Tales and Novels — Volume 03 / Belinda

by Maria Edgeworth

Scarcely had Clarence arranged his scheme, when he heard the voices of the ladies, who were coming up stairs.

Mrs. Luttridge made her appearance, accompanied by a very pretty, modish, affected young lady, Miss Annabella Luttridge, her niece. Her little coquettish airs were lost upon Clarence Hervey, whose eye was intently fixed upon the door, watching for the entrance of Mr. Vincent. He was one of the dinner party, and he came up soon after the ladies. He seemed prepared for the sight of Mr. Hervey, to whom he bowed with a cold, haughty air; and then addressed himself to Miss Annabella Luttridge, who showed the most obvious desire to attract his attention.

From all that passed this evening, Mr. Hervey was led to suspect, notwithstanding the reasons which made it apparently improbable, that the fair Annabella was the secret cause of Mr. Vincent’s frequent visits at her aunt’s. It was natural that Clarence should be disposed to this opinion, from the circumstances of his own situation. During three hours that he stayed at Mrs. Luttridge’s, Mr. Vincent never joined any of the parties at play; but, just as he was going away, he heard some one say—“How comes it, Vincent, that you’ve been idle all night?” This question revived Mr. Hervey’s suspicions; and, uncertain what report he should make to Lord Delacour, he resolved to defer making any, till he had farther opportunities of judging.

When Mr. Hervey asked himself how it was possible that the pupil of Mr. Percival could become a gamester, he forgot that Mr. Vincent had not been educated by his guardian; that he had lived in the West Indies till he was eighteen; and that he had only been under the care of Mr. Percival for a few years, after his habits and character were in a great measure formed. The taste for gambling he had acquired whilst he was a child; but, as it was then confined to trifles, it had been passed over, as a thing of no consequence, a boyish folly, that would never grow up with him: his father used to see him, day after day, playing with eagerness at games of chance, with his negroes, or with the sons of neighbouring planters; yet he was never alarmed: he was too intent upon making a fortune for his family to consider how they would spend it; and he did not foresee that this boyish fault might be the means of his son’s losing, in a few hours, the wealth which he had been many years amassing. When young Vincent came over to England, Mr. Percival had not immediate opportunities of discovering this particular foible in his ward; but he perceived that in his mind there was that presumptuous belief in his special good fortune which naturally leads to the love of gambling. Instead of lecturing him, his guardian appealed to his understanding, and took opportunities of showing him the ruinous effects of high play in real life. Young Vincent was touched, and, as he thought, convinced; but his emotion was stronger than his conviction—his feelings were always more powerful than his reason. His detestation of the selfish character of a gamester was felt and expressed with enthusiasm and eloquence; and his indignation rose afterwards at the slightest hint that he might ever in future be tempted to become what he abhorred. Unfortunately he disdained prudence, as the factitious virtue of inferior minds: he thought that the feelings of a man of honour were to be his guide in the first and last appeal; and for his conduct through life, as a man and as a gentleman, he proudly professed to trust to the sublime instinct of a good heart. His guardian’s doubts of the infallibility and even of the existence of this moral instinct wounded Mr. Vincent’s pride instead of alarming his understanding; and he was rather eager than averse to expose himself to the danger, that he might prove his superiority to the temptation. How different are the feelings in different situations! Yet often as this has been repeated, how difficult it is to impress the truth upon inexperienced, sanguine minds!—Whilst young Vincent was immediately under his guardian’s eye at Oakly-park, his safety from vice appeared to him inglorious; he was impatient to sally forth into the world, confident rather of his innate than acquired virtue.

