“And Miss Sidney! do you think she will understand it?--and is it not

extraordinary that I should think more of her feelings than you do?”

At these questions Vivian became so angry, that he was incapable of

listening farther to reason, or to the best advice, even from a mother,

for whom he had the highest respect. The mother and son parted with

feelings of mutual dissatisfaction.

Vivian, from that spirit of opposition so often seen in weak characters,

went immediately from his mother’s _lecture_ to a party at Mrs.

Wharton’s. Lady Mary, in the mean time, sat down to write to Miss

Sidney. Whatever reluctance she had originally felt to her son’s

marriage with this young lady, it must be repeated, to her ladyship’s

credit, that Selina’s honourable and disinterested conduct had won her

entire approbation. She wrote, therefore, in the strongest terms to

press the immediate conclusion of that match, which she now considered

as the only chance of securing her son’s morals and happiness. Her

letter concluded with these words:--“I shall expect you in town

directly. Do not, my dear, let any idle scruples prevent you from coming

to my house. Consider that my happiness, your own, and my son’s, depend

upon your compliance. I am persuaded, that the moment he sees you, the

moment you exert your power over him, he will be himself again. But,

believe me, I know the young men of the present day better than you do:

their constancy is not proof against absence. If he lose the habit of

seeing and conversing with you, I cannot answer for the rest.--Adieu! I

am so much harassed by my own thoughts, and by the reports I hear, that

I scarcely know what I write. Pray come immediately, my dear Selina,

that I may talk to you of many subjects on which I don’t like to trust

myself to write. My feelings have been too long repressed.--I must

unburden my heart to you. _You_ only can console and assist me; and,

independently of all other considerations, you owe to my friendship

for you, Selina, not to refuse this first request I ever made

you.--Farewell! I shall expect to see you as soon as possible.

“Yours, &c.

“MARY VIVIAN.”

“_St. James’s-street_.”

In this letter, Lady Mary Vivian had not explained the nature of her

son’s danger, or of her fears for him. Motives of delicacy had prevented

her from explicitly telling Miss Sidney her suspicions that Vivian was

attached to a married woman. “Selina,” said her ladyship to herself,

“must, probably, have heard the report from Mr. G----, who is so often

at her mother’s; therefore, there can be no necessity for my saying any

more than I have done. She will understand my hints.”

Unfortunately, however, Miss Sidney did not comprehend, or in the least

suspect, the most material part of the truth; she understood simply,

from Lady Mary’s letter, that Vivian’s affections wavered, and she

imagined that he was, perhaps, on the point of making matrimonial

proposals for some fashionable belle, probably for one of the Lady

Lidhursts; but the idea of his becoming attached to a married woman

never entered her thoughts. Many motives conspired to incline Selina to

accept of the invitation. The certainty that Lady Mary would be highly

offended by a refusal; the hint, that her influence over Vivian would

operate immediately, and in all its force, if he were to see and

converse with her; and that, on the contrary, absence might extinguish

his passion for ever; curiosity to learn precisely the nature of the

reports, which his mother had heard to his disadvantage; but, above

all, a fond wish to be nearer to the man she loved, and to have daily

opportunities of seeing him, prompted Selina to comply with Lady Mary’s

request. On the contrary, good sense and delicacy represented, that

she had released Vivian from all promises, all engagements; that, at

parting, she had professed to leave him perfectly at liberty: that it

would, therefore, be as indelicate as imprudent to make such an attempt

to reclaim his inconstant heart. She had told him, that she desired

to have proof of the steadiness, both of his character and of his

attachment, before she could consent to marry him. From this decision

she could not, she would not, recede. She had the fortitude to persist

in this resolution. She wrote to Lady Mary Vivian in the kindest, but,

at the same time, in the most decided terms, declining the tempting

invitation.

It happened that Vivian was with his mother at the moment when Selina’s

answer arrived. In the firm belief that such a pressing invitation as

she had sent, to a person in Selina’s circumstances and of Selina’s

temper, could not be refused, her ladyship had made it a point with her

son to dine _tête-à-tête_ with her this day; and she had been talking to

him, in the most eloquent but imprudent manner, of the contrast between

the characters of Mrs. Wharton and Miss Sidney. He protested that his

esteem and love for Miss Sidney were unabated; yet, when his mother told

him that he would, perhaps, in a few minutes see his Selina, he

changed colour, grew embarrassed and melancholy, and thus by his looks

effectually contradicted his words. He was roused from his reverie by

the arrival of Selina’s letter. His mother’s disappointment and anger

were expressed in the strongest terms, when she found that Selina

declined her invitation; but such are the quick and seemingly perverse

turns of the human heart, Vivian grew warm in Selina’s defence the

moment that his mother became angry with her: he read her letter with

tender emotion, for he saw through the whole of it, the strength, as

well as the delicacy of her attachment. All that his mother’s praises

had failed to effect, was immediately accomplished by this letter;

and he, who but an instant before dreaded to meet Selina, now that

she refused to come, was seized with a strong desire to see her; his

impatience was so great, that he would willingly have set out that

instant for the country. Men of such characters as Vivian’s are

peculiarly jealous of their free will; and, precisely because they

know that they are easily led, they resist, in affairs of the heart

especially, the slightest appearance of control.

Lady Mary was delighted to hear her son declare his resolution to leave

town the next morning, and to see Miss Sidney as soon as possible; but

she could not forbear reproaching him for not doing what she wanted

precisely in the manner in which she had planned that it should be done.

“I see, my dear Charles,” cried she, “that even when you do right, I

must not flatter myself that it is owing to any influence of mine. Give

my compliments to Miss Sidney, and assure her that I shall in future

forbear to injure her in your opinion by my interference, or even by

expressing my approbation of her character. My anger, it is obvious, has

served her better than my kindness; and therefore she has no reason to

regret that my affection has been lessened, as I confess it has been, by

her late conduct.”

The next morning, when Vivian was prepared to leave town, he called upon

Wharton, to settle with him about some political, business which was to

be transacted in his absence. Wharton was not at home--Vivian knew that

it would be best to avoid seeing Mrs. Wharton; but he was afraid that

she would be offended, and he could not help _sacrificing a few minutes

to politeness_. The lady was alone; apparently very languid, and

charmingly melancholy. Before Vivian could explain himself, she poured

forth, in silly phrases, but in a voice that made even nonsense please,

a rariety of reproaches for his having absented himself for such a

length of time.--“Positively, she would keep him prisoner, now that

she had him safe once more.” To be kept prisoner by a fair lady was

so flattering, that it was full an hour before he could prevail

upon himself to assert his liberty--the fear of giving pain, indeed,

influenced him still more than vanity. At last, when Mrs. Wharton spoke

of her engagements for the evening, and seemed to take it for granted

that he would be of her party, he summoned resolution sufficient--Oh!

wonderful effort of courage!--to tell her, that he was under a necessity

of leaving town immediately.

“Going, I presume, to--”

“To the country,” said Vivian, firmly.

“To the country!----No, no, no; say at once, to Selina!--Tell me the

worst in one word!”

Astonished beyond measure, Vivian had not power to move. The lady fell

back on the sofa in violent hysterics. Our hero trembled lest any of her

servants should come in, or lest her husband should at his return find

her in this condition, and discover the cause. He endeavoured in vain to

soothe and compose the weeping fair one; he could not have the

barbarity to leave her in this state. By sweet degrees she recovered her

recollection--was in the most lovely confusion--asked where she was, and

what was going to happen. Vivian had not the rashness to run the risk

of a second fit of hysterics; he gave up all thoughts of his journey

for this day, and the lady recovered her spirits in the most flattering

manner. Vivian intended to postpone his journey only for a single

day; but, after he had yielded one point, he found that there was no

receding. He was now persuaded that Mrs. Wharton was miserable; that she

would never forgive herself for having betrayed the state of her heart.

His self-love pleaded powerfully in her favour: he considered that her

husband treated her with mortifying neglect, and provoked the spirit

of retaliation by his gallantries. Vivian fancied that Mrs. Wharton’s

attachment to him might render her wretched, but would never make her

criminal. With sophistical delicacy he veiled his own motives; and,

instead of following the plain dictates of reason, he involved his

understanding in that species of sentimental casuistry which confounds

all principles of right and wrong. But the dread that he felt lest

Wharton should discover what was going on might have sufficiently

convinced him that he was not acting honourably. The suspicions which

Mr. Wharton formerly showed of his wife seemed now to be completely

lulled asleep; and he gave Vivian continually such proofs of confidence

as stung him to the soul. By an absurd, but not an uncommon error of

self-love, Vivian was induced to believe, that a man who professed to

cheat mankind in general behaved towards him in particular with strict

honour, and even with unparalleled generosity. Honesty was too vulgar a

virtue for Wharton; but honour, the aristocratic, exclusive virtue of a

gentleman, he laid claim to in the highest tone. The very frankness with

which Wharton avowed his libertine principles with respect to women,

convinced Vivian that he had not the slightest suspicion that these

could be immediately applied to the ruin of his own wife.

“How can you, my dear Wharton, talk in this manner?” said Vivian once,

when he had been speaking with great _freedom_.

“But it is better,” added he, with a sigh, “to speak than to act like a

villain.”

“Villain!” repeated Wharton, with a sarcastic laugh; “you are grown

quite ridiculous, Vivian: I protest, I don’t understand you. Women

now-a-days are surely able, if not willing enough, to take care of

themselves; and _villains_, though they were very common in the time

of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, and of all the tragedy queens of the last

century, are not to be heard of in these days. Any strange tales of

those male monsters called seducers could gain credit during the ages

of ignorance and credulity; but now, the enlightened world cannot

be imposed upon by such miracles; and a gentleman may be a man of

gallantry--nay, even a lady may be a woman of gallantry--without being

hooted out of society as a _monster_; at all events, the blame is, as it

should be, equally divided between the parties concerned; and if modern

lovers quarrel, they do not die of grief, but settle their differences

in a court of law, where a spinster may have her compensation for a

breach of contract of marriage; a father or a husband their damages for

the loss of the company, affection, solace, services, &c., as the case

may be, of his wife or daughter. All this is perfectly well understood;

and the terrors of law are quite sufficient, without the terrors of

sentiment. If a man punish himself, or let himself be punished, twice

for the same offence, once by his conscience, and once by his king and

his country, he is a fool; and, moreover, acts contrary to the spirit

of the British law, which sayeth--see Blackstone and others--that no

man shall be punished twice for the same offence.--Suffer your

risible muscles to relax, I beseech you, Vivian; and do not affect a

presbyterian rigidity, which becomes your face as ill as your age.”

“I affect nothing--certainly I do not affect presbyterian rigidity,”

cried Vivian, laughing. “But, after all, Wharton, if you had a daughter

or a sister, what would you think of any man, your friend for instance,

who should attempt--”

“To cut your speech short at once,” interrupted Wharton, “I should not

think at all about the matter; I should blow his brains out, of

course; and afterwards, probably, blow out my own. But treachery from a

friend--from a man of honour--is a thing of which I can hardly form an

idea. Where I give my confidence, I give it without any paltry mental

reservation--I could not suspect a friend.”

Vivian suffered, at this instant, all the agony which a generous mind,

conscious of guilt, could endure. He thought that the confusion of his

mind must be visible in his countenance--his embarrassment was so great

that he could not utter a word. Wharton did not seem to perceive his

companion’s agitation, but passed on carelessly to other subjects of

conversation; and at length completely relieved Vivian from fear of

immediate detection, by asking a favour from him--a pecuniary favour.

“All is safe--Mrs. Wharton, at least, is safe, thank Heaven!” thought

Vivian. “Had her husband the slightest suspicion, he never would

condescend to accept of any favour from me.”

With eagerness, and almost with tears of gratitude, Vivian pressed

upon Wharton the money which he _condescended_ to borrow--it was no

inconsiderable sum.

