“You are not yourself at this moment, and I cannot leave you to such mistaken feelings,” replied Hervey: “command yourself for a moment, and hear me; use your reason, and you will soon be convinced that I am your friend.”
“My friend!”
“Your friend. For what purpose did I come here? to snatch this pistol from your hand? If it were my interest, my wish, that you were out of the world, why did I prevent you from destroying yourself? Do you think that the action of an enemy? Use your reason.”
“I cannot,” said Vincent, striking his forehead; “I know not what to think—I am not master of myself. I conjure you, sir, for your own sake, to leave me.”
“For my own sake!” repeated Hervey, disdainfully: “I am not thinking of myself; nor can any thing you have said provoke me from my purpose. My purpose is to save you from ruin, for the sake of a woman, whom, though I am no longer your rival, I have loved longer, if not better, than you have.”
There was something so open in Hervey’s countenance, such a strong expression of truth in his manner, that it could not be resisted, and Vincent, in an altered voice, exclaimed, “You acknowledge that you have loved Belinda—and could you cease to love her? Impossible!—And, loving her, must you not detest me?”
“No,” said Clarence, holding out his hand to him; “I wish to be your friend. I have not the baseness to wish to deprive others of happiness because I cannot enjoy it myself. In one word, to put you at ease with me for ever, I have no pretensions, I can have none, to Miss Portman. I am engaged to another woman—in a few days you will hear of my marriage.”
Mr. Vincent threw the pistol from him, and gave his hand to Hervey.
“Pardon what I said to you just now,” cried he; “I knew not what I said—I spoke in the agony of despair: your purpose is most generous—but it is in vain—you come too late—I am ruined, past all hope.”
He folded his arms, and his eyes reverted involuntarily to his pistols.