When he first became acquainted with Mrs. Luttridge at Harrowgate, he knew that she was a professed gambler, and he despised the character; yet without reflecting on the danger, or perhaps for the pleasure of convincing Mr. Percival that he was superior to it, he continued his visits. For some time he was a passive spectator. Billiards, however, was a game of address, not chance; there was a billiard-table at Oakly-park, as well as at Mr. Luttridge’s, and he had played with his guardian. Why, then, should he not play with Mr. Luttridge? He did play: his skill was admired; he betted, and his bets were successful: but he did not call this gaming, for the bets were not to any great amount, and it was only playing at billiards. Mr. Percival was delayed in town some weeks longer than usual, and he knew nothing of the manner in which his young friend spent his time. As soon as Mr. Vincent heard of his arrival at Oakly-park, he left half finished his game at billiards; and, fortunately for him, the charms of Belinda made him forget for some months that such a thing as a billiard-table existed. All that had happened at Mr. Luttridge’s passed from his mind as a dream; and whilst his heart was agitated by his new passion, he could scarcely believe that he had ever been interested by any other feelings. He was surprised when he accidentally recollected the eagerness with which he used to amuse himself in Mr. Luttridge’s company; but he was certain that all this was passed for ever; and precisely because he was under the dominion of one strong passion, he thought he could never be under the dominion of another. Thus persisting in his disdain of reason as a moral guide, Mr. Vincent thought, acted, and suffered as a man of feeling. Scarcely had Belinda left Oakly-park for one week when the ennui consequent to violent passion became insupportable; and to console himself for her absence he flew to the billiard-table. Emotion of some kind or other was become necessary to him; he said that not to feel was not to live; and soon the suspense, the anxiety, the hopes, the fears, the perpetual vicissitudes of a gamester’s life, seemed to him almost as delightful as those of a lover’s. Deceived by these appearances, Mrs. Luttridge thought that his affection for Belinda either was or might be conquered, and her hopes of obtaining his fortune for her niece Annabella revived. As Mr. Vincent could not endure Mrs. Freke, she abstained, at her friend’s particular desire, from appearing at her house whilst he was there, and Mrs. Luttridge interested him much in her own favour, by representing her indignation at Harriot’s conduct to be such that it had occasioned a total breach in their friendship. Mrs. Freke’s sudden departure from Harrowgate confirmed the probability of this quarrel; yet these two ladies were secretly leagued together in a design of breaking off Mr. Vincent’s match with Belinda, against whom Mrs. Freke had vowed revenge. The anonymous letter, which she hoped would work her purpose, produced, however, an effect totally unexpected upon his generous mind: he did not guess the writer; but his indignation against such base accusations burst forth with a violence that astounded Mrs. Luttridge. His love for Belinda appeared ten times more enthusiastic than before—the moment she was accused, he felt himself her defender, as well as her lover. He was dispossessed of the evil spirit of gambling as if by a miracle; and the billiard-table, and Mrs. Luttridge, and Miss Annabella, vanished from his view. He breathed nothing but love; he would ask no permission, he would wait for none from Belinda: he declared that instant he would set out in search of her, and he would tear that infamous letter to atoms in her presence; he would show her how impossible suspicion was to his nature. The first violence of the hurricane Mrs. Luttridge could not stand, and thought not of opposing; but whilst his horses and curricle were getting ready, she took such an affectionate leave of his dog Juba, and she protested so much that she and Annabella should not know how to live without poor Juba, that Mr. Vincent, who was excessively fond of his dog, could not help sympathizing in their sorrow: reasoning just as well as they wished, he extended his belief in their affection for this animal to friendship, if not love, for his master. He could not grant Mrs. Luttridge’s earnest supplication to leave the dog behind him under her protection; but he promised—and laid his hand upon his heart when he promised—that Juba should wait upon Mrs. Luttridge as soon as she went to town. This appointment being made, Miss Annabella permitted herself to be somewhat consoled. It would be injustice to omit that she did all that could be done by a cambric handkerchief to evince delicate sensibility in this parting scene. Mrs. Luttridge also deserves her share of praise for the manner in which she reproved her niece for giving way to her feelings, and for the address with which she wished to Heaven that poor Annabella had the calm philosophic temper of which Miss Portman was, she understood, a most uncommon example.

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.