“Wharton!” cried he, “you sometimes talk freely--too freely; but you

are, I am convinced, the most open-hearted, unsuspicious, generous

fellow upon earth--you deserve a better friend than I am.”

Unable any longer to suppress or conceal the emotions which struggled in

his heart, he broke away abruptly, hurried home, shut himself up in his

own apartment, and sat down immediately to write to Mrs. Wharton. The

idea that Mrs. Wharton loved him in preference to all the fashionable

coxcombs and wits by whom she was surrounded had insensibly raised our

hero’s opinion of her understanding so much, that he now imagined that

the world laboured under a prejudice against her abilities. He gave

himself credit for having discovered that this beauty was not a fool;

and he now spoke and wrote to her as if she had been a woman of sense.

With eloquence which might have moved a woman of genius, with delicacy

that might have touched a woman of feeling, he conjured her to fortify

his honourable resolutions; and thus, whilst it was yet time, to secure

her happiness and his own. “Instead of writing this letter,” added he

in a postscript, “I ought, perhaps, to fly from you for ever; but that

would show a want of confidence in you and in myself; and, besides, upon

the most mature reflection, I think it best to stay, and wait upon you

to-morrow as usual, lest, by my precipitation, I should excite suspicion

in Wharton’s mind.”

The weak apprehension that Mrs. Wharton should betray herself by another

fit of hysterics, if he should leave town, and if his departure

should be suddenly announced to her by her husband, or by some common

acquaintance, induced him to delay a few days longer, that he might

prepare her mind by degrees, and convince her of the necessity for their

absolute separation. When he had finished his letter to Mrs. Wharton, he

was sufficiently well pleased with himself to venture to write to Miss

Sidney. His letters to her had of late been short and constrained; but

this was written with the full flow of affection. He was now in hopes

that he should extricate himself honourably from his difficulties, and

that he might at last claim his reward from Selina.

CHAPTER VI.

After he had despatched his two letters, he became excessively anxious

to receive Mrs. Wharton’s answer. By trifling but unavoidable accidents,

it was delayed a few hours. At last it arrived; Vivian tore it open, and

read with surprise these words:

“Your letter is just what I wished, and makes me the happiest of

women--that is, if you are sincere--which, after all you’ve said, I

can’t doubt. I am so hurried by visitors, and annoyed, that I cannot

write more; but shall have time to talk to-night at the opera.”

At the opera Mrs. Wharton appeared in high spirits, and was dressed with

more than usual elegance. It was observed that she had never been seen

to look so beautiful. There was something in her manner that puzzled

Vivian extremely; this extraordinary gaiety was not what he had reason

to expect. “Is it possible,” thought he, “that this woman is a mere

coquette, who has been amusing herself at my expense all this time,

and can now break off all connexion with me without a moment’s regret?”

Vivian’s pride was piqued: though he wished to part from the lady, he

could not bear that this parting should evidently cost her nothing.

He was mortified beyond expression by the idea that he had been duped.

After the opera was over, whilst Mrs. Wharton was waiting for her

carriage, he had an opportunity of speaking to her without being

overheard.

“I am happy,” said he, with a constrained voice, “I am extremely happy

to see you, madam, in such charming spirits to-night.”

“But are not you a strange man to look so grave?” cried Mrs. Wharton. “I

vow, I don’t know what to make of you! But I believe you want to quarrel

for the pleasure of making it up again. Now that won’t do. By-the-bye,

I have a quarrel with you, sir.--How came you to sign your name to that

foolish stuff you wrote me yesterday? Never do so any more, I charge

you, for fear of accidents. But what’s the matter now?--You are a

strange mortal!--Are you going to die upon the spot?--What is the

matter?”

“My letter to you was not signed, I believe,” said Vivian, in an altered

voice.

“Indeed it was,” said Mrs. Wharton. “It was signed Charles Vivian at

full length. But why are you in such tremors about it? I only mentioned

it to put you on your guard in future.--I’ve burnt the letter--people

always get themselves into scrapes if they don’t burn love-letters--as

I’ve often heard Mr. Wharton say,” added she, laughing.

To his unspeakable consternation, Vivian now discovered that he had

sent the letter intended for Selina to Mrs. Wharton; and that which was

designed for Mrs. Wharton he had directed to Miss Sidney. Vivian was

so lost in thought, that the cry of _“Mrs. Wharton’s carriage stops

the way!”_ was vociferated many times before he recovered sufficient

presence of mind to hand the lady out of the house. He went home

immediately, that he might reflect upon what was best to be done. His

servant presently gave him a letter which a messenger had just brought

from the country. The packet was from Selina.

“Enclosed, I return the letter which I received from you this morning. I

read the first three lines of it before I perceived that it could not be

intended for me--I went no farther.--I cannot help knowing for whom

it was designed; but you may be assured that your secret shall be kept

inviolably.--You have no reproaches to fear from me.--This is the last

letter I shall ever write to you.--Leave it to me to explain my own

conduct to my mother and to yours; if they think me capricious, I can

bear it. I shall tell them that my sentiments are totally changed: I am

sure I can say so with perfect truth.--Oh, Vivian, it is you who are to

be pitied; every thing may be endured except remorse. Would to Heaven, I

could save you from the reproaches of your own heart!--Adieu!

“SELINA SIDNEY.”

The feelings of Vivian’s mind, on reading this letter, cannot be

described. Admiration, love, tenderness, remorse, successively seized

upon his heart. Incapable of any distinct reflection, he threw himself

upon his bed, and closed his eyes, endeavouring to compose himself to

sleep, that he might forget his existence. But, motionless as he lay,

the tumult of his mind continued unabated. His pulse beat high; and

before morning he was in a fever. The dread that his mother should come

to attend him, and to inquire into the cause of his illness, increased

his agitation:--she came. Her kindness and anxiety were fresh torments

to her unhappy son. Bitterly did he reproach himself as the cause of

misery to those he loved and esteemed most in the world. He became

delirious; and, whilst he was in this state, he repeated Mrs. Wharton’s

name sometimes in terms of endearment, sometimes in accents of

execration. His mother’s suspicions of his intrigue were confirmed by

many expressions which burst from him, and which were thought by his

attendants to be merely the ravings of fever. Lady Mary had, at this

crisis, the prudence to conceal her doubts, and to keep every body, as

much as possible, out of her son’s apartment. In a few days his fever

subsided, and he recovered to the clear recollection of all that

had passed previously to his illness. He almost wished to be again

delirious. The first time he was left alone, he rose from his bed,

unlocked his bureau, and seized Selina’s letter, which he read again and

again, studying each line and word, as if he could draw from them every

time a new meaning.

“She read but three lines of my letter,” said he to himself; “then she

only guesses that I have an intrigue with Mrs. Wharton, without knowing

that in this very letter I used my utmost influence to recall Mrs.

Wharton to--herself.”

The belief that Selina thought worse of him than he deserved was

some consolation to Vivian. He was resolved to recover her esteem: he

determined to break off all connexion with Mrs. Wharton; and, full of

this intention, he was impatient till the physicians permitted him to go

abroad. When he was at last free from their dominion, had escaped from

his chamber, and had just gained the staircase, he was stopped by his

mother.

“Charles,” said she, “before you quit me again, it is my duty to say a

few words to you upon a subject of some importance.”

Lady Mary led the way to her dressing-room with a dignified air; Vivian

followed with a mixture of pride and alarm in his manner. From the bare

idea of a maternal lecture his mind revolted: he imagined that she was

going to repeat the remonstrance which she had formerly made against his

intimacy with Mrs. Wharton, and against _platonics_ in general; but he

had not the least apprehension that she had discovered the whole truth:

he was, therefore, both surprised and shocked, when she spoke to him in

the following manner:

“The libertinism of the age in which we live has so far loosened all

the bonds of society, and all the ties of nature, that I doubt not but

a mother’s anxiety for the morals of her son--her only son--the son over

whose education she has watched from his infancy, may appear, even in

his eyes, a fit subject for ridicule. I am well aware that my solicitude

and my counsels have long been irksome to him, I have lost his

affections by a steady adherence to my duty; but I shall persevere with

the less reluctance, since the dread of my displeasure, or the hope of

my approbation, cannot now touch his sensibility. During your illness,

you have betrayed a secret--you have reason to start with horror. Is

it possible that a son of mine, with the principles which I have

endeavoured to instil into his mind, should become so far depraved? Do

I live to hear, from his own lips, that he is the seducer of a married

woman--and that woman the wife of his friend?”

Vivian walked up and down the room in great agony: his mother continued,

with increased severity of manner, “I say nothing of your dissimulation

with me, nor of all your _platonic_ subterfuges--I know that, with a

man of intrigue, falsehood is deemed a virtue. I shall not condescend to

inquire farther into your guilty secrets--I now think myself fortunate

in having no place in your confidence. But I here declare to you, in the

most solemn manner, that I never will see you again until all connexion

between you and Mrs. Wharton is utterly dissolved. I do not advise--I

COMMAND, and must be obeyed--or I cast you off for ever.”

Lady Mary left the room as she uttered these words. Her son was deeply

struck with his mother’s eloquence: he knew she was right, yet his pride

was wounded by the peremptory severity of her manner:--his remorse and

his good resolutions gave place to anger. The more he felt himself

in the wrong, the less he could bear to be reproached by the voice

of authority. Even because his mother _commanded_ him to give up all

connexion with Mrs. Wharton, he was inclined to disobey--he could not

bear to seem to do right merely in compliance to her will. He went to

visit Mrs. Wharton in a very different temper from that in which, half

an hour before this conference with his mother, he had resolved to see

the lady. Mrs. Wharton knew how to take advantage both of the weakness

of his character and of the generosity of his temper. She fell into

transports of grief when she found that Lady Mary Vivian and Miss Sidney

were in possession of her secret. It was in vain that Vivian assured her

that it would be kept inviolably; she persisted in repeating, “that her

reputation was lost; that she had sacrificed every thing for a man who

would, at last, desert her in the most treacherous and barbarous

manner, leaving her at the mercy of her husband, the most profligate,

hard-hearted tyrant upon earth. As to her being reconciled to him,” she

declared, “_that_ was totally out of the question; his behaviour to her

was such, that she could not live with him, even if her heart were not

fatally prepossessed in favour of another.” Her passions seemed wrought

to the highest pitch. With all the eloquence of beauty in distress, she

appealed to Vivian as her only friend; she threw herself entirely upon

his protection; she vowed that she could not, would not, remain another

day in the same house with Mr. Wharton; that her destiny, her existence,

were at Vivian’s mercy. Vivian had not sufficient fortitude to support

this scene. He stood irresolute. The present temptation prevailed over

his better resolutions. He was actually persuaded by this woman, whom

he did not love, whom he could not esteem, to carry her off to the

continent--whilst, at the very time, he admired, esteemed, and loved

another. The plan of the elopement was formed and settled in a few

minutes;--on Mrs. Wharton’s part, apparently with all the hurry of

passion; on Vivian’s with all the confusion of despair. The same

carriage, the very same horses, that had been ordered to carry our hero

to his beloved Selina, conveyed him and Mrs. Wharton the first stage

of their flight towards the continent. The next morning the following

paragraph appeared in the newspapers:--

“Yesterday, the beautiful and fashionable Mrs. W----, whose marriage we

announced last year to the celebrated Mr. W----, eloped from his

house in St. James’s-street, in company with C---- V----, member for

----shire. This catastrophe has caused the greatest _sensation_ and

astonishment in the circles of fashion; for the lady in question had

always, till this fatal step, preserved the most unblemished reputation;

and Mr. and Mrs. W---- were considered as models of conjugal felicity.

