“_Amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice_,”

repeated Selina to herself many times, as she journeyed homewards; and

she pondered much upon the meaning of this phrase. Vivian was sole

heir to a very large property, without encumbrances of any kind; what,

therefore, was the necessity that restricted his choice? The imaginary

necessity of ambition, which confined him to a certain circle of

fashionable, or _highly connected_ people. Selina Sidney, though she was

not rich, was of a very good gentleman’s family; her father had been a

colonel in the British army: during his life, Mrs. Sidney had been in

the habit of living a great deal in what is called _the world,_ and

in the best company; and though, since his death, she had lived in

retirement, Miss Sidney had received an education which put her upon a

footing with young ladies of the highest accomplishments and refinement

in the kingdom. With every solid and amiable quality, she had all those

external advantages of appearance and manner which Lady Mary Vivian

valued most highly. Selina, who was convinced that Lady Mary appreciated

her character, and was peculiarly fond of her company and conversation,

could not but feel surprise, mixed with some indignation, perhaps with a

little resentment, when she perceived that her ladyship’s prejudices

and ambition made her act so completely in contradiction to her better

judgment, to her professions, and to her feelings of affection. Whatever

Miss Sidney thought upon this subject, however, she determined to

continue to avoid seeing Vivian any more--an excellent resolution, in

which we leave her, and return to her lover.

A walk with Russell had brought him back in the full determination of

avowing his attachment sincerely to his mother, and of speaking to her

ladyship in the most respectful manner; but, when he found that Miss

Sidney was gone, anger and disappointment made him at once forget his

prudence, and his intended respect; he declared, in the most passionate

terms, his love for Selina Sidney, and his irrevocable determination

to pursue her, to the end of time and space, in spite of all opposition

whatsoever from any person whatever. His mother, who was prepared for a

scene of this sort, though not for one of this violence, had sufficient

command of temper to sustain it properly; her command of temper was,

indeed, a little assisted by the hope that this passion would be

transitory in proportion to its vehemence, much by the confidence she

had in Miss Sidney’s _honour_, and in her absence: Lady Mary, therefore,

calmly disclaimed having had any part in persuading Miss Sidney to that

measure which had so much enraged her lover; but her ladyship avowed,

that though it had not been necessary for her to suggest the measure,

she highly approved of it, and admired now, as she had ever admired,

that young lady’s prudent and noble conduct.

Softened by the only thing that could, at this moment, soften

him--praise of his mistress--Vivian, in a most affectionate manner,

assured his mother that it was her warm eulogiums of Miss Sidney which

had first turned his attention to the perfections of her character; and

he now inquired what possible objections she could make to his choice.

With the generous enthusiasm of his disposition, heightened by all the

eloquence of love, he pleaded, that his fortune was surely sufficient to

put him above mercenary considerations in the choice of a wife; that in

every point, except this one of _money_, Selina Sidney was, in his own

mother’s opinion, superior to every other woman she could name, or wish

for, as a daughter-in-law.

“But my tastes are not to blind me to your interests,” said Lady Mary;

“you are entitled to look for rank and high connexion. You are the

representative of an ancient family, have talents to make a figure in

public; and, in short, prejudice or not, I confess it is one of the

first wishes of my heart that you should marry into a noble family, or

at least into one that shall strengthen your political interest, as well

as secure your domestic happiness.”

Vivian, of course, cursed ambition, as all men do whilst they are in

love. His arguments and his eloquence in favour of a _private station_,

and of the joys of _learned leisure, a competence, and domestic bliss_,

were worthy of the most renowned of ancient or modern philosophers.

Russell was appealed to with much eagerness, both by mother and son,

during their debates. He frankly declared to Lady Mary, that he thought

her son perfectly right in all he now urged, and especially in his

opinion of Miss Sidney; “but at the same time,” added Russell, “I

apprehend that he speaks, at this moment, more from passion than from

reason; and I fear that, in the course of a few months, he might,

perhaps, entirely change his mind: therefore, I think your ladyship is

prudent in refusing, during the minority of your son, your consent to a

hasty union, of which he might afterwards repent, and thus render both

himself and a most amiable woman miserable.”

Russell, after having given his opinion with the utmost freedom, when

it was required by Lady Mary, assured her that he should no farther

interfere; and he trusted his present sincerity would be the best pledge

to her of his future discretion and honour. This equitable judgment and

sincerity of Russell’s at first displeased both parties, but in time

operated upon the reason of both; not, however, before contests had gone

on long and loud between the mother and son--not before a great deal

of nonsense had been talked on both sides. People of the best abilities

often talk the most nonsense where their passions are concerned, because

then the whole of their ingenuity is exercised to find arguments in

favour of their folly. They are not, like fools, content to say, _This

is my will_; but they pique themselves on giving reasons for their

will; and their reasons are the reasons of madmen, excellent upon

false premises. It happened here, as in most family quarrels, that the

disputants did not allow sufficiently for the prejudices and errors

incident to their different ages. The mother would not allow for the

romantic notions of the son, nor could the son endure the worldly views

of the mother. The son, who had as yet no experience of the transitory

nature of the passion of love, thought his mother unfeeling and

barbarous, for opposing him on the point where the whole happiness of

his life was concerned; the mother, who had seen the decline and fall of

so many _everlasting loves_, considered him only as a person in a fever;

and thought she prevented him, by her calmness, from doing that which he

would repent when he should regain his sober senses. Without detailing

the daily disputes which now arose, it will be sufficient to mark the

result.

Vivian’s love had been silent, tranquil, and not seemingly of any great

consequence, till it was opposed; but, from the instant that an obstacle

intervened, it gathered strength and force, and it presently rose

rapidly, with prodigious uproar, threatening to burst all bounds, and to

destroy every thing that stopped its course. Lady Mary was now inclined

to try what effect lessening the opposition might produce. To do her

justice, she was also moved to this by some nobler motives than fear;

or, at least, her fears were not of a selfish kind: she dreaded that her

son’s health and permanent happiness might be injured by this violent

passion; she was apprehensive of becoming an object of his aversion;

of utterly losing his confidence, and all power over his mind; but,

chiefly, her generous temper was moved and won by Selina Sidney’s

admirable conduct. During the whole time that Vivian used every means

to see her, to write to her, and to convince her of the fervour of his

love, though he won all her friends over to his interests, though she

heard his praises from morning till night from all who surrounded her,

and though her own heart, perhaps, pleaded more powerfully than all

the rest in his favour; yet she never, for one instant, gave him the

slightest encouragement. Lady Mary’s esteem and affection were so much

increased by these strong proofs of friendship and honour, that

her prejudices yielded; and she at length declared, that if her son

continued, till he was of age, to feel the same attachment for this

amiable girl, she would give her consent to their union. But this, she

added, she promised only on one condition--that her son should abstain

from all attempts, in the interval, to see or correspond with Miss

Sidney, and that he should set out immediately to travel with Mr.

Russell. Transported with love, and joy, and victory, Vivian promised

every thing that was required of him, embraced his mother, and set out

upon his travels.

“Allow,” said he triumphantly to Russell, as the chaise drove from the

door, “allow, my good friend, that you were mistaken, in your fears of

the weakness of my character, and of the yielding facility of my temper.

You see how firm I have been--you see what battle I have made--you see

how I have _stood out_.”

“I never doubted,” said Russell, “your love of your own free will--I

never doubted your fear of being governed, especially by your mother;

but you do not expect that I should allow this to be a proof of strength

of character.”

“What! do you suppose I act from love of my own free will merely?--Do

you call my love for Selina Sidney weakness?--Oh! take care, Russell;

for if once I find you pleading my mother’s cause against your

conscience----”

“You will never find me pleading any cause against my conscience. I have

told your mother, as I have told you, my opinion of Miss Sidney--my firm

opinion--that she is peculiarly calculated to make the happiness of your

life, provided you continue to love her.”

“Provided!--Oh!” cried Vivian, laughing, “spare your musty provisoes, my

dear philosopher! Would not any one think, now, you were an old man of

ninety? If this is all you have to fear, I am happy indeed.”

“At present,” said Russell, calmly, “I have no fear, as I have just

told your mother, but that you should change your mind before you are of

age.”

Vivian grew quite indignant at this suggestion. “You are angry with me,”

said Russell, “and so was your mother: she was angry because I said, I

_feared,_ instead of I _hoped,_ you would change your mind. Both parties

are angry with me for my sincerity.”

“Sincerity!--no; but I am angry with you for your absurd suspicions of

my constancy.”

“If they are absurd, you need not be angry,” said Russell; “I shall be

well pleased to see their absurdity demonstrated.”

“Then I can demonstrate it this moment.”

“Pardon me; not this moment; you must take time into the account. I make

no doubt but that, at this moment, you are heartily in love with Miss

Sidney; but the thing to be proved is, that your passion will not

decline in force, in proportion as it meets with less resistance. If it

does, you will acknowledge that it was more a love of your own free will

than a love of your mistress that has actuated you, which was the thing

to be proved.”

“Hateful Q.E.D.!” cried Vivian; “you shall see the contrary, and, at

least, I will triumph over you.”

If Russell had ever used art in his management of Vivian’s mind, he

might have been suspected of using it in favour of Miss Sidney at this

instant; for this prophecy of Vivian’s inconstancy was the most likely

means to prevent its accomplishment. Frequently, in the course of their

tour, when Vivian was in any situation where his constancy was tempted,

he recollected Russell’s prediction, and was proud to remind him how

much he had been mistaken. In short, the destined time for their return

home arrived--Vivian presented himself before his mother, and claimed

her promise. She was somewhat surprised, and a little disappointed, by

our hero’s constancy; but she could not retract her word; and, since

her compliance was now unavoidable, she was determined that it should be

gracious. She wrote to Selina, therefore, with great kindness, saying,

that whatever views of other connexions she might formerly have had for

her son, she had now relinquished them, convinced, by the constancy

of her son’s attachment, and by the merit of its object, that his own

choice would most effectually ensure his happiness, and that of all his

friends. Her ladyship added expressions of her regard and esteem, and of

the pleasure she felt in the thoughts of finding in her daughter-in-law

a friend and companion, whose society was peculiarly agreeable to her

taste and suited to her character. This letter entirely dissipated

Selina’s scruples of conscience; Vivian’s love and merit, all his good

and all his agreeable qualities, had now full and unreproved power to

work upon her tender heart. His generous, open temper, his candour,

his warm attachment to his friends, his cultivated understanding,

his brilliant talents, his easy, well-bred, agreeable manners, all

heightened in their power to please by the charm of love, justified,

even in the eyes of the aged and prudent, the passion he inspired.

Selina became extremely attached to him; and she loved with the

delightful belief that there was not, in the mind of her lover, the

seed of a single vice which threatened danger to his virtues or to their

mutual happiness. With his usual candour, he had laid open his whole

character to her, as far as he knew it himself; and had warned her of

that vacillation of temper, that easiness to be led, which Russell

had pointed out as a dangerous fault in his disposition. But of this

propensity Selina had seen no symptoms; on the contrary, the steadiness

of her lover in his attachment to her--the only point on which she had

yet seen him tried--decided her to trust to the persuasive voice of love

and hope, and to believe that Russell’s friendship had in this instance,

been too harsh or too timorous in its forebodings.

Nothing now delayed the marriage of Vivian and Selina but certain legal

rites, which were to be performed on his coming of age, and before

marriage settlements could be drawn;--and the parties were doomed to

wait for the arrival of some trustee who was with his regiment abroad.

All these delays Vivian of course cursed: but, upon the whole, they

were borne by him with heroic patience, and by Selina with all the

tranquillity of confiding love, happy in the present, and not too

anxious for the future.

