you know, as Mr. Percival tells you, every thing animate or inanimate that is under your protection, you think must be the best of its kind in the universe.”
“But, really, Juba is the best creature in the world,” repeated Mr. Vincent, with great eagerness. “Juba is, without exception, the best creature in the universe.”
“Juba, the dog, or Juba, the man?” said Belinda: “you know, they cannot be both the best creatures in the universe.”