The injured husband was attending his public duty in the House of

Commons; and, as we are credibly informed, was, with patriotic ardour,

speaking in his country’s cause, when this unfortunate event, which for

ever bereaves him of domestic happiness, took place. What must

increase the poignancy of his feelings upon the occasion remains to be

stated--that the seducer was his intimate friend, a young man, whom he

had raised into notice in public life, and whom he had, with all that

warmth and confidence of heart for which he is remarkable, introduced

into his house, and trusted with his beloved wife. Mr. W---- is, we

hear, in pursuit of the fugitives.”

CHAPTER VII.

In the modern fashionable code of honour, when a man has seduced or

carried off his friend’s wife, the next thing he has to do is to fight

the man whom he has injured and betrayed. By thus appealing to the

ordeal of the duel, he may not only clear himself from guilt; but, if

it be done with proper spirit, he may acquire celebrity and glory in the

annals of gallantry, and in the eyes of the fair and innocent. In our

hero’s place, most men of fashion would have triumphed in the notoriety

of his offence, and would have rejoiced in an opportunity of offering

the husband the satisfaction of a gentleman. But, unfortunately for

Vivian, he had not yet suited his principles to his practice: he had

acted like a man of fashion; but, alas! he still thought and felt like a

man of virtue--as the following letter will show.

“TO THE REV. HENRY RUSSELL.

“Indignant as you will be, Russell, at all you hear of me, you cannot

be more shocked than I am myself. I do not write to palliate or

apologize--my conduct admits of no defence--I shall attempt none,

private or public--I have written to my lawyer to give directions that

no sort of defence shall be set up on my part, when the affair comes

into Doctors’ Commons--as it shortly will; for I understand that poor

Wharton has commenced a prosecution. As to damages he has only to name

them--any thing within the compass of my fortune he may command. Would

to God that money could make him amends! But he is too generous, too

noble a fellow--profligate as he is in some things, how incapable would

he be of acting as basely as I have done! There is not, perhaps, at

this moment, a human being who has so high an opinion of the man I have

injured as I have myself:--he did not love his wife--but that is no

excuse for me--his honour is as much wounded as if I had robbed him of

her during the time he loved her most fondly:--he once doted upon her,

and would have loved her again, when he was tired of his gallantries;

and they might then have lived together as happily as ever, if I had

not been--. What was I?--What am I?--Not a villain--or I should glory in

what I have done--but the weakest of human beings--and how true it is,

Russell, that ‘all wickedness is weakness!’

“I understand that W----, wherever he goes, calls me a coward, as

well as a scoundrel; and says that I have kept out of the way to avoid

fighting him. He is mistaken. It is true, I had the utmost dread of

having his life to answer for--and nothing should have provoked me to

fire upon him;--but I had determined how to act--I would have met him,

and have stood his fire. I should not be sorry, at present, to be put

out of the world; and would rather fall by his hand than by any other.

But since this is out of the question, and that things have taken

another turn, I have only to live, as long as it shall please God, a

life of remorse--and, at least, to try to make the unfortunate woman who

has thrown herself upon my protection as happy as I can.

“If you have any remaining regard for a pupil who has so disgraced you,

do me one favour--Go to Miss Sidney, and give her what comfort you can.

Say nothing _for me_, or _of me_, but that I wish her to forget me

as soon as possible. She discarded me from her heart when she first

discovered this intrigue--before this last fatal step. Still I had

hopes of recovering her esteem and affection; for I had resolved--But no

matter what I resolved--all my resolutions failed; and now I am utterly

unworthy of her love. This, and all that is good and happy in life, all

the fair hopes and virtuous promises of my youth, I must give up. Early

as it is in my day, my sun has set. I truly desire that she should

forget me; for you know I am bound in honour--Honour! How dare I use the

word? I am bound, after the divorce, to marry the woman I have seduced.

Oh, Russell! what a wife for your friend!--What a daughter-in-law for my

poor mother, after all her care of my education--all her affection--all

her pride in me!--It will break her heart! Mine will not break. I shall

drag on, perhaps, to a miserable old age. I am of too feeble a nature to

feel these things as strong minds would--as you will for me; but do not

blame yourself for my faults. All that man could do for me, you did.

This must be some consolation to you, my dear and excellent friend! May

I still call you friend?--or have I no friend left upon earth?

“C. VIVIAN.”

From this letter some idea may be formed of what this unhappy man

suffered at this period of his life, from “the reflections of a mind not

used to its own reproaches.” The view of the future was as dreadful

as the retrospect of the past. His thoughts continually dwelt upon the

public trial which was preparing--before him he saw all its disgraceful

circumstances. Then the horror of marrying, of passing his whole future

existence with a woman whom he could not esteem or trust! These last

were secret subjects of anxiety and anguish, the more intensely felt,

because he could not speak of them to any human being. Such as Mrs.

Wharton was, she was to be his wife; and he was called upon to defend

her against reproach and insult,--if possible, from contempt. During

the course of six weeks, which they spent together in exile at Brussels,

Vivian became so altered in his appearance, that his most intimate

friends could scarcely have known him; his worst enemies, if he had had

any, could not have desired the prolongation of his sufferings.

One evening, as he was sitting alone in his hotel, ruminating bitter

thoughts, a letter was brought to him from Mr. Russell; the first he had

received since he left England. Every one, who has been absent from his

friends in a foreign country, must know the sort of emotion which

the bare sight of a letter from _home_ excites; but, in Vivian’s

circumstances, abandoned as he felt himself, and deserving to be

abandoned by his best friends, the sight of a letter from Russell so

struck him, that he gazed upon the direction for some minutes, almost

without power or wish to open it. At last he opened, and read, “Return

to your country, your friends, and yourself, Vivian! Your day is not

yet over! Your sun is not yet set!--Resume your energy--recover your

self-confidence--carry your good resolutions into effect--and you may

yet be an honour to your family, a delight to your fond mother, and

the pride of your friend Russell. Your remorse has been poignant and

sincere; let it be salutary and permanent in its consequences: this is

the repentance which religion requires. The part of a man of sense and

virtue is to make his past errors of use to his future conduct. Whilst

I had nothing to say that could give you pleasure, I forbore to answer

your letter; I forbore to overwhelm a mind sinking under remorse. My

sacred duty is to waken the sinner to repentance, not to shut the gates

of mercy on the penitent. Now, I can relieve your mind from part of the

load by which it has been justly oppressed. You know that nothing can

palliate your conduct in an intrigue with a married woman--from this I

had hoped your moral and religious education would have preserved you.

But of the premeditated guilt of deceiving the husband, and laying a

plan to seduce the wife, I never suspected you; and I may now tell you,

that you have not betrayed Mr. Wharton; he has betrayed you. You have

not seduced Mrs. Wharton; you have been seduced by her. You are not

bound to marry her--Wharton cannot obtain a divorce--he dare not bring

the affair to trial; if he does, he is undone. There has been collusion

between the parties. The proof of this you will find in the enclosed

paper, which will be sworn to, in due legal form, whenever it is

necessary. Even when you see them, you will scarcely believe these

‘damning proofs’ of Wharton’s baseness. But I always knew, I always told

you, that this pretence to honour and candour, frankness and friendship,

with this avowed contempt of all principle and all virtue, could not

be safe, could not be sincere, would not _stand the test_.--No--nothing

should make me trust to the private honour of a man so corrupt in public

life as Mr. Wharton. A man who sells his conscience for his interest

will sell it for his pleasure. A man who will betray his country will

betray his friend. It is in vain to palter with our conscience: there

are not two honours--two honesties. How I rejoice at this moment, in the

reflection that your character, as a public man, is yet untarnished

You have still this great advantage:--feel its value. Return, and

distinguish yourself among your countrymen: distinguish yourself by

integrity still more than by talents. A certain degree of talents is

now cheap in England: integrity is what we want--true patriotism, true

public spirit, noble ambition not that vile scramble for places and

pensions, which some men call ambition; not that bawling, brawling,

_Thersites_ character, which other men call public spirit; not that

marketable commodity with which Wharton, and such as he, cheat popular

opinion for a season;--but that fair virtue which will endure, and abide

by its cause to the last; which, in place or out, shall be the same;

which, successful or unsuccessful, shall sustain the possessor’s

character through all changes of party; which, whilst he lives, shall

command respect from even the most profligate of his contemporaries;

upon which, when he is dying, he may reflect with satisfaction; which,

after his death, shall be the consolation of his friends, and the glory

of his country. All this is yet in your power, Vivian.--Come, then, and

fulfil the promise of your early years! Come, and restore to your mother

a son worthy of her!--Come, and surpass the hopes of your true friend,

“H. RUSSELL.”

The rapid succession of feelings with which Vivian read this letter

can scarcely be imagined. The paper it enclosed was from a former

waiting-maid of Mrs. Wharton’s; a woman who was expected to be the

principal evidence on Mr. Wharton’s side. She had been his mistress; one

of those innumerable mistresses, to whom he had, of course, addressed

his transferable promises of eternal constancy. She too, of course, had

believed the vow, in spite of all experience and probability; and while

she pardoned his infidelities to her mistress, &c. all which she deemed

_very natural for a gentleman like him_, yet she was astonished and

outrageous when she found him faithless to her own charms. In a fit of

jealousy she flew to Mr. Russell, whom she knew to be Vivian’s friend;

and, to revenge herself on Wharton, revealed the secrets which she had

in her power; put into Russell’s hands the proofs of collusion between

Mr. Wharton and his wife; and took malicious pains to substantiate

her evidence, to a lawyer’s full satisfaction; knowing that she might

prevent the possibility of a divorce, and that she should thus punish

her perjured inconstant in the most sensible manner, by at once

depriving him of twenty thousand pounds damages, and by chaining him

again to a wife whom he abhorred.

The same post which brought Vivian this woman’s deposition and Russell’s

letter brought Mrs. Wharton notice that the whole plan of collusion

was discovered: she was therefore prepared for Vivian’s reproaches,

and received the first burst of his astonishment and indignation with a

studied Magdalen expression of countenance: then she attempted a silly

apology, laying all the blame on her husband, and vowing that she had

acted under terror, and that her life would not have been safe in his

hands if she had not implicitly obeyed and executed his horrid plans.

She wept and kneeled in vain. Finding Vivian immoveable in his purpose

to return immediately to England, she suddenly rose from her knees, and,

all beautiful as she was, looked in Vivian’s eyes like a fiend, whilst,

with an unnatural smile, she said to him, “You see, fool as I am thought

to be, I have been too clever for _some people_; and I can tell Mr.

Wharton that I have been too clever for him too. His heart is set upon

a divorce; but he can’t have it. He can’t marry Miss P----, nor yet

her fortune, nor ever shall! I shall remain at Brussels--I have friends

here--and friends who were my friends before I was forced to give my

hand to Mr. Wharton, or my smiles to you, sir!--people who will not

tease me with talking of remorse and repentance, and such ungallant,

ungentlemanlike stuff; nor sit bewailing themselves, like a country

parson, instead of dashing out with me here in a fashionable style, as

a man of any spirit would have done. But you!--you’re neither good nor

bad; and no woman will ever love you, nor ever did. Now you know my

whole mind.”

“Would to Heaven I had known it sooner!” said Vivian. “No--I rejoice

that I did not sooner know, and that I never could have suspected, such

depravity!--under such a form, too.”

Mrs. Wharton’s eye glanced with satisfaction upon the large mirror

opposite to her. Vivian left her in utter disgust and horror. “Drive

on!” cried he, as he threw himself into the chaise that was to carry him

away; “Faster! faster!”

The words, “and no woman will ever love you, nor ever, did,” rung upon

Vivian’s ear. “There she is mistaken, thank Heaven!” said he to himself:

yet the words still dwelt upon his mind, and gave him exquisite pain.

