“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.”