CHAPTER II.

“My dear Russell,” said Vivian, “love shall not make me forget

friendship; before I marry, I must see you provided for. Believe me,

this was the first--one of the first pleasures I promised myself, in

becoming master of a good fortune. Other thoughts, I confess, have

put it out of my head; so now let me tell you at once. I hate paltry

surprises with my friends: I have, you know--or rather, probably, you do

not know, for you are the most disinterested fellow upon earth--I have

an excellent living in my gift; it shall be yours; consider it as such

from this moment. If I knew a more deserving man, I would give it to

him, upon my honour; so you can’t refuse me. The incumbent can’t live

long; he is an old, very old, infirm man; you’ll have the living in a

year or two, and, in the mean time, stay with me. I ask it as a favour

from a friend, and you see how much I want a friend of your firm

character; and I hope you see, also, how much I can value, in others,

the qualities in which I am myself deficient.”

Russell was much pleased and touched by Vivian’s generous gratitude, and

by the delicacy, as well as kindness of the manner in which he made

this offer; but Russell could not consistently with his feelings or his

principles live in a state of dependent idleness, waiting for a rich

living and the death of an old incumbent. He told Vivian that he had too

much affection for him, and too much respect for himself, ever to run

the hazard of sinking from the rank of an independent friend. After

rallying him, without effect, on his pride, Vivian acknowledged that he

was forced to admire him the more for his spirit. Lady Mary, too, who

was a great and sincere admirer of independence of character, warmly

applauded Mr. Russell, and recommended him, in the highest terms, to a

nobleman in the neighbourhood, who happened to be in want of a preceptor

for his only son. This nobleman was Lord Glistonbury: his lordship was

eager to engage a person of Russell’s reputation for talents; so the

affair was quickly arranged, and Lady Mary Vivian and her son went

to pay a morning visit at Glistonbury Castle, on purpose to accompany

Russell on his first introduction to the family. As they approached the

castle, Vivian was struck with its venerable Gothic appearance; he had

not had a near view of it for some years, and he looked at it with new

eyes. Formerly he had seen it only as a picturesque ornament to the

country; but now that he was himself possessor of an estate in the

vicinity, he considered Glistonbury Castle as a point of comparison

which rendered him dissatisfied with his own mansion. As he drove up

the avenue, and beheld the towers, turrets, battlements, and massive

entrance, his mother, who was a woman of taste, strengthened, by her

exclamations on the beauty of Gothic architecture, the wish that was

rising in his mind to convert his modern house into an _ancient_ castle:

she could not help sighing whilst she reflected that, if her son’s

affections had not been engaged, he might perhaps have obtained the

heart and hand of one of the fair daughters of this castle. Lady

Mary went no farther, even in her inmost thoughts. Incapable of

double-dealing, she resolved never even to let her son know what her

wishes had been with respect to a connexion with the Glistonbury family.

But the very reserve and _discretion_ with which her ladyship spoke--a

reserve unusual with her, and unsuited to the natural warmth of

her manner and temper--might have betrayed her to an acute and cool

observer. Vivian, however, at this instant, was too much intent upon

castle-building to admit any other ideas.

When the carriage drove under the great gateway and stopped, Vivian

exclaimed, “What a fine old castle! how surprised Selina Sidney would

be, how delighted, to see my house metamorphosed into such a castle!”

“It is a magnificent castle, indeed!” said Lady Mary, with a sigh: “I

think there are the Lady Lidhursts on the terrace; and here comes my

Lord Glistonbury with his son.”

“My pupil?” said Russell; “I hope the youth is such as I can become

attached to. Life would be wretched indeed without attachment--of some

sort or other. But I must not expect,” added he, “to find a second time

a friend in a pupil; and such a friend!”

Sentiment, or the expression of the tenderness he felt for his friends,

was so unusual from Russell, that it had double effect; and Vivian was

so much struck by it, that he could scarcely collect his thoughts in

time to speak to Lord Glistonbury, who came to receive his guests,

attended by three _hangers on_ of the family--a chaplain, a captain,

and a young lawyer. His lordship was scarcely past the meridian of life;

yet, in spite of his gay and debonair manner, he looked old, as if he

were paying for the libertinism of his youth by premature decrepitude.

His countenance announced pretensions to ability; his easy and affable

address, and the facility with which he expressed himself, gained him

credit at first for much more understanding than he really possessed.

There was a plausibility in all he said; but, if it were examined,

there was nothing in it but nonsense. Some of his expressions appeared

brilliant; some of his sentiments just; but there was a want of

consistency, a want of a pervading mind in his conversation, which to

good judges betrayed the truth, that all his opinions were adopted, not

formed; all his maxims commonplace; his wit mere repetition; his sense

merely _tact_. After proper thanks and compliments to Lady Mary and

Mr. Vivian, for securing for him such a treasure as Mr. Russell, he

introduced Lord Lidhurst, a sickly, bashful boy of fourteen, to his new

governor, with polite expressions of unbounded confidence, and a rapid

enunciation of undefined and contradictory expectations.

“Mr. Russell will, I am perfectly persuaded, make Lidhurst every

thing we can desire,” said his lordship; “an honour to his country,

an ornament to his family. It is my decided opinion that man is but

a bundle of habits; and it’s my maxim, that education is _second_

nature--_first_, indeed, in many cases. For, except that I am staggered

about original genius, I own I conceive with Hartley, that early

impressions and associations are all in all: his vibrations and

vibratiuncles are quite satisfactory. But what I particularly wish for

Lidhurst, sir, is, that he should be trained as soon as possible into a

statesman. Mr. Vivian, I presume you mean to follow up public business,

and no doubt will make a figure. So I prophesy; and I am used to these

things. And from Lidhurst, too, under similar tuition, I may with reason

expect miracles--‘hope to hear him thundering in the house of commons in

a few years--‘confess ‘am not quite so impatient to have the young dog

in the house of incurables; for you know he could not be there without

being in my shoes, which I have not done with yet--ha! ha! ha!----Each

in his turn, my boy! In the mean time, Lady Mary, shall we join the

ladies yonder, on the terrace? Lady Glistonbury walks so slow, that she

will be seven hours in coming to us; so we had best go to her ladyship:

if the mountain won’t go to Mahomet--you know, of course, what follows.”

On their way to the terrace, Lord Glistonbury, who always heard

himself speak with singular complacency, continued to give his ideas on

education; sometimes appealing to Mr. Russell, sometimes happy to catch

the eye of Lady Mary.

“Now, my idea for Lidhurst is simply this:--that he should know every

thing that is in all the best books in the library, but yet that he

should be the farthest possible from a book-worm--that he should never,

except in a set speech in the house, have the air of having opened a

book in his life--mother-wit for me!--in most cases--and that easy style

of originality, which shows the true gentleman. As to morals--Lidhurst,

walk on, my boy--as to morals, I confess I couldn’t bear to see any

thing of the Joseph Surface about him. A youth of spirit must, you know,

Mr. Vivian--excuse me, Lady Mary, this is--_an aside_--be something of a

latitudinarian to keep in the fashion: not that I mean to say so exactly

to Lidhurst--no, no--on the contrary, Mr. Russell, it is our cue, as

well as this reverend gentleman’s,” looking back at the chaplain, who

bowed assent before he knew to what, “it is our cue, as well as this

reverend gentleman’s, to preach prudence, and temperance, and all the

cardinal virtues.”

“_Cardinal_ virtues! very good, faith! my lord,” said the lawyer,

looking at the clergyman.

“_Temperance!_” repeated the chaplain, winking at the officer; “upon my

soul, my lord, that’s too bad.”

“_Prudence!_” repeated the captain; “that’s too clean a cut at poor

Wicksted, my lord.”

Before his lordship had time to preach any more prudence, they arrived

within bowing distance of the ladies, who had, indeed, advanced at a

very slow rate. Vivian was not acquainted with any of the ladies of the

Glistonbury family; for they had, till this summer, resided at another

of their country seats, in a distant county. His mother had often met

them at parties in town.

Lady Glistonbury was a thin, stiffened, flattened figure--she was

accompanied by two other female forms, one old, the other young; not

each a different grace, but alike all three in angularity, and in a cold

haughtiness of mien. After reconnoitring with their glasses the party

of gentlemen, these ladies quickened their step; and Lady Glistonbury,

making her countenance as affable as it was in its nature to be,

exclaimed, “My dear Lady Mary Vivian! have I the pleasure to see your

ladyship?--They told me it was only visitors to my lord.”

Mr. Vivian had then the honour of being introduced to her ladyship, to

her eldest daughter, Lady Sarah Lidhurst, and to Miss Strictland, the

governess. By all of these ladies he was most graciously received;

but poor Russell was not so fortunate; nothing could be more cold and

repulsive than their reception of him. This did not make Lady Sarah

appear very agreeable to Vivian; he thought her, at this first view, one

of the least attractive young women he had ever beheld.

“Where is my Julia?” inquired Lord Glistonbury. “Ah! there she goes

yonder, all life and spirits.”

Vivian looked as his lordship directed his eye, and saw, at the farthest

end of the terrace, a young girl of about fifteen, running very fast,

with a hoop, which she was keeping up with great dexterity for the

amusement of a little boy who was with her. The governess no sooner saw

this than she went in pursuit of her young ladyship, calling after her,

in various tones and phrases of reprehension, in French, Italian, and

English; and asking whether this was a becoming employment for a young

lady of her age and rank. Heedless of these reproaches, Lady Julia still

ran on, away from her governess, “to chase the rolling circle’s speed,”

down the slope of the terrace; thither Miss Strictland dared not pursue,

but contented herself with standing on the brink, reiterating her

remonstrances. At length the hoop fell, and the young lady returned, not

to her governess, but, running lightly up the slope of the terrace, to

her surprise, she came full in view of the company before she was aware

that any strangers were there. Her straw hat being at the back of her

head, Lady Glistonbury, with an indignant look, pulled it forwards.

“What a beautiful colour! what a sweet countenance Lady Julia has!”

whispered Lady Mary Vivian to Lord Glistonbury: at the same time she

could not refrain from glancing her eyes towards her son, to see what

effect was produced upon him. Vivian’s eyes met hers; and this single

look of his mother’s revealed to him all that she had, in her great

prudence, resolved to conceal. He smiled at her, and then at Russell, as

much as to say, “Surely there can be no comparison between such a child

as this and Selina Sidney!”

A few minutes afterwards, in consequence of a sign from Lady

Glistonbury, Julia disappeared with her governess; and the moment was

unnoticed by Vivian, who was then, as his mother observed, looking up at

one of the turrets of the old castle. All its inhabitants were at this

time uninteresting to him, except so far as they regarded his friend

Russell; but the castle itself absorbed his attention. Lord Glistonbury,

charmed to see how he was struck by it, offered to show him over every

part of the edifice; an offer which he and Lady Mary gladly accepted.