Upon looking again at Russell’s letter, he observed that Selina Sidney’s

name was never mentioned; that she was neither directly nor indirectly

alluded to in the whole letter. What omen to draw from this he could not

divine. Again he read it; and all that Russell said of public life, and

his exhortations to him to come and distinguish himself in public and in

the political world, struck him in a new light. It seemed as if Russell

was sensible that, there were no farther hopes of Selina, and that

therefore he tried to turn Vivian’s mind from love to ambition. Fourteen

times he read over this letter before he reached England; but he could

not discover from it any thing as to the point on which his heart was

most interested. He reached London in this, uncertainty.

“Put me out of suspense, my best friend,” cried he, the moment he saw

Russell: “tell me, is Selina living?”

“Yes--she has been very ill, but is now recovered--quite recovered, and

with your mother, who is grown fonder of her than ever she was.”

“Selina alive! well! and with my mother!--and may I--I don’t mean may I

_now_,--but may I _ever_ hope?--Believe me, I feel myself capable of any

exertions, any forbearance, to obtain her forgiveness--to merit--May I

ever hope for it?--Speak!”

Russell assured him that he need not dread Miss Sidney’s resentment, for

that she felt none; she had expressed pity more than anger--that she had

taken pains to sooth his mother; and had expressed sincere satisfaction

on hearing of his _release_ from his unworthy bondage, and at his return

home to his friends.

The tone in which Russell spoke, and the seriousness and embarrassment

of his manner, alarmed Vivian inexpressibly. He stood silent, and

dared not ask farther explanation for some minutes.--At length he broke

silence, and conjured his friend to go immediately to Miss Sidney and

his mother, and to request permission for him to see them both in each

other’s presence. Russell said, that if Vivian insisted, he would comply

with his request; but that he advised him not to attempt to see Miss

Sidney at present; not till he had been some time in London--till he

had given some earnest of the steadiness of his conduct--till he had

appeared again, and distinguished himself in public life. “This might

raise you again in her esteem; and,” continued Russell, “you must be

aware that her love depends on her esteem--at least, that the one cannot

exist without the other.”

“Will you deliver a letter to her from me?” said Vivian. “If you think

I had better not attempt to see her yet, you will deliver a letter for

me?”

After some hesitation, or rather some deliberation, Russell answered,

in a constrained voice, “I will deliver your letter, if you insist upon

it.”

Vivian wrote:--Russell undertook to deliver the letter, though with

evident reluctance. In the mean time Vivian went to see his mother,

whom he longed, yet dreaded to meet. Her manner was not now severe and

haughty, as when she last addressed him; but mild and benign: she held

out her hand to him, and said, “Thank God! my son is restored to me, and

to himself!”

She could say no more; but embraced him tenderly. Russell had shown Lady

Mary that her son had been the dupe of a preconcerted scheme to work

upon his passions. She deplored his weakness, but she had been touched

by his sufferings; and was persuaded that his remorse would guard him

against future errors. Therefore not a word or look of reproach escaped

from her. When he spoke of Selina, Lady Mary, with great animation of

countenance and warmth of eulogium, declared, that it was the first wish

of her heart to see her son married to a woman of such a noble character

and angelic temper; “_but_,” added her ladyship, her manner changing

suddenly, as she pronounced the word _but_--before she could explain

the _but_, Russell came into the room, and told Vivian that Miss Sidney

desired to see him. Vivian heard the words with joy; but his joy

was checked by the great gravity and embarrassment of his friend’s

countenance, and by a sigh of ill omen from his mother. Eager to relieve

his suspense, he hastened to Selina, who, as Russell told him, was in

Lady Mary’s dressing-room--the room in which he had first declared his

passion for her. Hope and fear alternately seized him--fear prevailed

the moment that he beheld Selina. Not that any strong displeasure

appeared in her countenance--no, it was mild and placid; but it was

changed towards him, and its very serenity was alarming. Whilst she

welcomed him to his native country and to his friends, and while she

expressed hopes for his future happiness, all hope forsook him, and,

in broken sentences, he attempted to stammer out some answer; then,

throwing himself into a chair, he exclaimed, “I see all future happiness

is lost for me--and I deserve it!”

“Do not reproach yourself,” said Selina in a sweet voice; but the voice,

though sweet, was so altered to him, that it threw him into despair. “It

is my wish, not to inflict, but to spare you pain. I have, therefore,

desired to see you as soon as possible, that you might not form false

expectations.”

“Then you no longer love me, Selina? Now, after all I have suffered, you

have the cruelty to tell me so? And you, who could form my character to

every thing that is good and honourable; you, who alone could restore me

to myself--you reject, you cast me from you for ever?”

“I have suffered much,” said Selina, in a trembling voice, “since we

parted.”

Vivian’s eye quickly ran over her face and whole form as she spoke these

words; and he saw, indeed, traces of sickness and suffering: with the

idea of his power over her affections, his hopes revived; he seized the

feeble hand, which lay motionless; but she withdrew it decidedly,

and his hopes again forsook him, when she gently raised her head, and

continued to speak, “I have suffered much since we parted, Mr. Vivian;

and I hope you will spare me unnecessary and useless pain in this

interview: painful to a certain degree it must be to both of us; for I

cannot, even now that all feelings of passion have subsided, and that

the possibility of my being united to you is past, tell you so, with all

the composure which I had expected to do; nor with all the firmness of

voice and manner which is necessary, perhaps, to convince you of the

truth, and to restore your mind to itself.”

“The possibility of my being united to you is past!--Why?” interrupted

Vivian, incapable of understanding or listening to any thing else, till

this question was answered.

“Do not force me to what may seem like cruel reproach; but let it

suffice for me to say, that my sentiments have been so much altered by

a _year’s experience_, that it is impossible for me ever to become your

wife. My love was founded on esteem. I had, indeed, always fears of the

instability of your character; therefore, I put your resolution to the

proof: the event has proved to me that my fears were but too just. I

speak with difficulty; for I cannot easily give you so much pain as I

know that I am inflicting at this moment. But,” resumed she, in a more

resolute tone, “it is absolutely necessary for your future peace of

mind, as well as for my own, that I should convince you I am sincere,

perfectly sincere, at this moment; that I know my own heart; that my

determination has not been hastily formed, and cannot be altered. The

deliberate manner in which I now speak to you will, I hope, persuade you

of this truth. And if I have hesitated, or showed any agitation in this

interview, attribute it to its real cause--the weakness of my health;

feebleness of body, not of mind.”

She rose to leave the room; but Vivian detained her, beseeching her,

with all the eloquence of passion in despair, to hear him but for

one moment; whilst he urged that there was no probability of his ever

relapsing into errors from which he had suffered so much; that now his

character was formed by adversity; and that such was the power which

Selina possessed over his heart, that a union with her would, at this

crisis, decide his fate; that her steadiness would give stability to

his resolutions; and that his gratitude would so increase his affection,

that he should have the strongest possible motives to make her a good

husband; that when he was happy in domestic life, he should feel every

energy of his mind revive; that he should exert all his powers to

distinguish himself, and to justify the choice of the woman he adored.

In spite of the word _adored_, which has usually such power to confound

female judgment, Selina perceived that all he said was merely a

repetition of his former arguments, of which experience had proved the

insufficiency. She was aware that, if before marriage his resolution and

constancy had not been able to support the trial, it would be folly

or madness to marry him with the vague hope that she might reform his

character. She therefore continued steady to her resolution; and as she

found that Vivian’s disappointment was greater than she had expected,

she immediately withdrew from his mother’s house. The next morning, when

Vivian came to breakfast, after having spent a sleepless night, planning

new arguments or new intreaties in favour of his love, he found that

Miss Sidney was gone. His mother and his friend Russell joined in

representing to him that it would be useless to follow her, that it

would only give himself and Selina unavailing pain. Vivian felt this

stroke severely. His mind was, as it were, adrift again. After the first

violence of his feelings had spent itself, and when he sunk into that

kind of apathy which is the consequence of exhausted passion, his friend

Russell endeavoured to excite him to honourable ambition. Vivian caught

the idea, that if he distinguished himself in public life, and if he

there displayed any steadiness of character, he might win back Selina’s

esteem and affection. Fired with this hope, he immediately turned his

whole mind to the object; applied with indefatigable ardour, day and

night, to make himself master of the subjects likely to be discussed

in the ensuing session of parliament. At length his application and

his energy were crowned with success. On a question of considerable

political importance, which he had carefully considered, he made an

excellent speech; a speech which directly made him of consequence in

the house; which, in the language of the newspapers, “was received with

unbounded applause, was distinguished for strength of argument, lucid

order, and a happy choice of expression.” But what encouraged our hero

more than newspaper puffs or party panegyrics was the approbation of

his friend Russell. Russell never praised violently; but a few words,

or even a look of satisfaction from him, went farther than the most

exaggerated eulogiums from others. Vivian pursued his course for some

time with honour and increasing reputation. There was one man who never

joined in any of the compliments paid to the rising orator; there was

one man who always spoke of him with contempt, who pronounced that

“Vivian would never go far in politics--that it was not in him--that

he was too soft--_que c’étoit bâtir sur de la boue, que de compter sur

lui_.” This depreciator and enemy of Vivian was the man who, but a

few months before, had been his political _proneur_ and unblushing

flatterer, Mr. Wharton. Exasperated by the consciousness of his own

detected baseness, and provoked still more by his being frustrated in

all his schemes, Wharton now practised every art that a malicious and

unprincipled wit could devise to lower the opinion of Vivian’s talents,

and to prevent his obtaining either power or celebrity. Our hero was

stimulated by this conduct to fresh exertions. So far Wharton’s enmity

was of service to him; but it was of disservice, by changing, in some

measure, the purity of the motives from which he acted. With love and

honourable ambition now mixed hatred, thoughts of vengeance, views

of vulgar vanity and interest: he thought more of contradicting Mr.

Wharton’s prophecies than of fulfilling his own ideas of what was fair

and right. He was anxious to prove, that he could “_go far_ in politics,

that it was _in him_, that he was not too soft, and that it was not

building on mud to depend on him.” These indefinite expressions operated

powerfully and perniciously on his imagination. To prove that Wharton

was mistaken in his prognostics, it was necessary to our hero to obtain

the price and stamp of talents--it was essential to gain political

power; and this could not be attained without joining a party. Vivian

joined the party then in opposition. Wharton and he, though both in

opposition, of course, after what had passed, could never meet in any

private company; nor had they any communication in public, though on the

same side of the question: their enmity was so great, that not only

the business of the nation, but even the interests of their party, were

often impeded by their quarrels. In the midst of these disputes, Vivian

insensibly adopted more and more of the language and principles of the

public men with whom he daily associated. He began to hear and talk of

compensations and jobs, as they did; and to consider all measures

proved to be necessary for the support of his party as expedient, if

not absolutely right. His country could not be saved, unless he and his

friends could obtain the management of affairs; and no men, be found,

could gain parliamentary influence, or raise themselves into political

power, without _acting as a body_. Then, of course, all subordinate

points of right were to be sacrificed to the great good of promoting the

views of the party. Still, however, his patriotism was upon the whole

pure; he had no personal views of interest, no desire even to be in

place, independently of a wish to promote the good of his country.

Secret overtures were, about this time, made to him by government; and

inquiries were made if there was any thing which could gratify him, or

by which he could be induced to lay aside his opposition, and to assist

in supporting their measures. Many compliments to his talents and

eloquence, and all the usual _commonplaces_, about the expediency and

propriety of _strengthening the hands of government_, were, of course,

added. Something _specific_ was at length mentioned: it was intimated,

that as he was of an ancient family, it might gratify him that his

mother should be made a baroness in her own right. The offer was

declined, and the temptation was firmly withstood by our hero; his

credit was now at its _acme_ with his own coadjutors. Lady Mary

whispered the circumstance, as a state secret, to all her acquaintance;

and Russell took care that Miss Sidney should hear of it.

