Thus Vivian made his past irresolution an excuse for his present

precipitation, flattering himself, as men often do when they are

yielding to the impulse of their passions, that they are submitting

to the dictates of reason. At six o’clock in the morning the company

dispersed. Lord Glistonbury and Vivian were the last in the ball-room.

His lordship began some raillery upon our hero’s having declined

appearing as Tancred, and upon his having devoted himself all night to

Lady Sarah. Vivian seized the moment to explain his real feelings,

and he made his proposal for Lady Julia. It was received with warm

approbation by the father, who seemed to rejoice the more in this

proposal, because he knew that it would disappoint and mortify Lady

Glistonbury. The interests of his hatred seemed, indeed, to occupy his

lordship more than the interests of Vivian’s love; but politeness threw

a decent veil over these feelings; and, after saying all that could be

expected of the satisfaction it must be to a father to see his daughter

united to a man of Mr. Vivian’s family, fortune, talents, and

great respectability; and after having given, incidentally and

parenthetically, his opinions, not only concerning matrimony, but

concerning all other affairs of human life, he wished his future

son-in-law a very good night, and left him to repose. But no rest could

Vivian take--he waited with impatience, that made every hour appear at

least two, for the time when he was again to meet Lady Julia. He saw her

at breakfast; but he perceived by her countenance that she as yet knew

nothing of his proposal. After breakfast Lord Glistonbury said, “Come

with me, my little Julia! it is a long time since I’ve had a walk and a

talk with you.” His lordship paced up and down the terrace, conversing

earnestly with her for some time: he then went on to some labourers,

who were cutting down a tree at the farther end of the avenue. Vivian

hastened out to meet Lady Julia, who, after standing deep in thought for

some moments, seemed returning towards the castle.

CHAPTER IX.

“Mr. Vivian, I trust that I am not deficient in maidenly modesty,”

said Lady Julia, “when it is not incompatible with what I deem a higher

virtue--sincerity. Now and ever, frankness is, and shall be, my

only policy. The confidence I am about to repose in you, sir, is the

strongest proof of my esteem, and of the gratitude I feel for your

attachment.--My heart is no longer in my power to bestow. It is--young

as I am, I dare to pronounce the words--irrevocably fixed upon one who

will do honour to my choice. Your proposal was made to my father--Why

was it not made to me?--Men--all men but one--treat women as puppets,

and then wonder that they are not rational creatures!--Forgive me this

too just reproach. But, as I was going to say, your proposal has

thrown me into great difficulties--the greater because my father warmly

approves of it. I have a strong affection for him; and, perhaps, a

year or two ago, I should, in the ignorance in which I was dogmatically

brought up, have thought it my duty to submit implicitly to parental

authority, and to receive a husband from the hands of a father, without

consulting either my own heart or my own judgment. But, since my mind

has been more enlightened, and has opened to higher views of the dignity

of my sex, and higher hopes of happiness, my ideas of duty have altered;

and, I trust, I have sufficient courage to support my own idea of the

rights of my sex, and my firm conviction of what is just and becoming.”

Vivian was again going to say something; but, whether against or in

favour of the rights of the sex, he had not clearly decided; when her

ladyship saved him the trouble, by proceeding with the train of her

ideas.

“My sincerity towards my father will, perhaps, cost me dear; but I

cannot repent of it. As soon as I knew the state of my own heart--which

was not till very lately--which was not, indeed, till you gave me reason

to think you seriously liked me--I openly told my father all I knew of

my own heart. Would you believe it?--I am sure I should not, unless

I had seen and felt it--my father, who, you know, professes the most

liberal opinions possible; my father, who, in conversation is ‘All for

love, and the world well lost;’ my father, who let Miss Bateman put the

Heloise into my hands, was astonished, shocked, indignant, at his own

daughter’s confession, I should say, assertion of her preference of a

man of high merit, who wants only the advantages, if they be advantages,

of rank and fortune.

“Mr. Vivian,” continued she, “may I hope that now, when you must be

convinced of the inefficacy of any attempt either to win or to control

my affections, you will have the generosity to spare me all unnecessary

contest with my father? It must render him more averse from the only

union that can make his daughter happy; and it may ruin the fortunes

of--the first, in my opinion, of human beings. I will request another

favour from you--and let my willingness to be obliged by you convince

you that I appreciate your character--I request that you will not only

keep secret all that I have said to you; but that, if accident, or

your own penetration, should hereafter discover to you the object of my

affection, you will refrain from making any use of that discovery to my

disadvantage. You see how entirely I have thrown myself on your honour

and generosity.”

Vivian assured her that the appeal was powerful with him; and that, by

mastering his own passions, and sacrificing his feelings to hers, he

would endeavour to show his strong desire to secure, at all events, her

happiness.