Lady Glistonbury excused herself, professing to be unable to sustain

the fatigue: she deputed her eldest daughter to attend Lady Mary in her

stead; and this was the only circumstance which diminished the pleasure

to Vivian, for he was obliged to show due courtesy to this stiff

taciturn damsel at every turn, whilst he was intent upon seeing the

architecture of the castle, and the views from the windows of the towers

and loop-holes of the galleries; all which Lady Sarah pointed out with a

cold, ceremonious civility, and a formal exactness of proceeding, which

enraged Vivian’s enthusiastic temper. The visit ended: he railed half

the time he was going home against their fair, or, as he called her,

their petrified guide; then, full of the Gothic beauties of Glistonbury,

he determined, as soon as possible, to turn his own modern house into

a castle. The very next morning he had an architect to view it, and to

examine its capabilities. It happened that, about this time, several of

the noblemen and gentry, in the county in which Vivian resided, had been

seized with this rage for turning comfortable houses into uninhabitable

castles. And, however perverse or impracticable this retrograde movement

in architecture might seem, there were always at hand professional

projectors, to convince gentlemen that nothing was so feasible. Provided

always that gentlemen approve their estimates as well as their plans,

they undertake to carry buildings back, in a trice, two, or three,

or half a dozen centuries, as may be required, to make them Gothic or

Saracenic, and to “add every grace that time alone can give.” A few days

after Vivian had been at Glistonbury Castle, when Lord Glistonbury came

to return the visit, Russell, who accompanied his lordship, found his

friend encompassed with plans and elevations.

“Surely, my dear Vivian,” said he, seizing the first moment he could

speak to him, “you are not going to spoil this excellent house? It

is completely finished, in handsome modern architecture, perfectly

comfortable and convenient, light, airy, large enough, warm rooms, well

distributed, with ample means of getting at each apartment; and if you

set about to new-model and transform it into a castle, you must, I see,

by your plan, alter the proportions of almost every room, and spoil the

comfort of the whole; turn square to round, and round again to square;

and, worse than all, turn light to darkness--only for the sake of having

what is called a castle, but what has not, in fact, any thing of the

grandeur or solid magnificence of a real ancient edifice. These modern

baby-house miniatures of castles, which gentlemen ruin themselves to

build, are, after all, the most paltry, absurd things imaginable.”

To this Vivian was, after some dispute, forced to agree; but he said,

“that his should not be a baby-house; that he would go to any expense to

make it really magnificent.”

“As magnificent, I suppose, as Glistonbury Castle?”

“If possible:--that is, I confess, the object of my emulation.”

“Ah!” said Russell, shaking his head, “these are the objects of

emulation, for which country gentlemen often ruin themselves; barter

their independence and real respectability; reduce themselves to

distress and disgrace: these are the objects for which they sell either

their estates or their country; become placemen or beggars; and end

either in the liberties of the King’s Bench, or the slaveries of St.

James’s.”

“Impossible for me! you know my public principles,” said Vivian: “and

you know that I think the life of an independent country gentleman the

most respectable of all others--you know my principles.”

“I know your facility,” said Russell: “if you begin by sacrificing thus

to your taste, do you think you will not end by sacrificing to your

interest?”

“Never! never!” cried Vivian.

“Then you imagine that a strong temptation will not act where a weak one

has been found irresistible.”

“Of this I am certain,” said Vivian: “I could never be brought to sell

my country, or to forfeit my honour.”

“Perhaps not,” said Russell: “you might, in your utmost need, have

another alternative; you might forfeit your love; you might give up

Selina Sidney, and marry for money--all for the sake of a castle!”

Struck by this speech, Vivian exclaimed, “I would give up a thousand

castles rather than run such a hazard!”

“Let us then coolly calculate,” said Russell. “What would the castle

cost you?”

The expense, even by the estimates of the architects, which, in

the execution, are usually doubled, was enormous, such as Vivian

acknowledged was unsuited even to his ample fortune. His fortune, though

considerable, was so entailed, that he would, if he exceeded his income,

be soon reduced to difficulties for ready money. But then his mother

had several thousands in the stocks, which she was ready to lend him to

forward this castle-building. It was a project which pleased her taste,

and gratified her aristocratic notions.

Vivian assured his friend at parting, that his reason was convinced:

that he would not yield to the whims of taste, and that he would

prudently give up his folly. So he determined; and he abided by his

determination till he heard numbers speak on the other side of the

question. With Vivian, those who spoke last frequently seemed to speak

best; and, in general, the number of voices overpowered the weight

of argument. By the persuasions of his mother, the example of his

neighbours, and the urgency of architects and men of taste who got about

him soon afterwards, he was convinced that there was no living without

a castle, and that the expense would be _next to nothing at all.

Convinced_, we should not say; for he yielded, against his conviction,

from mere want of power to resist reiterated solicitations. He had

no other motive; for the enthusiasm raised by the view of Glistonbury

Castle had passed away: he plainly saw, what Russell had pointed out to

him, that he should spoil the inside of his house for the sake of the

outside; and, for his own part, he preferred comfort to show. It was

not, therefore, to please his own taste that he ran into this imprudent

expense, but merely to gratify the taste of others.

Now the bustle of building began, and workmen swarmed round his house;

the foundations sank, the scaffolds rose; and many times did Vivian sigh

and repent, when he saw how much was to be undone before any thing could

be done; when he found his house dismantled, saw the good ceilings

and elegant cornices knocked to pieces, saw the light domes and modern

sashes give way; all taken out to be replaced, at profuse expense, by a

clumsy imitation of Gothic; how often did be sigh and calculate, when he

saw the tribes of workmen file off as their dinner bell rang! how often

did he bless himself, when he beheld the huge beams of timber dragged

into his yards, and the solid masses of stone brought from a quarry at

an enormous distance!--Vivian perceived that the expense would be treble

the estimate; and said, that if the thing were to be done again, he

would never consent to it; but now, as Lady Mary observed, it was too

late to repent; and it was, at any rate, best to go on and finish it

with spirit--since it was impossible (nobody knew why) to stop. He

hurried on the workmen with impatience; for he was anxious to have the

roof and some apartments in his castle finished before his marriage. The

dilatoriness of the lawyers, and the want of the trustee, who had not

yet arrived in England, were no longer complained of so grievously by

the lover. Russell, one day, as he saw Vivian overlooking his workmen,

and urging them to expedition, smiled, and asked whether the impatience

of an architect or of a lover was now predominant in his mind. Vivian,

rather offended by the question, replied, that his eagerness to finish

this part of his castle arose from his desire to give an agreeable

surprise to his bride; and he declared that his passion for Selina

was as ardent, at this moment, as it had ever been; but that it was

impossible to make lawyers move faster than their accustomed pace;

and that Miss Sidney was too secure of his affection, and he too well

convinced of hers, to feel that sort of anxiety, which persons who had

less confidence in each other might experience in similar circumstances.

This was all very true, and very reasonable; but Russell could not help

perceiving that Vivian’s language and tone were somewhat altered since

the time when he was ready to brave heaven and earth to marry his

mistress, without license or consent of friends, without the possibility

of waiting a few months till he was of age. In fact, though Vivian would

not allow it, this consent of friends, this ceasing of opposition, this

security and tranquillity of happiness, had considerably changed the

appearance, at least, of his love. Lady Mary perceived it, with a

resolution to say nothing, and see how it would end. Selina did not

perceive it for some time; for she was of a most unsuspicious temper;

and her confidence in Vivian was equal to the fondness of her love. She

began to think, indeed, that the lawyers were provokingly slow; and when

Vivian did not blame them as much as he used to do, she only thought

that he understood business better than she did--besides, the necessary

trustee was not come--and, in short, the last thing that occurred to her

mind was to blame Vivian.

The trustee at length arrived, and the castle was almost in the

wished-for state of forwardness, when a new cause of delay arose--a

county election: but how this election was brought on, and how it was

conducted, it is necessary to record. It happened that a relation of

Vivian’s was appointed to a new seventy-four gun ship, of which he came

to take the command at Yarmouth, which was within a few miles of him.

Vivian recollected that Russell had often expressed a desire to go on

board a man-of-war. Vivian, therefore, after having appointed a day

for their going, went to Glistonbury to invite Russell: his pupil, Lord

Lidhurst, begged to be permitted to accompany them: and Lady Julia,

the moment she heard of this new seventy-four gun ship, was, as her

governess expressed it, wild to be of the party. Indeed, any thing

that had the name of a party of pleasure, and that promised a transient

relief from the tedious monotony in which her days passed; any thing

that gave a chance of even a few hours’ release from the bondage

in which she was held between the restraints of the most rigid of

governesses and the proudest of mothers, appeared delightful to this

lively and childish girl. She persecuted her governess with entreaties,

till at last she made Miss Strictland go with her petition to Lady

Glistonbury; whilst, in the mean time, Lady Julia overwhelmed her father

with caresses, till he consented; and with much difficulty, prevailed

upon Lady Glistonbury to give her permission for the young ladies to go

with their governess, their brother, their father, and Lady Mary Vivian,

on this excursion. The invitation was now extended to all the company

then at the castle; including the representative of the county, who,

being just threatened with a fit of the gout, brought on by hard

drinking at the last election, expressed some reluctance to going with

this party on the water. But this gentleman was now paying his humble

devoirs to the Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and it was represented to him, by

all who understood the ground, that he would give mortal offence if he

did not go; so it was ruled, that, hot or cold, gout or no gout, he

must appear in the Lady Sarah’s train: he submitted to this perilous

necessity in the most gallant manner. The day proved tolerably

fine--Vivian had an elegant entertainment provided for the

company, under a marquee pitched on the shore--they _embarked_ in a

pleasure-boat--Lady Sarah was very sick, and her admirer very cold; but

Lady Julia was in extasies at every thing she saw and felt--she feared

nothing, found nothing inconvenient--was charmed to be drawn so easily

from the boat up the high side of the ship--charmed to find herself on

deck--charmed to see the sails, the ropes, the rigging, the waves, the

sea, the sun, the clouds, the sailors, the cook dressing dinner--all,

all indiscriminately charmed her; and, like a school-girl broke loose,

she ran about, wild with spirits, asking questions, some sensible, some

silly; laughing at her own folly, flying from this side to that, from

one end of the ship to the other, down the ladders and up again; whilst

Mr. Russell, who was deputed to take care of her, could scarcely keep

up with her: Lord Glistonbury stood by, holding his sides and laughing

aloud: Miss Strictland, quite disabled by the smell of the ship, was

lying on a bed in the state cabin; and Lady Sarah, all the time shaded

by an umbrella held by her shivering admirer, sat, as if chained upright

in her chair of state, upon deck, scorning her sister’s childish levity,

and proving herself, with all due propriety, incapable of being moved to

surprise or admiration by any object on land or sea.

Lady Mary Vivian, while she observed with a quick eye all that passed,

and read her son’s thoughts, was fully persuaded that neither of the

Lady Lidhursts would be likely to suit his taste, even if his affections

were disengaged: the one was too childish, the other too stiff. “Yet

their birth and connexions, and their consequence in the county,”

thought Lady Mary, “would have made their alliance highly desirable.”

Every body seemed weary at the close of this day’s entertainment, except

Lady Julia, who _kept it up_ with indefatigable gaiety, and could hardly

believe that it was time to go home, when the boat was announced to row

them to shore: heedless, and absolutely dizzy with talking and laughing,

her ladyship, escaping from the assistance of sailors and gentlemen,

made a false step in getting into the boat, and, falling over, would

have sunk for ever, but for Mr. Russell’s presence of mind. He

seized her with a strong grasp, and saved her. The fright sobered her

completely; and she sat wrapped in great-coats, as silent, as tractable,

and as wet as possible, during the remainder of the way to shore. The

screams, the ejaculations, the reprimands from Miss Strictland; the

questions, the reflections, to which this incident led, may possibly be

conceived, but cannot be enumerated.