Vivian was now cited as an incorruptible patriot. Wharton’s malice, and

even his wit, was almost silenced; yet he was heard to say, amidst the

din of applause, “This is only the first offer; he is in the right

to make a show of resistance: he will coquet for a time, and keep

_philandering_ on till he suits himself, and then he’ll jilt us, you’ll

see.”

Such speeches, though they reached Vivian’s ear by the kind

officiousness of friends, were never made by Mr. Wharton so directly

that he could take hold of them; and Russell strenuously advised him

not to seek occasion to quarrel with a man who evidently desired only

to raise his own reputation by making Vivian angry, getting him in the

wrong, and forcing him into an imprudent duel.

“Let your actions continue to contradict his words, and they can never

injure you,” said Russell.

For some time Vivian adhered to his friend’s advice, and he proudly felt

the superiority of principle and character. But, alas! there was one

defence that his patriotism wanted--economy. Whilst he was thus active

in the public cause, and exulting in his disinterestedness, his private

affairs were getting into terrible disorder. The expense of building

his castle had increased beyond all his calculations--the expense of

his election--the money he had lost at play whilst he was in Wharton’s

society--the sums he had lent to Wharton--the money he had spent

abroad,--all these accumulated brought him to great difficulties: for

though his estate was considerable, yet it was so settled and tied

up that he could neither sell nor mortgage. His creditors became

clamorous--he had no means of satisfying or quieting them: an execution

was actually sent down to his castle, just as it was finished. Lady

Mary Vivian was in the greatest alarm and distress: she had no means of

extricating her son. As to his fashionable friends--no hopes from such

extravagant and selfish beings. What was to be done? At this critical

moment, the offers from _a certain quarter_ were renewed in another,

and, as it seemed, a more acceptable form,--a pension was proffered

instead of a title; and it was promised that the business should be so

managed, and the pension so held in another name, that nothing of the

transaction should transpire; and that his seceding from opposition

should be made to appear a change of sentiments from conviction, not

from interested motives. Vivian’s honourable feelings revolted from

these offers, and abhorred these subterfuges; but distress--pecuniary

distress! he had never before felt its pressure; he had never till

now felt how powerful, how compulsatory it is over even generous and

high-spirited souls. Whilst Vivian was thus oppressed with difficulties,

which his imprudence had brought upon him; whilst his mind was

struggling with opposing motives, he was, most fortunately for his

political integrity, relieved, partly by accident, and partly by

friendship. It happened that the incumbent of the rich living, of which

Vivian had the presentation, was dying just at this time; and Russell,

instead of claiming the living which Vivian had promised to him,

relinquished all pretensions to it, and insisted upon his friend’s

disposing of his right of presentation. The sum which this enabled

Vivian to raise was fully sufficient to satisfy the execution which had

been laid on his castle; and the less clamorous creditors were content

to be paid by instalments, annually, from his income. Thus he was saved

for the present; and he formed the most prudent resolves for the future.

He was most sincerely grateful to his disinterested friend. The full

extent of the sacrifice which Russell made him was not, however, known

at this time, nor for some years afterwards.

But, without anticipation, let us proceed with our story. Amongst those

fashionable and political friends with whom our hero had, since his

return to England, renewed his connexion, was my Lord Glistonbury. His

lordship, far from thinking the worse of him for _his affair_ with Mrs.

Wharton, spoke of it in modish _slang_, as “a new and fine feather in

his cap;” and he congratulated Vivian upon his having “carried off the

prize without paying the price.” Vivian’s success as a parliamentary

orator had still further endeared him to his lordship, who failed not to

repeat, that he had always prophesied Vivian would make a capital figure

in public life; that Vivian was his member, &c. At the recess, Lord

Glistonbury insisted upon carrying Vivian down to spend the holidays

with him at Glistonbury Castle.

“You must come, Vivian: so make your fellow put your worldly goods into

my barouche, which is at the door; and we are to have a great party at

Glistonbury, and private theatricals, and the devil knows what; and

you must see my little Julia act, and I must introduce you to _the

Rosamunda_. Come, come! you can’t refuse me!--Why, you have only a

bachelor’s castle of your own to go to; and that’s a dismal sort of

business, compared with what I have _in petto_ for you--‘the feast of

reason, and the flow of soul,’ in the first style, I assure you.

You must know, I always--even in the midst of the wildest of my wild

oats--had a taste for the belles-lettres, and philosophy, and the muses,

and the _literati,_ and so forth--always a touch of the Mecaenas about

me.--And now my boy’s growing up, it’s more particularly proper to bring

these sort of people about him; for, you know, clever men who have a

reputation can sound a flourish of trumpets advantageously before ‘a

Grecian youth of talents rare’ makes his appearance on the stage of

the great world--Ha! hey!--Is not this what one may call

prudence?--Ha!--Good to have a father who knows something of life, and

of books too, hey? Then, for my daughters, too--daughter, I mean; for

Lady Sarah’s Lady Glistonbury’s child: her ladyship and Miss Strictland

have manufactured her after their own taste and fashion; and I’ve

nothing to say to that--But my little Julia--Ah, I’ve got a different

sort of governess about her these few months past--not without family

battles, you may guess. But when Jupiter gives the nod, you know, even

Juno, stately as she is, must bend. So I have my Rosamunda for my little

Julia--who, by-the-bye, is no longer my _little_ Julia, but a prodigious

fine woman, as you shall see. But, all this time, is your fellow putting

your things up? No!--Hey? how? Oh, I understand your long face of

hesitation--you have not seen the ladies since the Wharton affair, and

you don’t know how they might look.--Never fear! Lady Glistonbury shall

do as I please, and look as I please. Besides, _entre nous_, I know she

hates the Whartons; so that her morality will have a loophole to creep

out of; and you’ll be safe and snug, whilst all the blame will be thrown

on them--Hey!--Oh, I understand things--pique myself on investigating

the human heart. Come, we have not a moment to lose; and you’ll have

your friend Russell, too--Come, come! to have and to hold, as the

lawyers say--”

Seizing Vivian’s arm, Lord Glistonbury carried him off before he had

half understood all his lordship had poured forth so rapidly; and before

he had decided whether he wished or not to accept of this invitation.

CHAPTER VIII.

On his way to Glistonbury Castle, Vivian had full leisure to repent of

having accepted of this invitation, recollecting, as he did, all the

former reports about himself and Lady Sarah Lidhurst. He determined,

therefore, that his visit should be as short as possible; and the chief

pleasure he promised himself was the society of his friend Russell.

On his arrival at the castle, he was told that Mr. Russell was out

riding; and that every body else was in the theatre at a rehearsal,

except Lady Glistonbury, the Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland. He found

these three ladies sitting in form in the great deserted drawing-room,

each looking like a copy of the other, and all as if they were deploring

the degeneracy of the times. Vivian approached with due awe; but, to his

great surprise and relief, at his approach their countenances exhibited

some signs of life. Lord Glistonbury _presented_ him on his return

from abroad: Lady Glistonbury’s features relaxed to a smile, though she

seemed immediately to repent of it, and to feel it incumbent upon her to

maintain her rigidity of mien. Whilst she, and of course Miss Strictland

and the Lady Sarah, were thus embarrassed between the necessity of

reprobating the sin, and the desire of pleasing the sinner, Lord

Glistonbury ran on with one of his speeches, of borrowed sense and

original nonsense, and then would have carried him off to the rehearsal,

but Lady Glistonbury called Vivian back, begging, in her formal manner,

“that her lord would do her the favour to leave Mr. Vivian with her for

a few minutes, as it was so long since she had the pleasure of seeing

him at Glistonbury.” Vivian returned with as good a grace as he could;

and, to find means of breaking the embarrassing silence that ensued,

took up a book which lay upon the table, “Toplady’s Sermons”--no hope

of assistance from that: he had recourse to another--equally unlucky,

“Wesley’s Diary:” another--“The Pilgrim’s Progress.” He went no farther;

but, looking up, he perceived that the Lady Sarah was _motioned_ by her

august mother to leave the room. Vivian had again recourse to “Toplady.”

“Very unfashionable books, Mr. Vivian,” said Miss Strictland, bridling

and smiling as in scorn.

“Very unfashionable books!” repeated Lady Glistonbury, with the

same inflection of voice, and the same bridling and smiling. “Very

different,” continued her ladyship, “very different from what you have

been accustomed to see on _some_ ladies’ tables, no doubt, Mr. Vivian!

Without mentioning names, or alluding to transactions that ought to be

buried in eternal oblivion, and that are so very distressing to your

friends here to think of, sir, give me leave to ask, Mr. Vivian, whether

it be true what I have heard, that the prosecution, and every thing

relative to it, is entirely given up?”

“Entirely, madam.”

“Then,” said Lady Glistonbury, glancing her eye at Miss Strictland,

“_we_ may welcome Mr. Vivian with safe consciences to Glistonbury; and

since the affair will never become public, and since Lady Sarah knows

none of the improper particulars; and since she may, and, from her

education, naturally will, class all such things under the head of

impossibilities and false reports, of which people, in our rank of life

especially, are subject every hour to hear so many; there cannot, as I

am persuaded you will agree with me in thinking, Miss Strictland, be any

impropriety in our and Lady Sarah’s receiving Mr. Vivian again on the

same footing as formerly.”

Miss Strictland bowed her formal assent: Vivian bowed, because he saw

that a bow was expected from him; and then he pondered on what might be

meant by the words, _on the same footing as formerly_; and he had just

framed a clause explanatory and restrictive of the same, when he was

interrupted by the sound of laughter, and of numerous, loud, and mingled

voices, coming along the gallery that led to the drawing-room. As

if these were signals for her departure, and as if she dreaded the

intrusion and contamination of the revel rout, Lady Glistonbury arose,

looked at her watch, pronounced her belief that it was full time for her

to go to dress, and retired through a Venetian door, followed by Miss

Strictland, repeating the same belief, and bearing her ladyship’s

tapestry work: her steps quickened as the door at the opposite end of

the room opened; and, curtsying (an unnecessary apology to Mr. Vivian)

as she passed, she left him _to himself_. And now,

“He sees a train profusely gay,

Come pranckling o’er the place.”

Some were dressed for comic, some for tragic characters; but all seemed

equally gay, and talked equally fast. There had been a dressed rehearsal

of “The Fair Penitent,” and of “The Romp;” and all the spectators and

all the actors were giving and receiving exuberant compliments. Vivian

knew many of the party,--some of them bel-esprits, some fashionable

amateurs; all pretenders to notoriety, either as judges or performers.

In the midst of this motley group, there was one figure who stood

receiving and expecting universal homage: she was dressed as “The Fair

Penitent;” but her affected vivacity of gesture and countenance was in

striking contrast to her tragic attire; and Vivian could hardly forbear

smiling at the _minauderies_ with which she listened and talked to the

gentlemen round her; now languishing, now coquetting; rolling her eyes,

and throwing herself into a succession of studied attitudes, dealing

repartees to this side and to that; and, in short, making the greatest

possible exhibition both of her person and her mind.

“Don’t you know her? Did you never see her before?--No!

you’ve been out of England; but you’ve heard of her,

certainly?--_Rosamunda_,”--whispered Lord Glistonbury to Vivian.

“And who is Rosamunda?” said Vivian; “an actress.”

“Actress!--Hush!--Bless you! no--but the famous poetess. Is it possible

that you hav’n’t read the poems of Rosamunda?--They were in every body’s

hands a few months ago; but you were abroad--better engaged, or as well,

hey? But, as I was going to tell you, that’s the reason she’s called

_The Rosamunda_--I gave her the name, for I patronized her from the

first. Her real name is Bateman; and Lady Glistonbury and her set call

her Miss Bateman still, but nobody else. She’s an amazing clever

woman, I assure you--more genius than any of ‘em since the time of

Rousseau!--Devil of a salary!--and devil of a battle I had to fight with

some of my friends before I could fix her here; but I was determined I

would follow my own ideas in Julia’s education. Lady Glistonbury had

her way and her routine with Lady Sarah; and it’s all very well, vastly

well--

‘Virtue for her too painful an endeavour,

Content to dwell in decencies for ever.’

