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.