This event, however alarming at the moment, had no serious consequence;

for Lady Julia caught neither fever nor cold, though Miss Strictland

was morally certain her ladyship would have one or the other; indeed she

insinuated, that her ladyship deserved to have both. Lady Sarah’s poor

shivering knight of the shire, however, did not escape so well. Obliged

to row home, in a damp evening, without his great-coat, which he had

been forced to offer to Lady Julia, in a pleasure-boat, when he should

have been in flannels or in bed, he had “cause to rue the boating of

that day.” His usual panacea of the gout did not come as expected, _to

set him up again_. The cold he caught this day killed him. Lady Sarah

Lidhurst was precisely as sorry as decorum required. But the bustle of a

new election was soon to obliterate the memory of the old member, in

the minds of his numerous friends. Lord Glistonbury, and several other

voices in the county, called upon Vivian to stand on the independent

interest. There was to be a contest: for a government candidate declared

himself at the same moment that application was made to Vivian. The

expense of a contested election alarmed both Vivian and his mother.

Gratified as she was by the honour of this offer, yet she had

the prudence to advise her son rather to go into parliament as

representative for a borough than to hazard the expense of a contest

for the county. Miss Sidney, also, whom he consulted upon this occasion,

supported his mother’s prudent advice, in the most earnest manner; and

Vivian was inclined to follow this counsel, till Lord Glistonbury came

one morning to plead the contrary side of the question: he assured

Vivian, that from his experience of the county, he was morally certain

they should carry it without trouble, and with no expense _worth

mentioning_. These were only general phrases, to be sure, not arguments;

but these, joined to her ambition to see her son member for the county,

at length overpowered Lady Mary’s better judgment: her urgent entreaties

were now joined to those of Lord Glistonbury, and of many loud-tongued

electioneerers, who proved to Vivian, by every thing but calculation,

that he must be returned if he would but stand--if he would only declare

himself. Russell and his own prudence strongly counselled him to resist

these clamorous importunities; the two preceding candidates, whose

fortunes had been nearly as good as his, had been ruined by the

contests. Vivian was very young, but just of age; and Russell observed,

“that it would be better for him to see something more of the world,

before he should embark in politics, and plunge into public business.”

“True,” said Vivian; “but Mr. Pitt was only three-and-twenty when he was

minister of England. I am not ambitious; but I should certainly like to

distinguish myself, if I could; and whilst I feel in youth the glow of

patriotism, why should I not serve my country?”

“Serve it and welcome,” said Russell: “but don’t begin by ruining

yourself by a contested election; or else, whatever glow of patriotism

you may feel, it will be out of your power to be an honest member of

parliament. If you must go into parliament immediately for the good

of your country, go in as member for some borough, which will not ruin

you.”

“But the committee of our friends will be so disappointed if I decline;

and my mother, who has now set her heart upon it, and Lord Glistonbury,

and Mr. C----, and Mr. G----, and Mr. D----, who are such zealous

friends, and who urge me so much----”

“Judge for yourself,” said Russell, “and don’t let any persons who

happen to be near you persuade you to see with their eyes, and decide

with their wishes. Zealous friends, indeed!--because they love to

make themselves of consequence, by bawling and scampering about at an

election!--And you would let such people draw you on, to ruin yourself.”

“I will show you that they shall not,” cried Vivian, seizing a sheet

of paper, and sitting down immediately to write the copy of a circular

letter to his friends, informing them, with many thanks, that he

declined to stand for the county. Russell eagerly wrote copies of this

letter, which Vivian declared should be sent early the next morning.

But no sooner was Russell out of sight than Lady Mary Vivian resumed her

arguments in favour of commencing his canvass immediately, and before

his friends should cool. When she saw the letters that he had been

writing, she was excessively indignant; and, by a torrent of female and

maternal eloquence, he was absolutely overwhelmed. Auxiliaries poured

in to her ladyship on all sides; horsemen after horsemen, freeholders

of all degrees, now flocked to the house, hearing that Mr. Vivian had

thoughts of standing for the county. They were unanimously loud in their

assurances of success. Old and new copies of poll books were produced,

and the different interests of the county counted and recounted,

balanced and counterbalanced, again and again, by each person, after his

own fashion: and it was proved to Mr. Vivian, _in black and white, and

as plain as figures could make it_, that he had the game in his own

hands; and that, if he would but declare himself, the other candidate

would, the very next day, they would be bound for it, decline the

contest. Vivian had a clear head, and a competent knowledge of

arithmetic; he saw the fallacies and inaccuracies in their modes of

computation; he saw, upon examining the books, that the state of

the county interests was very different from what they pretended or

believed; and he was convinced that the opposite candidate would not

decline: but after Vivian had stated these reasons ten times, and his

mother and his electioneering partisans had reiterated their assertions

twenty times, he yielded, merely because they had said twice as much

as he had, and because, poor easy man! he had not power to resist

continuity of solicitation.

He declared himself candidate for the county; and was soon immersed in

all the toil, trouble, vexation, and expense, of a contested election.

Of course, his marriage was now to be postponed till the election should

be over. Love and county politics have little affinity. What the evils

of a contested election are can be fully known only to those by whom

they have been personally experienced. The contest was bitter. The

Glistonbury interest was the strongest which supported Vivian: Lord

Glistonbury and _his lordship’s friends_ were warm in his cause. Not

that they had any particular regard for Vivian; but he was to be _their

member_, opposed to the court candidate, whom his lordship was anxious

to keep out of the county. Lord Glistonbury had once been a strong

friend to government, and was thought a confirmed courtier, especially

as he had been brought up in high aristocratic notions; but he had

made it his great object to turn his earldom into a marquisate; and

government having delayed or refused to gratify him in this point,

he quitted them with disgust, and set up his standard amongst the

opposition. He was now loud and zealous on every occasion that could,

as he said, _annoy_ government; and merely because he could not be a

marquis, he became a patriot. Mistaken, abused name! how glorious in

its original, how despicable in its debased signification!--Lord

Glistonbury’s exertions were indefatigable.

Vivian felt much gratitude for this apparently disinterested friendship;

and, during a few weeks, whilst this canvass was going on, he formed

a degree of intimacy with the Glistonbury family, which, in any other

circumstances, could scarcely have been brought about during months

or years. An election, in England, seems, for the time, to level all

distinctions, not only of rank, but even of pride: Lady Glistonbury

herself, at this season, found it necessary to relax from her usual

rigidity.--There was an extraordinary freedom of egress and regress; and

the haughty code of Glistonbury lay dormant. Vivian, of course, was the

centre of all interest; and, whenever he appeared, every individual of

the family was eager to inquire, “What news?--What news?--How do things

go on to-day?--How will the election turn out?--Have you written to Mr.

Such-a-one?--Have you been to Mr. Such-a-one’s?--I’ll write a note for

you--I’ll copy a letter.”--There was one common cause--Miss Strictland

even deigned to assist Mr. Vivian, and to try her awkward hand to

forward his canvass, for it was to support the Glistonbury interest; and

“there was no impropriety could attach to the thing.” Russell’s extreme

anxiety made Vivian call more frequently even than it was necessary at

the castle, to quiet his apprehensions, and to assure him that things

were going on well. Young Lord Lidhurst, who was really good-natured,

and over whose mind Russell began to gain some ascendancy, used to stand

upon the watch for Vivian’s appearance, and would run up the back stairs

to Russell’s apartment, to give him notice of it, and to be the first

to tell the news. Lady Sarah--the icy lady Sarah herself--began to

thaw; and every day, in the same phrase, she condescended to say to

Mr. Vivian, that she “hoped the poll was going on as well as could be

expected.” It was, of course, reported, that Vivian was to succeed the

late representative of the county in all its honours. In eight days he

was confidently given to Lady Sarah by the generous public; and the day

of their nuptials was positively fixed. As the lady was, even by the

account of her friends, two or three years older than Mr. Vivian,

and four or five years older by her looks, and as she was peculiarly

unsuited to his taste, he heard the report without the slightest

apprehension for his own constancy to Selina. He laughed at the idea, as

an excellent joke, when it was first mentioned to him by Russell. Lord

Glistonbury’s manners, however, and the cordial familiarity with which

he treated Vivian, gave every day increasing credit to the report. “If

he were his son, my lord could not be more anxious about Mr. Vivian,”

said one of the plain-spoken freeholders, in the presence of the Lady

Lidhursts.--Lady Sarah pursed up her mouth, and threw back her head; but

Lady Julia, archly looking at her sister, smiled. The vivacity of Lady

Julia’s manner did not appear excessive during this election time, when

all the world seemed mad; on the contrary, there was, in her utmost

freedom and raillery, that air of good-breeding and politeness, in which

vulgar mirth and liberty are always deficient. Vivian began to think

that she was become less childish, and that there was something of

a mixture of womanish timidity in her appearance, which rendered her

infinitely more attractive. One evening, in particular, when her father

having sent her for her morning’s work, she returned with a basket full

of _the Vivian cockade_, which she had made with her own delicate hands,

Vivian thought she looked “very pretty:” her father desired her to give

them to the person for whom they were intended, and she presented them

to Mr. Russell, saying, “They are for your friend, sir.”--Vivian thought

she looked “very graceful.”--Lady Mary Vivian suppressed half a sigh,

and thought she kept the whole of her mind to herself. These happy days

of canvassing, and this _freedom of election_, could not last for ever.

After polling the county to the last freeholder, the contest was at

length decided, and Vivian was declared duly elected. He was chaired,

and he scattered money with a lavish hand, as he passed over the heads

of the huzzaing populace; and he had all the honours of an election: the

horses were taken from his carriage, and he was drawn by men, who were

soon afterwards so much intoxicated, that they retained no vestige of

rationality. Not only the inferior, but the superior rank of electors,

as usual upon such occasions, thought proper to do honour to their

choice, and to their powers of judgment, by drinking their member’s

health at the expense of their own, till they could neither see, hear,

nor understand. Our hero was not by any means fond of drinking, but he

could not refuse to do as others did; and Lord Glistonbury swore, that

now he had found out that Vivian could be such a pleasant companion over

a bottle, he should never listen to his excuses in future.

A few days after this election, parliament met for the dispatch of

business; and as some important question was to come on, all the members

were summoned, by a peremptory call of the house. Vivian was obliged

to go to town immediately, and compelled to defer his marriage. He

regretted being thus hurried away from Selina; and with a thousand

tender and passionate expressions, assured her, that the moment his

attendance on public business could be spared, he should hasten to the

country to claim his promised happiness. The castle would be finished

by the time the session was over; the lawyers would also have completed

their settlements; and Vivian said he should make every other necessary

preparation whilst he was in town: therefore he urged Selina now to

fix the time for their marriage, and to let it be the first week of the

recess of parliament. But Miss Sidney, who had great delicacy of feeling

and dignity of character, thought that Vivian had of late shown some

symptoms of decreased affection, and that he had betrayed signs of

unsteadiness of character. In the whole affair of the castle-building

and of the election, he had evidently been led by others instead of

following his own conviction:--she wisely dreaded that he might, in more

important actions, yield his judgment to others; and then what security

could she have for his principles? He might, perhaps, be led into all

sorts of fashionable dissipation and vice. Besides these fears, she

considered that Vivian was the possessor of a large fortune; that his

mother had with difficulty consented to this match; that he was very

young, had seen but little of the world, and might, perhaps, in future,

repent of having made, thus early in life, a _love match_. She therefore

absolutely refused to let him now bind himself to her by any fresh

promises. She desired that he should consider himself as perfectly

at liberty, and released from all engagement to her. It was evident,

however, from the manner in which she spoke that she wished to restore

her lover’s liberty for his sake only; and that her own feelings,

however they might be suppressed, were unchanged. Vivian was touched and

charmed by her delicacy and generosity: in the fervour of his feelings

he swore that his affections could never change; and he believed what he

swore. Lady Mary Vivian was struck, also, with Miss Sidney’s conduct

at parting; and she acknowledged that it was impossible to show at once

more tenderness and dignity. No one, however, not even Vivian, knew how

much pain this separation gave Selina. Her good sense and prudence told

her indeed, that it was best, both for her happiness and Vivian’s, that

he should see something more of the world, and that she should have some

farther proof of the steadiness of his attachment, before she should

unite herself with him irrevocably: but whilst she endeavoured to

fortify her mind with these reflections, love inspired many painful

fears; and, though she never repented having set him free from his

promises and engagements, she trembled for the consequences of his being

thus at liberty, in such scenes of temptation as a London life would

present.