You know the sort of thing! Yes, yes; but I was not content to have my

Julia lost among the _mediocres_, as I call them: so I took her out of

Miss Strictland’s hands; and the Rosamunda’s her governess.”

“Her governess!” repeated Vivian, with uncontrollable astonishment;

“Lady Julia Lidhurst’s governess!”

“Yes, you may well be surprised,” pursued Lord Glistonbury, mistaking

the cause of the surprise: “no one in England could have done it but

myself; she refused innumerable applications,--immense offers; and,

after all, you know, she does not appear as governess _titrée_--only

as a friend of the family, who directs Lady Julia Lidhurst’s literary

talents. Oh, you understand, a man of the world knows how to manage

these things--sacrifices always to the vanity of the sex, or the

pride, as the case may be, I never mind names, but things, as the

metaphysicians say--distinguish betwixt essentials and accidents--sound

philosophy that, hey? And, thank Heaven! a gentleman or a nobleman need

not apologize in these days for talking of philosophy before ladies,

even if any body overheard us, which, as it happens, I believe nobody

does. So let me, now that _you know your Paris_, introduce you to ‘The

Rosamunda.’--Mr. Vivian--the Rosamunda. Rosamunda--Mr. Vivian.”

After Vivian had for a few minutes acted audience, very little to his

own satisfaction, he was relieved by Lord Glistonbury’s exclaiming, “But

Julia! where’s Julia all this time?”

Rosamunda looked round, with the air of one interrupted by a frivolous

question which requires no answer; but some one less exalted, and more

attentive to the common forms of civility, told his lordship that Lady

Julia was in the gallery with her brother. Lord Glistonbury hurried

Vivian into the gallery. He was struck the moment he met Lady Julia

with the great change and improvement in her appearance. Instead of the

childish girl he had formerly seen flying about, full only of the frolic

of the present moment, he now saw a fine graceful woman with a striking

countenance that indicated both genius and sensibility. She was talking

to her brother with so much eagerness, that she did not see Vivian come

into the gallery; and, as he walked on towards the farther end, where

she was standing, he had time to admire her.

“A fine girl, faith! though she is my daughter,” whispered Lord

Glistonbury; “and would you believe that she is only sixteen?”

“Only sixteen!”

“Ay: and stay till you talk to her--stay till you hear her--you will be

more surprised. Such genius! such eloquence! She’s my own girl. Well,

Julia, my darling!” cried he, raising his voice, “in the clouds, as

usual?”

Lady Julia started--but it was a natural, not a theatric

start--colouring at the consciousness of her own absence of mind. She

came forward with a manner that apologized better than words could do,

and she received Mr. Vivian so courteously, and with such ingenuous

pleasure in her countenance, that he began to rejoice in having accepted

the invitation to Glistonbury; at the same instant, he recollected a

look which his mother had given him when he first saw Lady Julia on the

terrace of the castle.

“Well, what was she saying to you, Lidhurst? hey! my boy?”

“We were arguing, sir.”

“Arguing! Ay, ay, she’s the devil for that!--words at will!--‘Persuasive

words, and more persuasive sighs!’ Ah, woman! woman for ever! always

talking us out of our senses! and which of the best of us would not

wish it to be so? ‘Oh! let me, let me be deceived!’ is the cream of

philosophy, epicurean and stoic--at least, that’s my creed. But to the

point: what was it about that she was holding forth so charmingly--a

book or a lover? A book, I’ll wager: she’s such a romantic little

fool, and so unlike other women: leaves all her admirers there in the

drawing-room, and stays out here, talking over musty books with her

brother. But come, what was the point? I will have it argued again

before me--Let’s see the book.”

Lord Lidhurst pointed out a speech in “The Fair Penitent,” and said that

they had been debating about the manner in which it should be recited.

Lord Glistonbury called upon his daughter to repeat it: she showed

a slight degree of unaffected timidity at first; but when her

father stamped and bid her let him see no vulgar bashfulness, she

obeyed--recited charmingly--and, when urged by a little opposition from

her brother, grew warm in defence of her own opinion--displayed in its

support such sensibility, with such a flow of eloquence, accompanied

with such animated and graceful, yet natural gesture, that Vivian was

transported with sudden admiration. He was astonished at this early

development of feeling and intellect; and if, in the midst of his

delight, he felt some latent disapprobation of this display of talent

from so young a woman, yet he quickly justified her to himself, by

saying that he was not a stranger; that he had formerly been received

by her family on a footing of intimacy. Then he observed farther, in her

vindication, that there was not the slightest affectation or coquetry in

any of her words or motions; that she spoke with this eagerness not to

gain admiration, but because she was carried away by her enthusiasm,

and, thoughtless of herself, was eager only to persuade and to make

her opinions prevail. Such was the enchantment of her eloquence and her

beauty, that after a quarter of an hour spent in her company, our hero

did not know whether to wish that she had more sedateness and reserve,

or to rejoice that she was so animated and natural. Before he could

decide this point, his friend Russell returned from riding. After the

first greetings were over, Russell drew him aside, and asked, “Pray, my

dear Vivian, what brings you here?”

“Lord Glistonbury--to whom I had not time to say no, he talked so fast.

But, after all, why should I say no? I am a free man--a discarded lover.

I am absolutely convinced that Selina Sidney’s refusal will never be

retracted; my mother, I know, is of that opinion. You suggested, that

if I distinguished myself in public life, and showed steadiness, I might

recover her esteem and affection; but I see no chance of it. My mother

showed me her last letter--no hopes from that--so I think it would

be madness, or folly, to waste my time, and wear out my feelings, in

pursuit of a woman, who, however amiable, is lost to me.”

“Of that you are the best judge,” said Russell, gravely. “I am far from

wishing--from urging you to waste your time. Lady Mary Vivian must know

more of Miss Sidney, and be better able to judge of the state of her

heart than I can be. It would not be the part of a friend to excite you

to persevere in a pursuit that would end in disappointment; but

this much, before we quit the subject for ever, I feel it my duty to

say--that I think Miss Sidney the woman of all others the best suited to

your character, the most deserving of your love, the most calculated to

make you exquisitely and permanently happy.”

“All that’s very true,” said Vivian, impatiently; “but, since I can’t

have her, why make me miserable about her?”

“Am I to understand,” resumed Russell, after a long pause, “am I to

understand that, now you have regained your freedom, you come here with

the settled purpose of espousing the Lady Sarah Lidhurst?”

“Heaven forfend!” cried Vivian, starting back.

“Then I am to go over again, on this subject, with indefatigable

patience and in due logical order, all the arguments, moral, prudential,

and conventional, which I had the labour of laying before you about a

twelvemonth ago.”

“Save yourself the trouble, my dear friend!” said Vivian; “I shall set

all that upon a right footing immediately, by speaking of the report

at once to some of the family. I was going to _rise to explain_

this morning, when I was with Lady Glastonbury; but I felt a sort of

delicacy--it was an awkward time--and at that moment somebody came into

the room.”

“Ay,” said Russell, “you are just like the hero of a novel, stopped from

saying what he ought to say by somebody’s coming into the room.--Awkward

time! Take care you don’t sacrifice yourself at last to these

_awkwardnesses_ and this sort of _delicacies_. I have still my fears

that you will get into difficulties about Lady Sarah.”

Vivian could not help laughing at what he called his friend’s absurd

fears.

“If you are determined, my dear Russell, at all events to fear for me,

I’ll suggest to you a more reasonable cause of dread. Suppose I should

fall desperately in love with Lady Julia!--I assure you there’s

some danger of that. She is really very handsome and very graceful;

uncommonly clever and eloquent--as to the rest, you know her--what is

she?”

“All that you have said, and more. She might be made any thing--every

thing; an ornament to her sex--an honour to her country--were she

under the guidance of persons fit to direct great powers and a noble

character; but yet I cannot, Vivian, as your friend, recommend her to

you as a wife.”

“I am not thinking of her as a wife,” said Vivian: “I have not had time

to think of her at all yet. But you said, just now, that in good hands

she might be made every thing that is good and great. Why not by a

husband, instead of a governess? and would not you call mine _good

hands_?”

“Good, but not steady--not at all the husband fit to guide such a woman.

He must be a man not only of superior sense, but of superior strength of

mind.”

Vivian was piqued by this remark, and proceeded to compare the fitness

of his character to _such_ a character as Lady Julia’s. Every moment he

showed more curiosity to hear further particulars of her disposition; of

the different characters of her governesses, and of all her relations;

but Russell refused to say more. He had told him what he was called

upon, as his friend, to reveal; he left the rest to Vivian’s own

observation and judgment. Vivian set himself to work to observe and

judge with all his might.

He soon perceived that all Russell had told him of the mismanagement of

Lady Julia’s education was true. In this house there were two parties,

each in extremes, and each with their systems and practice carried to

the utmost excess. The partisans of the old and the new school were here

to be seen at daggers-drawing. Lady Glastonbury, abhorrent of what

she termed modern philosophy, and classing under that name almost

all science and literature, especially all attempts to cultivate the

understanding of women, had, with the assistance of her _double_, Miss

Strictland, brought up Lady Sarah in all the ignorance and all the

rigidity of the most obsolete of the old school; she had made Lady Sarah

precisely like herself; with virtue, stiff, dogmatical, and repulsive;

with religion, gloomy and puritanical; with manners, cold and automatic.

In the course of eighteen years, whilst Lady Glistonbury went on, like

clock-work, the same round, punctual to the letter but unfeeling of the

spirit of her duties, she contrived, even by the wearisome method of her

_minuted_ diary of education, to make her house odious to her husband.

Some task, or master, or hour of lesson, continually, and immitigably

plagued him: he went abroad for amusement, and found dissipation.

Thus, by her unaccommodating temper, and the obstinacy of her manifold

virtues, she succeeded in alienating the affections of her husband. In

despair he one day exclaimed,

“Ah que de vertus vous me faites haïr;”

and, repelled by virtue in this ungracious form, he flew to more

attractive vice. Finding that he could not have any comfort or solace

in the society of his wife, he sought consolation in the company of a

mistress. Lady Glistonbury had, in the mean time, her consolation

in being a pattern-wife; and in hearing that at card-tables it was

universally said, that Lord Glistonbury was the worst of husbands, and

that her ladyship was extremely to be pitied. In process of time, Lord

Glistonbury was driven to his home again by the united torments of a

virago mistress and the gout. It was at this period that he formed the

notion of being at once a political leader and a Mecaenas; and it was

at this period that he became acquainted with both his daughters, and

determined that his Julia should never resemble the Lady Sarah. He saw

his own genius in Julia; and he resolved, as he said, to give her fair

play, and to make her one of the wonders of the age. After some months’

counteraction and altercation, Lord Glistonbury, with a high hand, took

_his_ daughter from under the control of Miss Strictland; and, in spite

of all the representations, prophecies, and denunciations of her mother,

consigned Julia to the care of a governess after his own heart--a Miss

Bateman; or, as he called her, _The Rosamunda_. From the moment this

lady was introduced into the family there was an irreconcileable breach

between the husband and wife. Lady Glistonbury was perfectly in the

right in her dread of such a governess as Miss Bateman for her daughter.

Her ladyship was only partially and accidentally right: right in point

of fact, but wrong in the general principle; for she objected to Miss

Bateman, as being of the class of literary women; to her real faults,

her inordinate love of admiration, and romantic imprudence, Lady

Glistonbury did not object, because she did not at first know them; and

when she did, she considered them but as necessary consequences of

the _cultivation and enlargement of Miss Bateman’s understanding_. “No

wonder!” her ladyship would say; “I knew it must be so; I knew it could

not be otherwise. All those clever women, as they are called, are the

same. This _comes_ of literature and literary ladies.”

Thus moralizing in private with Miss Strictland and her own small party,

Lady Glistonbury appeared silent and passive before her husband and

his adherents. After prophesying how it all must end in the ruin of her

daughter Julia, she declared that she would never speak on this subject

again: she showed herself ready, with maternal resignation, and in

silent obduracy, to witness the completion of the sacrifice of her

devoted child.

Lord Glistonbury was quite satisfied with having silenced opposition.

His new governess, established in her office, and with full and

unlimited powers, went on triumphant and careless of her charge; she

thought of little but displaying her own talents in company. The castle

was consequently filled with crowds of amateurs; novels and plays were

the order of the day; and a theatre was fitted up, all in open defiance

of poor Lady Glistonbury. The daughter commenced her new course of

education by being taught to laugh at her mother’s prejudices. Such was

the state of affairs when Vivian commenced his observations; and all

this secret history he learnt by scraps, and hints, and inuendoes, from

very particular friends of both parties--friends who were not troubled

with any of Mr. Russell’s scruples or discretion.

Vivian’s attention was now fixed upon Lady Julia; he observed with

satisfaction, that, notwithstanding her governess’s example and

excitement, Lady Julia did not show any exorbitant desire for

general admiration; and that her manners were free from coquetry and

affectation: she seemed rather to disdain the flattery, and to avoid

both the homage and the company of men who were her inferiors in mental

qualifications; she addressed her conversation principally to Vivian and

his friend Russell; with them, indeed, she conversed a great deal,

with much eagerness and enthusiasm, expressing all her opinions without

disguise, and showing on most occasions more imagination than reason,

and more feeling than judgment. Vivian perceived that it was soon

suspected by many of their observers, and especially by Lady Glistonbury

and the Lady Sarah, that Julia had a design upon his heart; but he

plainly discerned that she had no design whatever to captivate him; and

that though she gave him so large a share of her company, it was without

thinking of him as a lover: he saw that she conversed with him and Mr.

Russell, preferably to others, because they spoke on subjects which

interested her more; and because they drew out her brother, of whom

she was very fond. Her being capable, at so early an age, to appreciate

Russell’s character and talents; her preferring his solid sense and his

plain sincerity to the brilliancy, the _fashion_, and even the gallantry

of all the men whom her father had now collected round her, appeared

to Vivian the most unequivocal proof of the superiority of her

understanding and of the goodness of her disposition. On various

occasions, he marked with delight the deference she paid to his friend’s

opinion, and the readiness with which she listened to reason from

him--albeit unused and averse from reason in general. Impatient as

she was of control, and confident, both in her own powers and in her

instinctive moral sense (about which, by-the-bye, she talked a great

deal of eloquent nonsense), yet a word or a look from Mr. Russell would

reclaim her in her highest flights. Soon after Vivian commenced his

observations upon this interesting subject, he saw an instance of what

Russell had told him of the ease with which Lady Julia might be guided

by a man of sense and strength of mind.

The tragedy of “The Fair Penitent,” Calista by Miss Bateman, was

represented with vast applause to a brilliant audience at the

Glistonbury theatre. The same play was to be reacted a week afterwards

to a fresh audience--it was proposed that Vivian should play Lothario,

and that Lady Julia should play Calista: Miss Bateman saw no objection

to this proposal: Lord Glistonbury might, perhaps, have had the parental

prudence to object to his daughter’s appearing in public at her age,

in such a character, before a mixed audience: but, unfortunately, Lady

Glistonbury bursting from her silence at this critical moment, said so

much, and in such a prosing and puritanical manner, not only against her

daughter’s acting in this play, and in these circumstances, but against

all _stage plays_, playwrights, actors, and actresses whatsoever,

denouncing and anathematizing them all indiscriminately; that

immediately Lord Glistonbury laughed--Miss Bateman took fire--and it

became a trial of power between the contending parties. Lady Julia, who

had but lately escaped from the irksomeness of her mother’s injudicious

and minute control, dreaded, above all things, to be again subjected

to her and Miss Strictland; therefore, without considering the real

propriety or impropriety of the point in question, without examining

whether Miss Bateman was right or wrong in the licence she had granted,

Lady Julia supported her opinion warmly; and, with all her eloquence, at

once asserted her own liberty, and defended the cause of the theatre

in general. She had heard Mr. Russell once speak of the utility of

a well-regulated public stage; of the influence of good theatric

representations in forming the taste and rousing the soul to virtue: he

had shown her Marmontel’s celebrated letter to Rousseau on this subject;

consequently, she thought she knew what his opinion must be on

the present occasion: therefore she spoke with more than her usual

confidence and enthusiasm. Her eloquence and her abilities transported

her father and most of her auditors, Vivian among the rest, with

astonishment and admiration: she enjoyed, at this moment, what the

French call _un grand succès_; but, in the midst of the buzz of

applause, Vivian observed that her eye turned anxiously upon Russell,

who stood silent, and with a disapproving countenance.

“I am sure your friend, Mr. Russell, is displeased at this instant--and

with me.--I must know why.--Let us ask him.--Do bring him here.”

Immediately she disengaged herself from all her admirers, and, making

room for Mr. Russell beside her, waited, as she said, to hear from him

_ses vérités_. Russell would have declined speaking, but her ladyship

appealed earnestly and urgently for his opinion, saying, “Who will speak

the truth to me if you will not? On whose judgment can I rely if not

on yours?--You direct my brother’s mind to every thing that is wise and

good; direct mine: I am as desirous to do right as he can be: and you

will find me--self-willed and volatile, as I know you think me--you will

find me a docile pupil. Then tell me frankly--did I, just now, speak too

much or too warmly? I thought I was speaking your sentiments, and that I

_must_ be right. But perhaps it was not right for a woman, or so young

a woman as I am, to support even just opinions so resolutely. And yet

is it a crime to be young?--And is the honour of maintaining truth to

be monopolized by age?--No, surely; for Mr. Russell himself has not that

claim to stand forth, as he so often does, in its defence. If you think

that I ought not to act Calista; if you think that I had better not

appear on the stage at all, only say so!--All I ask is your opinion; the

advantage of your judgment. And you see, Mr. Vivian, how difficult it is

to obtain it!--But his friend, probably, never felt this difficulty!”

With a degree of sober composure, which almost provoked Vivian, Mr.

Russell answered this animated lady. And with a sincerity which,

though politely shown, Vivian thought severe and almost cruel, Russell

acknowledged that her ladyship had anticipated some, but not all of his

objections. He represented that she had failed in becoming respect to

her mother, in thus publicly attacking and opposing her opinions, even

supposing them to be ill-founded; and declared that, as to the case in

discussion, he was entirely of Lady Glistonbury’s opinion, that it would

be unfit and injurious to a young lady to exhibit herself, even on a

private stage, in the character in which it had been proposed that Lady

Julia should appear.

Whilst Russell spoke, Vivian was charmed with the manner in which Lady

Julia listened: he thought her countenance enchantingly beautiful,

alternately softened as it was by the expression of genuine humility,

and radiant with candour and gratitude. She made no reply, but

immediately went to her mother; and, in the most engaging manner

acknowledged that she had been wrong, and declared that she was

convinced it would be improper for her to act the character she had

proposed. With that cold haughtiness of mien, the most repulsive to

a warm and generous mind, the mother turned to her daughter, and said

that, for her part, she had no faith in sudden conversions, and starts

of good conduct made little impression upon her; that, as far as she

was herself concerned, she forgave, as in charity it became her, all

the undutiful insolence with which she had been treated; that, as to

the rest, she was glad to find, for Lady Julia’s own sake, that she had

given up her strange, and, as she must say, _scandalous_ intentions.

“However,” added Lady Glistonbury, “I am not so sanguine as to consider

this as any thing but a respite from ruin; I am not so credulous as to

believe in sudden reformations; nor, despicable as you and my lord do

me the honour to think my understanding--am I to be made the dupe of a

little deceitful fondling!”

Julia withdrew her arms, which she had thrown round her mother; and Miss

Strictland, after breaking her netting silk with a jerk of indignation,

observed, that, for her part, she wondered young ladies should go to

consult their brother’s tutor, instead of more suitable, and, perhaps,

as competent advisers. Lady Julia, now indignant, turned away, and was

withdrawing from before the triumvirate, when Lady Sarah, who had sat

looking, even more stiff and constrained than usual, suddenly broke from

her stony state, and, springing forward, exclaimed, “Stay, Julia!--Stay,

my dear sister!--Oh, Miss Strictland! do my sister justice!--When Julia

is so candid, so eager to do right, intercede for her with my mother!”

“First, may I presume to ask,” said Miss Strictland, drawing herself up

with starch malice; “first, may I presume to ask, whether Mr. Vivian,

upon this occasion, declined to act Lothario?”

“Miss Strictland, you do not do my sister justice!” cried Lady Sarah:

“Miss Strictland, you are wrong--very wrong!”

Miss Strictland, for a moment struck dumb with astonishment, opening

her eyes as far as they could open, stared at Lady Sarah, and, after

a pause, exclaimed, “Lady Sarah! I protest I never saw any thing that

surprised me so much in my whole life!----Wrong!--very wrong!--I?----My

Lady Glistonbury, I trust your ladyship----”

Lady Glistonbury, at this instant, showed, by a little involuntary

shake of her head, that she was inwardly perturbed: Lady Sarah,

throwing herself upon her knees before her mother, exclaimed,

“Oh, madam!--mother! forgive me if I failed in respect to Miss

Strictland!----But, my sister! my sister----!”

“Rise, Sarah, rise!” said Lady Glistonbury; “that is not a fit

attitude!--And you are wrong, very wrong, to fail in respect to Miss

Strictland, my second self, Sarah. Lady Julia Lidhurst, it is you who

are the cause of this--the only failure of duty your sister ever was

guilty of towards me in the whole course of her life--I beg of you to

withdraw, and leave me my daughter Sarah.”

“At least, I have found a sister, and when I most wanted it,” said Lady

Julia. “I always suspected you loved me, but I never knew how much till

this moment,” added she, turning to embrace her sister; but Lady Sarah

had now resumed her stony appearance, and, standing motionless, received

her sister’s embrace without sign of life or feeling.

“Lady Julia Lidhurst,” said Miss Strictland, “you humble yourself in

vain: I think your mother, my Lady Glistonbury, requested of you to

leave your sister, Lady Sarah, to us, and to her duty.”

“Duty!” repeated Lady Julia, her eyes flashing indignation: “Is this

what you call _duty_?--Never will I humble myself before you again--I

_will_ leave you--I do leave you--now and for ever--DUTY!”

She withdrew:--and thus was lost one of the fairest occasions

of confirming a young and candid mind in prudent and excellent

dispositions. After humbling herself in vain before a mother, this poor

young lady was now to withstand a father’s reproaches; and, after the

inexorable Miss Strictland, she was to encounter the exasperated Miss

Bateman. Whether the Gorgon terrors of one governess, or the fury

passions of the other, were most formidable, it was difficult to decide.

Miss Bateman had written an epilogue for Lady Julia to recite in the

character of Calista; and, with the combined irritability of authoress

and governess, she was enraged at the idea of her pupil’s declining to

repeat these favourite lines. Lord Glistonbury cared not for the lines;

but, considering his own authority to be impeached by his daughter’s

resistance, he treated _his Julia_ as a traitor to his cause, and a

rebel to his party.