CHAPTER III.

When our hero arrived in London, and when he was first introduced into

fashionable society, his thoughts were so intent upon Selina Sidney,

that he was in no danger of plunging into dissipation. He was surprised

at the eagerness with which some young men pursued frivolous pleasures:

he was still more astonished at seeing the apathy in which others of his

own age were sunk, and the listless insignificance in which they lounged

away their lives.

The call of the house, which brought Vivian to town, brought Lord

Glistonbury also to attend his duty in the house of peers: with his

lordship’s family came Mr. Russell, whom Vivian went to see, as soon and

as often as he could. Russell heard, with satisfaction, the indignant

eloquence with which his friend spoke; and only wished that these

sentiments might last, and that fashion might never lead him to imitate

or to tolerate fools, whom he now despised.

“In the mean time, tell me how you go on yourself,” said Vivian; “how

do you like your situation here, and your pupil, and all the Glistonbury

family? Let me behind the scenes at once; for, you know, I see them only

on the stage.”

Russell replied, in general terms, that he had hopes Lord Lidhurst would

turn out well, and that therefore he was satisfied with his situation;

but avoided entering into particulars, because he was a confidential

person in the family. He thought that a preceptor and a physician

were, in some respects, bound, by a similar species of honour, to speak

cautiously of the maladies of their patients, or the faults of their

pupils. Admitted into the secrets of families, they should never make

use of the confidence reposed in them, to the disadvantage of any by

whom they are trusted. Russell’s strictly honourable reserve upon this

occasion was rather provoking to Vivian, who, to all his questions,

could obtain only the dry answer of--“Judge for yourself.”--The nature

of a town life, and the sort of intercourse which capital cities afford,

put this very little in Vivian’s power. The obligations he was under to

Lord Glistonbury for assistance at the election made him anxious to show

his lordship respect and attention; and the sort of intimacy which that

election had brought on was, to a certain degree, kept up in town. Lady

Mary Vivian was constantly one at Lady Glistonbury’s card parties;

and Vivian was frequently at his lordship’s dinners. Considering

the coldness and formality of Lady Glistonbury’s manners, she was

particularly attentive to Lady Mary Vivian; and our hero was continually

an attendant upon the ladies of the Glistonbury family to all public

places. This was by no means disagreeable to him, as they were persons

of _high consideration_; and they were sure of drawing into their circle

the very best company. Lady Mary Vivian observed that it was a great

advantage to her son to have such a house as Lord Glistonbury’s open to

him, to go to whenever he pleased. Besides the advantage to his morals,

her ladyship was by no means insensible to the gratification her pride

received from her son’s living in such high company. The report which

had been raised in the country during the election, that Mr. Vivian was

going to be married to Lady Sarah Lidhurst, now began to circulate

in town. This was not surprising, since a young man in London, of any

fortune or notoriety, can hardly dance three or four times successively

with the same young lady, cannot even sit beside her, and converse with

her in public half a dozen times, without its being reported that he

is going to be married to her. Of this, Vivian, during his noviciate in

town, was not perhaps sufficiently aware: he was soon surprised at being

asked, by almost every one he met, when his marriage with Lady Sarah

Lidhurst was to take place. At first he contented himself with laughing

at these questions, and declaring that there was no truth in the report:

but his asseverations were not to be believed; they were attributed to

motives of discretion: he was told by his companions, that he kept his

own counsel very well; but they all knew _the thing was to be_: he was

congratulated upon his good fortune in making such an excellent match;

for though, as they said, he would have but little money with Lady

Sarah, yet the connexion was so great, that he was the luckiest fellow

upon earth. The degree of importance which the report gave him among

the young men of his acquaintance, and the envy he excited, amused

and gratified his vanity. The sort of conversation he was now in the

constant habit of hearing, both from young and old, in all companies,

about the marriages of people in the fashionable world, where fortune,

and rank, and _connexion_, were always the first things spoken of or

considered, began insensibly to influence Vivian’s mode of speaking, if

not of judging. Before he mixed in this society, he knew perfectly

well that these were the principles by which _people of the world_ are

guided; but whilst he had believed this only on hearsay, it had not

appeared to him so entirely true and so important as when he saw and

heard it himself. The effect of the opinions of a set of fine people,

now he was actually in their society, and whilst all other society

was excluded from his perception, was very different from what he had

imagined it might be, when he was in the country or at college. To do

our hero justice, however, he was sensible of this _aberration_ in his

own mind, he had sense enough to perceive from what causes it arose, and

steadiness sufficient to adhere to the judgements he had previously and

deliberately formed. He did not in material points change his opinion of

his mistress; he thought her far, far superior to all he saw and heard

amongst the belles who were most admired in the fashionable world; but,

at the same time, he began to agree with his mother’s former wish, that

Selina, added to all other merits, had the advantage of high birth

and connexions, or at least, of belonging to a certain class of high

company. He determined that, as soon as she should be his wife, he would

have her introduced to the very _first society_ in town: he pleased

his imagination with anticipating the change that would be made in

her appearance, by the addition of certain elegancies of the mode:

he delighted in thinking of the sensation she would produce, and the

respect that would be paid to her as Mrs. Vivian, surrounded as he would

take care that she should be, with all those external signs of wealth

and fashion, which command immediate and universal homage from the great

and little world.

One day, when Vivian was absorbed in these pleasing reveries, Russell

startled him with this question: “When are you to be married to Lady

Sarah Lidhurst?”

“From you such a question!” said Vivian.

“Why not from me? It is a question that every body asks of me, because

I am your intimate friend; and I should really be obliged to you, if

you would furnish me with an answer, that may give me an air of a little

more consequence than that which I have at present, being forced to

answer, ‘I don’t know.’”

“You don’t know! but why do not you answer, ‘Never!’ as I do,” said

Vivian, “to all the fools who ask me the same question?”

“Because they say that is your answer, and only _a come off_.”

“I can’t help it--Is it my fault if they won’t believe the truth?”

“Why, people are apt to trust to appearances in these cases; and if

appearances are contrary to your assertions, you should not wonder that

you are not believed.”

“Well, time will show them their mistake!” said Vivian.--“But I don’t

know what appearances you mean.--What appearances are against me?--I

never in my life saw a woman I was less disposed to like--whom it would

be more impossible for me to love--than Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and I am

sure I never gave her, or any of her family, the least reason to imagine

I had a thought of her.”

“Very likely; yet you are at Lord Glistonbury’s continually, and you

attend her ladyship to all public places. Is this the way, do you think,

to put a stop to the report that has been raised?”

“I care not whether it stops or goes on,” said Vivian.--“How!--Don’t I

know it is false?--That’s enough for me.”

“It may embarrass you yet,” said Russell.

“Good Heavens!--Can you, who know me so well, Russell, fancy me so weak

as to be embarrassed by such a report? Look--I would rather put this

hand into that fire and let it be burned off, than offer it to Lady

Sarah Lidhurst.”

“Very likely.--I don’t doubt you think so,” said Russell.

“And I would do so,” said Vivian.

“Possibly.--Yet you might be embarrassed nevertheless, if you found that

you had raised expectations which you could not fulfil; and if you found

yourself accused of having jilted this lady, if all her friends were to

say you had used her very ill.--I know your nature, Vivian; these things

would disquiet you very much: and is it not better to prevent them?”

“But neither Lady Sarah nor her friends blame me: I see no signs in the

family of any of the thoughts or feelings you suppose.”

“Ladies--especially young and fashionable ladies--do not always show

their thoughts or feelings,” said Russell.

“Lady Sarah Lidhurst has no thoughts or feelings,” said Vivian, “any

more than an automaton. I’ll answer for her--I am sure I can do her the

justice to proclaim, that she has always, from the first moment I

saw her till this instant, conducted herself towards me with the same

petrified and petrifying propriety.”

“I do not know what _petrified propriety_ exactly means,” said Russell:

“but let it mean what it may, it is nothing to the present purpose;

for the question is not about the propriety of Lady Sarah Lidhurst’s

conduct, but of yours. Now, allowing you to call her ladyship a

petrifaction, or an automaton, or by whatever other name you please,

still, I apprehend, that she is in reality a human creature, and a

woman; and I conceive it is the duty of a man of honour or honesty not

to deceive her.”

“I would not deceive her, or any woman living, upon any account,” said

Vivian. “But how is it possible I can deceive her, when I tell you I

never said a word about love or gallantry, or any thing like it, to her

in my life?”

“But you know language is conventional, especially in gallantry,” said

Russell.

“True; but I’ll swear the language of my looks has been unequivocal, if

that is what you mean.”

“Not exactly: there are certain signs by which the world JUDGES in these

cases--if a gentleman is seen often with the same lady in public.”

“Absurd, troublesome, ridiculous signs, which would put a stop to all

society; which would prevent a man from conversing with a woman,

either in public or private; and must absolutely preclude one sex from

obtaining any real knowledge of the characters and dispositions of the

other.”

“I admit all you say--I feel the truth of it--I wish this were changed

in society; it is a great inconvenience, a real evil,” said Russell:

“but an individual cannot alter a custom; and, as you have not, by

your own account, any particular interest in becoming more intimately

acquainted with the character and disposition of Lady Sarah Lidhurst,

you will do well not to expose yourself to any inconvenience on her

account, by neglecting common received forms and opinions.”

“Well! well!--say no more about it,” said Vivian, impatiently; “spare me

all farther logic and morality upon this subject, and I’ll do what you

please--only tell me what you would have me do.”

“Gradually withdraw yourself for some time from this house, and the

report will die away of itself.”

“Withdraw myself!--that would be very hard upon me!” cried Vivian; “for

this house is the most agreeable house in town to me;--because you live

in it, in the first place; and then, though the women are as stiff as

pokers, one is always sure of meeting all the pleasant and clever men

at Glistonbury’s good dinner. Let me tell you, good dinners, and good

company, and good conversation, and good music, make altogether a very

pleasant house, which I should be confoundedly sorry to be forced to

give up.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Russell; “but we must often give up more even

than this for the sake of acting with consistency and honour; we must

sacrifice the less to the greater good; and it is on these occasions

that people show strength or weakness of mind.”

Vivian felt the justice of his friend’s observations--resolved to follow

his advice--and to withdraw himself gradually from the Glistonbury

circle. He had not, however, steadiness enough to persist in this

resolution; one engagement linked on another; and he would soon,

probably, have relapsed into his habit of being continually of their

parties, if accident had not for a time suspended this intimacy, by

leading him into another, which seemed to him still more attractive.

Among the men of talents and political consequence whom he met at Lord

Glistonbury’s was Mr. Wharton, whose conversation particularly pleased

Vivian, and who now courted his acquaintance with an eagerness which was

peculiarly flattering. Vivian knew him only as a man of great abilities;

with his real character he was not acquainted. Wharton had prepossessing

manners, and wit sufficient whenever he pleased to make the worse appear

the better reason. In private or in public debate he had at his command,

and could condescend to employ, all sorts of arms, and every possible

mode of annoyance, from the most powerful artillery of logic to the

lowest squib of humour. He was as little nice in the company he kept as

in the style of his conversation. Frequently associating with fools,

and willing even to be thought one, he made alternately his sport

and advantage of the weakness and follies of mankind. Wharton was

philosophically, politically, and fashionably profligate. After

having ruined his private fortune by unbounded extravagance, he lived

on--nobody knew how--in careless profusion. In public life he made a

distinguished figure; and seemed, therefore, to think himself raised

above the necessity of practising any of the minor virtues of economy,

prudence, or justice, which common people find essential to their

well-being in society. Far from attempting to conceal, he gloried in

his faults; for he knew full well, that as long as he had the voice of

numbers with him, he could bully, or laugh, or shame plain reason and

rigid principle out of countenance. It was his grand art to represent

good sense as stupidity, and virtue as hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was, in his

opinion, the only vice which merited the brand of infamy; and from this

he took sufficient care to prove, or at least to proclaim, himself free.

Even whilst he offended against the decencies of life, there seemed

to be something frank and graceful in his manner of throwing aside all

disguise. There appeared an air of superior liberality in his avowing

himself to be governed by that absolute selfishness, which other men

strive to conceal even from their own hearts. He dexterously led his

acquaintance to infer that he would prove as much better than his

professions, as other people are often found to be worse than theirs.

Where he wished to please, it was scarcely possible to escape the

fascination of his manner; nor did he neglect any mode of courting

popularity. He knew that a good table is necessary to attract even men

of wit; and he made it a point to have the very best cook, and the very

best wines. He paid his cook, and his cook was the only person he did

pay, in ready money. His wine-merchant he paid in words--an art in which

he was a professed and yet a successful adept, as hundreds of living

witnesses were ready to attest. But though Wharton could cajole, he

could not attach his fellow-creatures--he had a party, but no friend.

With this distribution of things he was perfectly satisfied; for he

considered men only as beings who were to be worked to his purposes; and

he declared that, provided he had power over their interests and their

humours, he cared not what became of their hearts. It was his policy

to enlist young men of talents or fortune under his banners; and

consequently Vivian was an object worthy of his attention. Such was

the disorder of Wharton’s affairs, that either ready money or political

power was necessary to his existence. Our hero could, at the same time,

supply his extravagance and increase his consequence. Wharton thought

that he could borrow money from Vivian, and that he might command his

vote in parliament; but, to the accomplishment of these schemes, there

were two obstacles--Vivian was attached to an amiable woman, and was

possessed of an estimable friend. Wharton had become acquainted with

Russell at Lord Glistonbury’s; and, in many arguments which they had

held on public affairs, had discovered that Russell was not a man who

ever preferred the expedient to the right, nor one who could be bullied

or laughed out of his principles. He saw also that Russell’s influence

over Vivian was so great, that it supplied him with that strength of

mind in which Vivian was naturally deficient; and, if our hero should

marry such a woman as Miss Sidney, Wharton foresaw that he should have

no chance of succeeding in his designs; therefore his first objects

were, to detach Vivian from his friend Russell and from Selina. One

morning he called upon Vivian with a party of his friends, and found him

writing.

“Poetry!” cried Wharton, carelessly looking at what he had, been

writing, “poetry, I protest!--Ay, I know this poor fellow’s in love;

and every man who is in love is a poet, ‘with a woeful ditty to his

mistress’s eyebrow.’ Pray what colour may Miss Sidney’s eyebrows

be?--she is really a pretty girl--I think I remember seeing her at some

races.--Why does she never come to town?--But of course she is not to

blame for that, but her fortune I suppose.--Marrying a girl without a

fortune is a serious thing in these expensive days; but you have fortune

enough for both yourself and your wife, so you may do as you please.

Well, I thank God, I have no fortune! If I had been a young man of

fortune I should have been the most unhappy rascal upon earth, for I

should have always suspected that every woman liked me for my wealth--I

should have had no pleasure in the smiles of an angel--angels, or their

mothers, are so venal now-a-days, and so fond of the pomps and vanities

of this wicked world!”

“I hope,” said Vivian, laughing, “you don’t include the whole sex in

your satire.”

“No--there are exceptions--and every man has his angel of an exception,

as every woman has her star:--it is well for weak women when these stars

of theirs don’t lead them astray; and well for weak men when these

angel exceptions before marriage don’t turn out very women or devils

afterwards. But why do I say all this? because I am a suspicious

scoundrel--I know and can’t help it. If other fellows of my standing in

this wicked world would but speak the truth, however, they would show

as much suspicion and more than I do. Bad as I am, and such as I am,

you see, and have the whole of me--nobody can say Wharton’s a hypocrite;

that’s some comfort. But, seriously, Vivian, I don’t mean to laugh at

love and angels--I can just remember the time when I felt all your

sort of romance--but that is in the preterpluperfect tense with

me--completely past--ambition is no bad cure for love. My head is, at

this present moment, so full of this new bill that we are bringing into

parliament, that Cupid might empty his quiver upon me in vain.--Look!

here is an impenetrable shield!” added he, wrapping round him a thick

printed copy of an act of parliament. “Come, Vivian, you must come along

with us to the house,

‘And, mix’d with men, a man you must appear.’”

Vivian felt much ashamed of having been detected in writing a sonnet,

especially as it afforded Wharton such a fine subject for raillery.

He accompanied the party to the House of Commons, where Wharton made a

brilliant speech. It gained universal applause. Vivian sympathized in

the general enthusiasm of admiration for Wharton’s talents, accepted

an invitation to sup with him, and was charmed by his convivial powers.

From this day, he grew every hour more intimate with Wharton.

“I can enjoy,” thought Vivian, “the pleasure of his society without

being influenced by his libertine example.”

Lady Mary Vivian saw the rise and progress of this intimacy, and was

not insensible to its danger; yet she was gratified by seeing her son

distinguished by a man of Wharton’s political consequence; and she

satisfied her conscience by saying, “He will bring my son forward in

public life; and, as to the rest, Charles has too good principles ever

to follow his example in private life.”

Wharton had too much address to alarm Vivian’s moral prejudices on

a first acquaintance. He contented himself with ridiculing only the

exaggeration of any of the virtues, still affecting to believe in

virtue, and to love it, wherever it could be found genuine. By the

success of his first petty attacks, he learned the power that ridicule

had over our hero’s mind; and he did not fail to make use of it

continually. After having, as he perceived, succeeded in making Vivian

ashamed of his sonnet to Selina, and of appearing as a romantic lover,

he doubted not but in time he should make _true_ love itself ridiculous;

and Wharton thought it was now the moment to hazard another stroke, and

to commence his attack against friendship.

“Vivian, my good fellow! why do you let yourself be ruled by that modern

stoic in the form of Lord Lidhurst’s tutor? I never saw any of these

cold moralists who were real, warm-hearted, good friends. I have a

notion I see more of Russell’s play in the house where he has got than

he thinks I do; and I can form a shrewd guess why he was so zealous in

warning you of the report about Lady Sarah Lidhurst--he had his own

snug reasons for wanting you away--Oh, trust me for scenting out

self-interest, through all the doublings and windings of your cunning

moralist!”

Reddening with indignation at this attack upon his friend, Vivian warmly

replied, that Mr. Wharton ought to restrain his wit where the feelings

of friendship and the character of a man of honour were concerned; that

he did not, in the least, comprehend his insinuations with regard to

Russell; but that, for his own part, he had such firm reliance upon

his friend’s attachment and integrity, that he was at any time ready to

pledge his own honour for Russell’s, and to answer for it with his life.

“Spare your heroics, my dear Vivian!” cried Wharton, laughing; “for we

are not in the days of Pylades and Orestes;--yet, upon my soul, instead

of being as angry with you as you are with me, at this instant I like

you a thousand times the better for your enthusiastic credulity. For

my part, I have, ever since I lived in the world and put away childish

things, regretted that charming instinct of credulity, which experience

so fatally counteracts. I envy you, my dear boy!--as to the rest, you

know Russell’s merits better than I do: I’ll take him henceforward upon

trust from you.”

“Thus Wharton, finding that he was upon dangerous ground, made a timely

retreat: the playful manner and open countenance with which he now

spoke, and the quick transition that he made to other subjects of

conversation, prevented Vivian from suspecting that any settled design

had been formed to detach him from Russell. From this time forward,

Wharton forbore raillery on love and friendship; and, far from seeming

desirous of interfering in Vivian’s private concerns, appeared quite

absorbed in politics. Avowing, as he did, that he was guided solely by

his interest in public life, he laughed at Vivian for professing more

generous principles.

“I know,” cried Wharton, “how to make use of a fine word, and to round a

fine sentence, as well as the best of you; but what a simpleton he must

be who is cheated by his own sophistry!--An artist, an enthusiastic

artist, who is generally half a madman, might fall in love with a statue

of his own making; but you never heard of a coiner, did you, who was

cheated by his own bad shilling? Patriotism and loyalty are counterfeit

coin; I can’t be taken in by them at my time of day.”

Vivian could not forbear to smile at the drollery and wit with which

this profligate defended his want of integrity; yet he sometimes

seriously and warmly asserted his own principles. Upon these occasions,

Wharton either overpowered him by a fine flow of words, or else

listened with the most flattering air of admiration, and silenced him by

compliments to his eloquence. Vivian thought that he was quite secure of

his own firmness; but the contagion of bad example sometimes affects

the mind imperceptibly; as certain noxious atmospheres steal upon the

senses, and excite the most agreeable sensations, while they secretly

destroy the principles of health and life. A day was fixed when a

question of importance was to come on in the House of Commons. Wharton

was extremely anxious to have Vivian’s vote. Vivian, according to the

parliamentary phrase, _had not made up his mind_ on the subject. A heap

of pamphlets on the question lay uncut upon his table. Every morning

he resolved to read them, that he might form his judgment, and vote

according to his unbiassed opinion; but every morning he was interrupted

by some of the fashionable idlers whom his facility of temper had

indulged in the habit of haunting him daily. “Oh, Vivian! we are going

to such and such a place, and you _must_ come with us!” was a mode of

persuasion which he could not resist.

“If I don’t do as they do,” thought he, “I shall be quite unfashionable.

Russell may say what he pleases, but it is necessary to yield to one’s

companions in trifles.

‘Whoever would be pleased and please,

Must do what others do with ease.’”

This couplet, which had been repeated to him by Wharton, recurred to him

continually; and thus Wharton, by slight means, in which he seemed to

have no interest or design, prepared Vivian for his purposes, by working

gradually on the easiness of his disposition. He always argued, that it

could not possibly signify what he did with an hour or two of his day,

till at last Vivian found that he had no hours of his own, that his

whole time was at the disposal of others; and now that he really wanted

leisure to consider an important question,--when his credit, as a member

of the senate, and as a man just entering political life, depended on

this decision,--he literally could not command time to read over the

necessary documents. So the appointed day arrived before Vivian’s

opinion was formed; and, from mere want of time to decide for himself,

he voted as Wharton desired. Another and another political question came

on; the same causes operated, and the same consequences ensued. Wharton

managed with great address, so as to prevent him from feeling that he

gave up his freewill. Before Vivian was aware of it, whilst he thought

that he was perfectly independent of all parties, public opinion had

enrolled him amongst Wharton’s partisans. Of this Russell was the first

to give him warning. Russell heard of it amongst the political leaders

who met at Lord Glistonbury’s dinners; and, knowing the danger there is

of a young man’s _committing_ himself on certain points, he, with the

eagerness of a true friend, wrote immediately to put Vivian upon his

guard:--

“My Dear Vivian,

“I am just going into the country with Lord Lidhurst, and perhaps may

not return for some time. I cannot leave you without putting you on your

guard, once more, against Mr. Wharton. I understand that you are thought

to be one of his party, and that he countenances the report. Take care

that you are not bound hand and foot, before you know where you are.