But Lady Julia was resolute in declining to play Calista; and Vivian

admired the spirit and steadiness of her resistance to the solicitations

and the flattery with which she was assailed by the numerous hangers-on

of the family, and by the amateurs assembled at Glistonbury. Russell,

who knew the warmth of her temper, however, dreaded that she should

pass the bounds of propriety in the contest with her father and her

governess; and he almost repented having given any advice upon the

subject. The contest happily terminated in Lord Glistonbury’s having a

violent fit of the gout, which, as the newspapers informed the public,

“ended for the season the Christmas hospitalities and theatrical

festivities at Glistonbury Castle!”

Whilst his lordship suffered this fit of torture, his daughter Julia

attended him with so much patience and affection, that he forgave

her for not being willing to be Calista; and, upon his recovery, he

announced to Miss Bateman that it was his will and pleasure that his

daughter Julia should do as she liked on this point, but that he desired

it to be understood that this was no concession to Lady Glistonbury’s

prejudices, but an act of his own pure grace.

To celebrate his recovery, his lordship determined to give a ball; and

Miss Bateman persuaded him to make it a _fancy ball_. In this family,

unfortunately, every occurrence, even every proposal of amusement,

became a subject of dispute and a source of misery. Lady Glistonbury,

as soon as her lord announced his intention of giving this fancy ball,

declined taking the direction of an entertainment which approached,

she said, too near to the nature of a masquerade to meet her ideas of

propriety. Lord Glistonbury laughed, and tried the powers of ridicule

and wit:

“But on th’impassive ice the lightnings play’d.”

The lady’s cool obstinacy was fully a match for her lord’s petulance: to

all he could urge, she repeated, “that such entertainments did not meet

her ideas of propriety.” Her ladyship, Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland,

consequently declared it to be their resolution, “to appear in their own

proper characters, and their own proper dresses, and no others.”

These three rigid seceders excepted, all the world at Glistonbury

Castle, and within its sphere of attraction, were occupied with

preparations for this ball. Miss Bateman was quite in her element,

flattered and flattering, consulting and consulted, in the midst

of novels, plays, and poetry, prints, and pictures, searching for

appropriate characters and dresses. This preceptress seemed to think

and to expect that others should deem her office of governess merely a

subordinate part of her business: she considered her having accepted

of the superintendence of the education of Lady Julia Lidhurst as a

prodigious condescension on her part, and a derogation from her rank

and pretensions in the literary and fashionable world; a peculiar and

sentimental favour to Lord Glistonbury, of which his lordship was bound

in honour to show his sense, by treating her as a member of his family,

not only with distinguished politeness, but by _deferring_ to her

opinion in all things, so as to prove to her satisfaction that she was

considered _only_ as a friend, and not at all as a governess. Thus she

was raised as much above that station in the family in which she could

be useful, as governesses in other houses have been sometimes depressed

below their proper rank. Upon this, as upon all occasions, Miss Bateman

was the first person to be thought of--her character and her dress were

the primary points to be determined; and they were points of no

easy decision, she having proposed for herself no less than five

characters--the fair Rosamond, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Sigismunda, and

Circe. After minute consideration of the dresses, which, at a fancy

ball, were to constitute these characters, fair Rosamond was rejected,

“because the old English dress muffled up the person too much; Joan of

Arc would find her armour inconvenient for dancing; Cleopatra’s diadem

and royal purple would certainly be truly becoming, but then her regal

length of train was as inadmissible in a dancing-dress as Joan of

Arc’s armour.” Between Sigismunda and Circe, Miss Bateman’s choice long

vibrated. The Spanish and the Grecian costume had each its claims on her

favour: for she was assured they both became her remarkably. Vivian was

admitted to the consultation: he was informed that there must be both a

Circe and a Sigismunda; and that Lady Julia was to take whichever of

the two characters Miss Bateman declined. Pending the deliberation, Lady

Julia whispered to Vivian, “For mercy’s sake! contrive that I may not be

doomed to be Circe; for Circe is no better than Calista.”

Vivian was charmed with her ladyship’s delicacy and discretion; he

immediately decided her governess, by pointing out the beautiful

head-dress of Flaxman’s Circe, and observing that Miss Bateman’s hair

(which was a wig) might easily be arranged, so as to produce the

same effect. Lady Julia rewarded Vivian for this able and successful

manoeuvre by one of her sweetest smiles. Her smiles had now powerful

influence over his heart. He rebelled against Russell’s advice, to take

more time to consider how far his character was suited to hers: he was

conscious, indeed, that it would be more prudent to wait a little longer

before he should declare his passion, as Lady Julia was so very young

and enthusiastic, and as her education had been so ill managed; but he

argued that the worse her education, and the more imprudent the

people about her, the greater was her merit in conducting herself with

discretion, and in trying to restrain her natural enthusiasm. Russell

acknowledged this, and gave all due praise to Lady Julia; yet still he

represented that Vivian had been acquainted with her so short time that

he could not be a competent judge of her temper and disposition, even

if his judgment were cool; but it was evident that his passions were now

engaged warmly in her favour. All that Russell urged for delay so far

operated, however, upon Vivian, that he adopted a half measure, and

determined to try what chance he might have of pleasing her before he

should either declare his love to her ladyship, or make his proposal to

her father. A favourable opportunity soon occurred. On the day appointed

for the fancy ball, the young Lord Lidhurst, who was to be Tancred, was

taken ill of a feverish complaint: he was of a very weakly constitution,

and his friends were much alarmed by his frequent indispositions. His

physicians ordered quiet; he was confined to his own apartment; and

another Tancred was of course to be sought for: Vivian ventured to offer

to assume the character; and his manner, when he made this proposal

to his fair Sigismunda, though it was intended to be merely polite and

gallant, was so much agitated, that she now, for the first time,

seemed to perceive the state of his heart. Colouring high, her ladyship

answered, with hesitation unusual to her, “that she believed--she

fancied--that is, she understood from her brother--that he had deputed

Mr. Russell to represent Tancred in his place.”

Vivian was not displeased by this answer: the change of colour and

evident embarrassment appeared to him favourable omens; and he thought

that whether the embarrassment arose from unwillingness to let any man

but her brother’s tutor, a man domesticated in the family, appear as her

Tancred, or whether she was afraid of offending Mr. Russell, by changing

the arrangement her brother had made; in either case Vivian felt ready,

though a man in love, to approve of her motives. As to the rest, he was

certain that Russell would decline the part assigned him; and, as Vivian

expected, Russell came in a few minutes to resign his pretensions, or

rather to state that though Lord Lidhurst had proposed it, he had never

thought of accepting the honour; and that he should, in all probability,

not appear at the ball, because he was anxious to stay as much as

possible with Lord Lidhurst, whose indisposition increased instead of

abating. Lord Glistonbury, after this explanation, came in high spirits,

and with much satisfaction in his countenance and manner, said he

was happy to hear that his Sigismunda was to have Mr. Vivian for her

Tancred. So far all was prosperous to our hero’s hopes.

But when he saw Lady Julia again, which was not till dinner time, he

perceived an unfavourable alteration in her manner; not the timidity

or embarrassment of a girl who is uncertain whether she is or is not

pleased, or whether she should or should not appear to be pleased by the

first approaches of a new lover; but there was in her manner a decided

haughtiness, and an unusual air of displeasure and reserve. Though he

sat beside her, and though in general her delightful conversation had

been addressed either to him or Mr. Russell, they were now both deprived

of this honour; whatever she said, and all she said, was unlike herself,

was directed to persons opposite to her, even to the captain, the

lawyer, and the family parasites, whose existence she commonly seemed

to forget. She ate as well as spoke in a hurried manner, and as if in

defiance of her feelings. Whilst the courses were changing, she

turned towards Mr. Vivian, and after a rapid examining glance at his

countenance, she said, in a low voice--“You must think me, Mr. Vivian,

very unreasonable and whimsical, but I have given up all thoughts of

being Sigismunda. Will you oblige me so far as not to appear in

the dress of Tancred to-night? You will thus spare me all farther

difficulty. You know my mother and sister have declared their

determination not to wear any fancy dress; and though my father is

anxious that I should, I believe it may be best that, in this instance,

I follow my own judgment.--May I expect that you will oblige me?”

Vivian declared his entire submission to her ladyship’s judgment: and

he now was delighted to be able to forgive her for all seeming caprice;

because he thought he saw an amiable motive for her conduct--the wish

not to displease her mother, and not to excite the jealousy of her

sister.

The hour when the ball was to commence arrived; the room filled with

company; and Vivian, who flattered himself with the pleasure of dancing

all night with Lady Julia, as the price of his prompt obedience, looked

round the room in search of his expected partner, but he searched

in vain. He looked to the door at every new entrance--no Lady Julia

appeared. Circe, indeed, was every where to be seen and heard, and an

uglier Circe never touched this earth; but she looked happily confident

in the power of her charms. Whilst she was intent upon fascinating

Vivian, he was impatiently waiting for a moment’s intermission of her

volubility, that he might ask what had become of Lady Julia.

“Lady Julia?--She’s somewhere in the room, I suppose.--Oh! no: I

remember, she told me she would go and sit a quarter of an hour with her

brother. She will soon make her appearance, I suppose; but I am so angry

with her for disappointing us all, and you in particular, by changing

her mind about Sigismunda!--Such a capital Tancred as you would have

made! and now you are no character at all! But then, you are only on a

par with certain ladies. Comfort yourself with the great Pope’s (I fear

too true) reflection, that

‘Most women have no characters at all.’”

Miss Bateman’s eye glanced insolently, as she spoke, upon Lady

Glistonbury’s trio, who passed by at this instant, all without fancy

dresses. Vivian shocked by this ill-breeding towards the mistress of the

house, offered his arm immediately to Lady Glistonbury, and conducted

her with Lady Sarah and Miss Strictland to their proper places, where,

having seated themselves, each in the same attitude precisely, they

looked more like martyrs prepared for endurance, than like persons in a

ball-room. Vivian stayed to speak a few words to Lady Glistonbury, and

was just going away, when her ladyship, addressing him with more than

her usual formality, said, “Mr. Vivian, I see, has not adopted the

fashion of the day; and as he is the only gentleman present, whose fancy

dress does not proclaim him engaged to some partner equally _fanciful_,

I cannot but wish that my daughter, Lady Sarah, should, if she dance at

all to-night, dance with a gentleman in his own proper character.”

Vivian, thus called upon, felt compelled to ask the honour of Lady

Sarah’s hand; but he flattered himself, that after the first dance he

should have done his duty, and that he should be at liberty by the time

Julia should make her appearance. But, to his great disappointment,

Mr. Russell, who came in just as he had finished the first two dances,

informed him that Lady Julia was determined not to appear at the ball,

but to stay with her brother, who wished for her company. So poor Vivian

found himself doomed to be Lady Sarah’s partner for the remainder of the

night. It happened that, as he was handing her ladyship to supper, in

passing through an antechamber where some of the neighbours of inferior

rank had been permitted to assemble to see _the show_, he heard one

farmer’s wife say to another, “Who _beas_ that there, that’s handing of

Lady Sarah?”--They were detained a little by the crowd, so that he had

time to hear the whole answer.--“Don’t you know?” was the answer. “That

there gentleman is Mr. Vivian of the new castle, that is to be married

to her directly, and that’s what he’s come here for; for they’ve been

engaged to one another ever since the time o’ the election.”

This speech disturbed our hero’s mind considerably; for it awakened a

train of reflections which he had wilfully left dormant. Will it, can it

be believed, that after all his friend Russell’s exhortations, after

his own wise resolutions, he had never yet made any of those explanatory

speeches he had intended?

“Positively,” said he to himself, “this report shall not prevail

four-and-twenty hours longer. I will propose for Lady Julia

Lidhurst before I sleep. Russell, to be sure, advises me not to be

precipitate--to take more time to study her disposition; but I am

acquainted with her sufficiently;” (he should have said, I am in

love with her sufficiently;) “and really now, I am bound in honour

immediately to declare myself--it is the best possible way of putting a

stop to a report which will be ultimately injurious to Lady Sarah.”