“Your sincere friend,

“H. Russell.”

With the natural frankness of his disposition, Vivian immediately spoke

to Wharton upon the subject.

“What! people say that you are one of my party, do they?” said Wharton:

“I never heard this before, but I am heartily glad to hear it. You are

in for it now, Vivian: you are one of us; and with us you must stand or

fall.”

“Excuse me there!” cried Vivian; “I am not of any party; and am

determined to keep myself independent.”

“Do you remember the honest Quaker’s answer to the man of no party?”

said Wharton.

“No.”

“I think it was about the year ‘40, when party disputes about Whig

and Tory ran high--but no matter what year, it will do for any time. A

gentleman of undeviating integrity, an independent man, just such a man

as Mr. Vivian, offered himself candidate for a town in the east, west,

north, or south of England--no matter where, it will do for any place;

and the first person whose vote he solicited was a Quaker, who asked him

whether he was a Whig or Tory?--‘Neither. I am an independent, moderate

man; and when the members of administration are right, I will vote with

them--when wrong, against them.’ ‘And be these really thy principles?’

quoth the Quaker; ‘then a vote of mine thou shalt never have. Thou seest

my door, it leadeth into the street; the right hand side of which is for

the Tory, the left for the Whigs; and for a cold-blooded moderate man,

like thee, there is the kennel, and into it thou wilt be jostled, for

thou beest not _decided_ enough for any other situation.’”

“But why should the moderate man be condemned to the kennel?” said

Vivian. “Was there no middle to your Quaker’s road? A stout man cannot

be EASILY jostled into the kennel.”

“Pshaw! pshaw!” said Wharton: “jesting out of the question, a man is

nothing in public life, or worse than nothing, a _trimmer_, unless HE

JOINS a party, and unless he abides by it, too.”

“As long as the party is in the right, I presume, you mean,” said

Vivian.

“Right or wrong’” cried Wharton, “a man must abide by his party. No

power, and no popularity, trust me, without it!--Better stride on the

greasy heads of the mob than be trampled under their dirtier feet. An

armed neutrality may be a good thing, but an unarmed neutrality is fit

only for fools. Besides, in Russell’s grand style, I can bring down the

ancients upon you, and tell you that when the commonwealth is in danger

he cannot be a good man who sides with neither party.”

“If it be so necessary to join a party, and if, after once joining it, I

must abide by it, right or wrong, for life,” said Vivian, “it behoves

me to consider well, before I commit myself; and, before I go into the

ranks, I must see good reason to confide, not only in the abilities, but

in the integrity and public virtue of my leader.”

“Public virtue! sounds fresh from college,” said Wharton; “I would as

soon, and sooner, hear a schoolboy read his theme as hear a man begin to

prose about public virtue--especially a member of parliament. Keep that

phrase, my dear Vivian, till some of the treasury bench come to court

you; then look superb, like a French tragic actor, swelling out your

chest, and throwing the head over the left shoulder--thus--exclaim,

‘Public virtue forbid!’--practise! practise!--for if you do it well, it

may be worth a loud huzza to you yet; or better still, a snug place or

pension. But stay till you’re asked--stay till you’re asked--that’s the

etiquette; never till then let me hear public virtue come out of your

lips, else you’ll raise suspicion of your virtue, and lower your price.

What would you think of a pretty actress who began to talk to you of

her reputation before you put it in any danger? Oh, Vivian! my honest

fellow! unless you would make me think you no better than thousands that

have gone before you, never let me hear from your lips again, till the

_proper_ time, the hypocritical state phrase--public virtue.”

“I had always, till now, understood that it was possible to be a patriot

without being a hypocrite,” replied Vivian; “I always understood that

Mr. Wharton was a patriot.”

“A very fair sarcasm on me,” said Wharton, laughing. “But you know, I’m

a sad dog; never set myself up for a pattern man.--Come! let’s home to

dinner, and a truce with politics and morality. I find, Vivian, you’re a

sturdy fellow, and must have your own way; no bending, no leading you,

I see. Well! it is a good thing to have so much strength of mind: I envy

you.”

It must be recorded to the credit of our hero, that in defiance of

Wharton’s raillery, he talked, and--oh! still more wonderful!--thought

of public virtue, during nearly half of his first session in parliament.

But, alas! whilst his political principles thus withstood the force of

ridicule, temptation soon presented itself to Vivian in a new shape,

and in a form so seducing, as to draw his attention totally away from

politics, and to put his private, if not his public, honour, in the most

imminent peril.

CHAPTER IV.

One morning, as Vivian was walking with Mr. Wharton up Bond-street, they

were met by a party of fashionable loungers, one of whom asked whether

Mrs. Wharton was not come to town yet.

“Mrs. Wharton!” said Vivian, with an air of surprise.

“Yes, she came to town this morning,” said Wharton, carelessly; then

laughing, as he turned to look at Vivian, “Vivian, my good fellow! what

smites you with such surprise? Did not you know I was married?”

“I suppose I must have heard it; but I really forgot it,” said Vivian.

“There you had the advantage of me,” said Wharton, still laughing. “But

if you never heard of Mrs. Wharton before, keep your own secret; for

I can tell you she would never forgive you, though I might. Put a good

face on the matter, at any rate; and swear you’ve heard so much of

her, that you were dying to see her. Some of these gentlemen, who have

nothing else to do, will introduce you whenever you please.”

“And cannot I,” said Vivian, “have the honour of your introduction?”

“Mine! the worst you could possibly have. The honour, as you are pleased

to call it, would be no favour, I assure you. The honour!--honour of a

husband’s introduction! What a novice you are, or would make me believe

you to be! But, seriously, I am engaged to-day at Glistonbury’s: so,

good morning to you.”

Accustomed to hear Wharton talk in the freest manner of women and

marriage in general, and scarcely having heard him mention his own wife,

Vivian had, as he said, absolutely forgotten that Wharton was a married

man. When he was introduced to Mrs. Wharton, he was still more surprised

at her husband’s indifference; for he beheld a lady in all the radiance

of beauty, and all the elegance of fashion: he was so much dazzled by

her charms, that he had not immediately power or inclination to examine

what her understanding or disposition might be; and he could only repeat

to himself, “How is it possible that Wharton can be indifferent to such

a beautiful creature!”

Incapable of feeling any of what he, called the romance of love, the

passion, of course, had always been with Mr. Wharton of a very transient

nature. Tired of his wife’s person, he showed his indifference without

scruple or ceremony. Notorious and glorying in his gallantries, he

was often heard to declare, that no price was too high to be paid for

beauty, except a man’s liberty; but that was a sacrifice which he

would never make to any woman, especially to a wife. Marriage vows

and custom-house oaths he classed in the same order of technical

forms,--nowise binding on the conscience of any but fools and dupes.

Whilst the husband went on in this manner, the wife satisfied herself by

indulgence in her strongest passions--the passion for dress and public

admiration. Childishly eager to set the fashion in trifles, she spent

unconscionable sums on her pretty person; and devoted all her days, or

rather all her nights, to public amusements. So insatiable and restless

is the passion for admiration, that she was never happy for half an hour

together, at any place of public amusement, unless she fixed the gaze

of numbers. The first winter after her marriage she enjoyed the

prerogatives of a fashionable beauty; but the reign of fashion is more

transient even than the bloom of beauty. Mrs. Wharton’s beauty soon grew

familiar, and faded in the public eye; some newer face was this season

the mode. Mrs. Wharton appeared twice at the opera in the most elegant

and becoming dresses; but no one followed her lead. Mortified and

utterly dejected, she felt, with the keenest anguish, the first symptoms

of the decline of public admiration. It was just at this period, when

she was miserably in want of the consolations of flattery, that Vivian’s

acquaintance with her commenced. Gratified by the sort of delighted

surprise which she saw in his countenance the first moment he beheld

her, seeing that he was an agreeable man, and knowing that he was a man

of fortune and family, she took pains to please him by all the common

arts of coquetry. But his vanity was proof against these: the weakness

of the lady’s understanding and the frivolity of her character were, for

some weeks, sufficient antidotes against all the power of her personal

charms; so much so, that at this period he often compared, or rather

contrasted, Mrs. Wharton and Selina, and blessed his happy fate.

He wrote to his friend Russell soon after he was introduced to this

celebrated beauty, and drew a strong and just parallel between

the characters of these two ladies: he concluded with saying,

“Notwithstanding your well-founded dread of the volatility of my

character, you will not, I hope, my dear Russell, do me the injustice to

apprehend that I am in any danger from the charms of Mrs. Wharton.”

Vivian wrote with perfect sincerity; he believed it to be impossible

that he could ever become attached to such a woman as Mrs. Wharton, even

if she had not been married, and the wife of his friend. So, in all the

security of conscious contempt, he went every day to wait upon her, or

rather to meet agreeable company at her house,--a house in which

all that was fashionable and dissipated assembled; where beauty,

and talents, and rank, met and mingled; and where political or other

arrangements prevented the host and hostess from scrupulously excluding

some whose characters were not free from suspicion. Lady Mary Vivian

never went to Mrs. Wharton’s; but she acknowledged that she knew many

ladies of unblemished reputation who thought it no impropriety to

visit there; and Mrs. Wharton’s own character she knew was hitherto

unimpeached. “She is, indeed, a woman of a cold, selfish temper,” said

Lady Mary; “not likely to be led into danger by the tender passion, or

by any of the delusions of the imagination.”

Vivian agreed with his mother in this opinion, and went on paying

his devoirs to her every day. It was the fashion of the times, and

peculiarly the mode of this house, for the gentlemen to pay exclusive

attention to matrons. Few of the young men seemed to think it worth

while to speak to an unmarried woman in any company; and the few who

might be inclined to it were, as they declared, deterred by the danger:

for either the young ladies themselves, or their mothers, immediately

formed expectations and schemes of drawing them into matrimony--the

grand object of the ladies’ wishes and of the gentlemen’s fears. The men

said they could not speak to an unmarried woman, or even dance with her

more than twice, without its being reported that they were going to

be married; and then the friends and relatives of the young ladies

pretended to think them injured and ill-treated, if these reports were

not realized. Our hero had some slight experience of the truth of these

complaints in his own case with the Lady Sarah Lidhurst: he willingly

took the rest upon trust--believed all the exaggerations of his

companions--and began to think it prudent and necessary to follow

their example, and to confine his attentions to married women. Many

irresistible reasons concurred to make Mrs. Wharton the most convenient

and proper person to whom he could pay this sort of homage: besides,

she seemed to fall to his share by lot and necessity; for, at Wharton’s

house, every other lady and every other gentleman being engaged in

gallantry, play, or politics, Mrs. Wharton must have been utterly

neglected if Vivian had not paid her some attention. Common politeness

absolutely required it; the attention became a matter of course, and

was habitually expected. Still he had not the slightest design of going

beyond the line of modern politeness; but, in certain circumstances,

people go wrong a great way before they are aware that they have gone

a single step. It was presently repeated to Mr. Vivian, by some of Mrs.

Wharton’s confidantes, in whispers, and under the solemn promise of

secrecy, that he certainly was a prodigious favourite of hers. He

laughed, and affected to disbelieve the insinuation: it made its

impression, however; and he was secretly flattered by the idea of being

a prodigious favourite with such a beautiful young creature. In some

moments he saw her with eyes of compassion, pitying her for the neglect

with which she was treated by her husband: he began to attribute much

of her apparent frivolity, and many of her faults, more to the want of

a guide and a friend than to a deficiency of understanding or to defects

of character. Mrs. Wharton had just sufficient sense to be cunning--this

implies but a very small portion: she perceived the advantage which she

gained by thus working upon Vivian’s vanity and upon his compassion. She

continued her operations, without being violently interested in their

success; for she had at first only a general wish to attract his

attention, because he was a fashionable young man.

One morning when he called upon Wharton to accompany him to the House of

Commons, he found Mrs. Wharton in tears, her husband walking up and down

the room in evident ill-humour. He stopped speaking when Vivian entered;

and Mrs. Wharton endeavoured, or seemed to endeavour, to conceal her

emotion. She began to play on her harp; and Wharton, addressing himself

to Vivian, talked of the politics of the day. There was some incoherence

in the conversation; for Vivian’s attention was distracted by the air

that Mrs. Wharton was playing, of which he was passionately fond.

“There’s no possibility of doing any thing while there is such a cursed

noise in the room!” cried Wharton. “Here I have the heads of this bill

to draw up--I cannot endure to have music wherever I go--”

He snatched up his papers and retired to an adjoining apartment, begging

that Vivian would wait one quarter of an hour for him.--Mrs. Wharton’s

tears flowed afresh, and she looked beautiful in tears.

“You see--you see, Mr. Vivian--and I am ashamed you should see--how I am

treated.--I am, indeed, the most unfortunate creature upon the face of

the earth; and nobody in this world has the least compassion for me!”

Vivian’s countenance contradicted this last assertion most

positively.--Mrs. Wharton understood this; and her attitude of

despondency was the most graceful imaginable.

“My dear Mrs. Wharton”--(it was the first time our hero had ever called

her “his dear Mrs. Wharton;” but it was only a platonic dear)--“you take

trifles much too seriously--Wharton was hurried by business--a moment’s

impatience must be forgiven.”

“A moment!” replied Mrs. Wharton, casting up to heaven her beautiful

eyes--“Oh! Mr. Vivian, how little do you know of him!--I am the most

miserable creature that ever existed; but there is not a man upon earth

to whom I would say so except yourself.”

Vivian could not help feeling some gratitude for this distinction; and,

as he leaned over her harp with an air of unusual interest, he said

he hoped that he should ever prove himself worthy of her esteem and

confidence.

At this instant Wharton interrupted the conversation, by passing hastily

through the room.--“Come, Vivian,” said he; “we shall be very late at

the house.”

“We shall see you again of course at dinner,” said Mrs. Wharton to

Vivian in a low voice. Our hero replied by an assenting bow.

Five minutes afterwards he repented that he had accepted the invitation,

because he foresaw that he should resume a conversation which was at

once interesting and embarrassing. He felt that it was not right to

become the depository of this lady’s complaints against her husband; yet

he had been moved by her tears, and the idea that he was _the only man

in the world_ to whom she would open her heart upon such a delicate

subject, interested him irresistibly in her favour. He returned in

the evening, and was flattered by observing, that amongst the crowd of

company by which she was surrounded he was instantly distinguished. He

was perfectly persuaded of the innocence of her intentions; and, as

he was attached to another woman, he fancied that he could become the

friend of the beautiful Mrs. Wharton without danger. The first time he

had an opportunity of speaking to her in private, he expressed this

idea in the manner that he thought the most delicately flattering to

her self-complacency. Mrs. Wharton seemed to be perfectly satisfied with

this conduct; and declared, that unless she had been certain that he was

not a man of gallantry, she should never have placed any confidence in

his friendship.

“I consider you,” said she, “quite as a married man:--by-the-bye, when

are you to be married, and what sort of a person is Miss Sidney?--I am

told she is excessively handsome, and amiable, and sensible.--What a

happy creature she is!--just going to be united to the man she loves!”

Here the lady gave a profound sigh; and Vivian had an opportunity of

observing that she had the longest dark eyelashes that he had ever seen.

“I was married,” continued she, “before I knew what I was about. You

know Mr. Wharton can be so charming when he pleases--and then he was so

much in love with me, and swore he would shoot himself if I would not

have him--and all that sort of thing.--I protest I was terrified; and I

was quite a child, you know. I had been out but six weeks, and I thought

I was in love with him. That was because I did not know what love

was--_then_;--besides, he hurried and teased me to such a degree!--After

all, I’m convinced I married him more out of compassion than any

thing else; and now you see how he treats me!--most barbarously and

tyrannically!--But I would not give the least hint of this to any

man living but yourself. I conjure you to keep my secret--and--pity

me!--that is all I ask--pity me sometimes, when your thoughts are not

absorbed in a happier manner.”

Vivian’s generosity was piqued: he could not be so selfish as to be

engrossed exclusively by his own felicity. He thought that delicacy

should induce him to forbear expatiating upon Selina’s virtues and

accomplishments, or upon his passion. He carried this delicacy so far,

that sometimes for a fortnight or three weeks he never mentioned her

name. He could not but observe that Mrs. Wharton did not like him

the less for this species of sacrifice. It may be observed, that Mrs.

Wharton managed her attack upon Vivian with more art than could be

expected from so silly a woman; but we must consider that all her

faculties were concentrated on one object; so that she seemed to have an

instinct for coquetry. The most silly animals in the creation, from the

insect tribe upwards, show, on some occasions, where their interests

are immediately concerned, a degree of sagacity and ingenuity, which,

compared with their usual imbecility, appears absolutely wonderful. The

opinion which Vivian had early formed of the weakness of this lady’s

understanding prevented him from being on his guard against her

artifices: he could not conceive it possible that he should be duped

by a person so obviously his inferior. With a woman of talents and

knowledge, he might have been suspicious; but there was nothing in Mrs.

Wharton to alarm his pride or to awaken his fears: he fancied that he

could extricate himself in a moment, and with the slightest effort,

from any snares which she could contrive; and, under this persuasion, he

neglected to make even that slight effort, and thus continued from hour

to hour in voluntary captivity.

Insensibly Vivian became more interested for Mrs. Wharton; and, at the

same time, submitted with increased facility to the influence of her

husband. It was necessary that he should have some excuse to the

world, and yet more to his own conscience, for being so constantly at

Wharton’s. The pleasure he took in Wharton’s conversation was still a

sort of involuntary excuse to himself for his intimacy with the lady.

“Wharton’s wit more than Mrs. Wharton’s beauty,” thought he, “is the

attraction that draws me here--I am full as ready to be of his parties

as of hers; and this is the best proof that all is as it should be.”

Wharton’s parties were not always such as Vivian would have chosen; but

he was pressed on, without power of resistance. For instance, one night

Wharton was going with Lord Pontipool and a set of dissipated young

men, to the house of a lady who made herself fashionable by keeping a

faro-bank.

“Vivian, you’ll come along with us?” said Wharton. “Come, we must have

you--unless you are more happily engaged.”

His eye glanced with a mixture of contempt and jealousy upon his wife.

Mrs. Wharton’s alarmed and imploring countenance at the same moment

seemed to say, “For Heaven’s sake, go with him, or I am undone.” In

such circumstances it was impossible for Vivian to say no: he followed

immediately; acting, as he thought, from a principle of honour and

generosity. Wharton was not a man to give up the advantage which he had

gained. Every day he showed more capricious jealousy of his wife, though

he, at the same time, expressed the most entire confidence in the honour

of his friend. Vivian still thought he could not do too much to convince

him that his confidence was not misplaced; and thus, to protect Mrs.

Wharton from suspicion, he yielded to all her husband’s wishes. Vivian

now felt frequently ashamed of his conduct, but always proud of his

motives; and, with ingenious sophistry, he justified to himself the

worst actions, by pleading that he did them with the best intentions.

CHAPTER V.

By this time Lady Mary Vivian began to hear hints of her son’s

attachment to Mrs. Wharton; and, much alarmed, she repented having

encouraged him to form a political or fashionable intimacy with the

Whartons. Suddenly awakened to the perception of the danger, Lady

Mary was too vehement in her terror. She spoke with so much warmth and

indignation, that there was little chance of her counsels being of use.

“But, my dear madam, it is only a platonic attachment,” argued Vivian,

when his mother represented to him that the world talked loudly of his

intimacy with Mrs. Wharton.

“A platonic attachment!--Fashionable, dangerous sophistry!” said Lady

Mary.

“Why so, ma’am?” said her son, warmly; “and why should we mind what the

world says? The world is so fond of scandal, that a man and woman cannot

have any degree of friendship for one another without a hue and cry

being immediately raised--and all the prudes and coquettes join at once

in believing, or pretending to believe, that there must be something

wrong. No wonder such a pretty woman as Mrs. Wharton cannot escape envy,

and, of course, censure; but her conduct can defy the utmost malice of

her enemies.”

“I hope so,” said Lady Mary; “and, at all events, I am not one of them.

I know and care very little about Mrs. Wharton, whom I have always been

accustomed to consider as a frivolous, silly woman; but what I wish to

say, though I fear I have lost your confidence, and that my advice will

not--”

“Frivolous! silly!” interrupted Vivian; “believe me, my dear mother, you

and half the world are, and have been, under a great mistake about her

understanding and character.”

“Her forming a platonic friendship with a young man is no great proof

of her sense or of her virtue,” said Lady Mary. “The danger of platonic

attachments, I thought, had been sufficiently understood. Pray, my

dear Charles, never let me hear more from you of platonics with married

women.”

“I won’t use the expression, ma’am, if you have any objection to it,”

said Vivian; “but, mother, you wish me to live in the most fashionable

company, and yet you desire me not to live as they live, and talk as

they talk: now, that is next to impossible. Pardon me, but I should not

have thought,” added he, laughing, “that you, who like most things that

are fashionable, would object to _platonics_.”

“Object to them!--I despise, detest, abhor them! _Platonics_ have been

the ruin of more women, the destruction of the peace of more families,

than open profligacy ever could have accomplished. Many a married woman,

who would have started with horror at the idea of beginning an intrigue,

has been drawn in to admit of a platonic attachment. And many a man,

who would as soon have thought of committing murder as of seducing his

friend’s wife, has allowed himself to commence a platonic attachment;

and how these end, all the world knows.”

Struck by these words, Vivian suddenly quitted his air of raillery, and

became serious. Had his mother stopped there, and left the rest to his

good sense and awakened perception of danger, all would have been well;

but she was ever prone to say too much; and, in her ardour to prove

herself to be in the right, forgot that people are apt to be shocked, by

having it pointed out that they are utterly in the wrong.

“Indeed, the very word platonics,” pursued she, “is considered, by those

who have seen any thing of life, as the mere watchword of knaves or

dupes; of those who deceive, or of those who wish to be deceived.”

“Be assured, ma’am,” said Vivian, “that Mrs. Wharton is not one of those

who wish either to deceive or to be deceived; and, as to myself, I hope

I am as far from any danger of being a dupe as of being a knave. My

connexion with Mrs. Wharton is perfectly innocent; it is justified

by the example of hundreds and thousands every day in the fashionable

world; and I should do her and myself great injustice, if I broke off

our intimacy suddenly, as if I acknowledged that it was improper.”

“And what can be more improper? since you force me to speak plainly,”

cried Lady Mary; “what can be more improper than such an intimacy,

especially in your circumstances?”

“My circumstances! What circumstances, ma’am?”

“Have you forgotten Miss Sidney?”

“By no means, ma’am,” said Vivian, colouring deeply; “Mrs. Wharton is

well apprized, and was, from the first moment of our friendship, clearly

informed of my----engagements with Miss Sidney.”

“And how do they agree with your attachment to Mrs. Wharton?”

“Perfectly well, ma’am--Mrs. Wharton understands all that perfectly

well, ma’am.”