“You are truly generous, Mr. Vivian, to listen to me with indulgence, to

wish for my happiness, whilst I have been wounding your feelings. But,

without any impeachment of your sincerity, or yet of your sensibility,

let me say, that yours will be only a transient disappointment. Your

acquaintance with me is but of yesterday, and the slight impression made

on your mind will soon be effaced; but upon my mind there has been time

to grave a deep, a first charactery of love, that never, whilst memory

holds her seat, can be erased.--I believe,” said Julia, checking

herself, whilst a sudden blush overspread her countenance--“I am

afraid that I have said too much, too much for a woman. The fault of

my character, I know, I have been told, is the want of what is called

RESERVE.”

Blushing still more deeply as she pronounced these last words, the

colour darting up to her temples, spreading over her neck, and making

its way to the very tips of her fingers, “Now I have done worse,” cried

she, covering her face with her hands. But the next moment, resuming,

or trying to resume her self-possession, she said, “It is time that I

should retire, now that I have revealed my whole heart to you. It has,

perhaps, been imprudently opened; but for that, your generosity, sir,

is to blame. Had you shown more selfishness, I should assuredly have

exerted more prudence, and have treated you with less confidence.”

Lady Julia quitted him, and Vivian remained in a species of amaze, from

which he could not immediately recover. Her frankness, her magnanimity,

her enthusiastic sensibility, her eloquent beauty, had altogether

exalted, to the highest ecstasy, his love and admiration. Then he walked

about, beating his breast in despair at the thought of her affections

being irrecoverably engaged,--next quarrelled with the boldness of the

confession, the _assertion_ of her love--then decided, that, with all

her shining qualities and noble dispositions, she was not exactly the

woman a man should desire for a wife: there was something too rash, too

romantic about her; there was in her character, as she herself had

said, and as Russell had remarked, too little _reserve_. Something like

jealousy and distrust of his friend arose in Vivian’s mind: “What!” said

he to himself, “and is Russell my rival? and has he been all this time

in secret my rival? Is it possible that Russell has been practising upon

the affections of this innocent young creature--confided to him too?

All this time, whilst he has been cautioning me against her charms,

beseeching me not to propose for her precipitately, is it possible that

he wanted only to get, to keep the start of me?--No--impossible! utterly

impossible! If all the circumstances, all the evidence upon earth

conspired, I would not believe it.”

Resolved not to do injustice, even in his inmost soul, to his friend,

our hero repelled all suspicion of Russell, by reflecting on his long

and tried integrity, and on the warmth and fidelity of his friendship.

In this temper he was crossing the castle-yard to go to Russell’s

apartment, when he was met and stopped by one of the domesticated

friends of the family, Mr. Mainwaring, the young lawyer: he was in the

confidence of Lord Glistonbury, and, proud to show it, he let Mr.

Vivian know that he was apprised of the proposal that had been made,

and congratulated him, and all the parties concerned, on the prospect of

such an agreeable connexion. Vivian was quite unprepared to speak to any

one, much less to a lawyer, upon this subject; he had not even thought

of the means of obeying Lady Julia, by withdrawing his suit; therefore,

with a mixture of vexation and embarrassment in his manner, he answered

in commonplace phrases, meant to convey no precise meaning, and

endeavoured to disengage himself from his companion; but the lawyer, who

had fastened upon him, linking his arm in Vivian’s, continued to walk

him up and down under the great gateway, saying that he had a word or

two of importance for his private ear. This man had taken much pains

to insinuate himself into Vivian’s favour, by the most obsequious and

officious attentions: though his flattery had at first been disgusting,

yet, by persevering in his show of civility, he had at length inclined

Vivian to think that he was too harsh in his first judgment, and to

believe that, “after all, Mainwaring was a good friendly fellow, though

his manner was against him.”

Mr. Mainwaring, with many professions of regard for Vivian, and with

sundry premisings that he hazarded himself by the communication, took

the liberty of hinting, that he guessed, from Mr. Vivian’s manner this

morning, that obstacles had arisen on the part of a young lady who

should be nameless; and he should make bold to add that, in his private

opinion, the said obstacles would never be removed whilst _a certain

person_ remained in the castle, and whilst the young lady alluded to

was allowed to spend so much of her time studying with her brother when

well, or nursing him when sick. Mr. Mainwaring declared that he was

perfectly astonished at Lord Glistonbury’s blindness or imprudence

in keeping this person in the house, after the hints his lordship had

received, and after all the proofs that must or may have fallen within

his cognizance, of the arts of seduction that had been employed. Here

Vivian interrupted Mr. Mainwaring, to beg that he would not keep him

longer in suspense by _inuendoes_, but that he would name distinctly

the object of his suspicions. This, however, Mr. Mainwaring begged to

be excused from doing: he would only shake his head and smile, and leave

people to their own sagacity and penetration. Vivian warmly answered,

that, if Mr. Mainwaring meant Mr. Russell, he was well assured that Mr.

Mainwaring was utterly mistaken in attributing to him any but the most

honourable conduct.

Mr. Mainwaring smiled, and shook his head--smiled again, and sighed, and

hoped Mr. Vivian was right, and observed that time would show; and that,

at all events, he trusted Mr. Vivian would keep profoundly secret the

hint which his friendship had, indiscreetly perhaps, hazarded.

Scarcely had Mr. Mainwaring retired, when Captain Pickering met and

seized upon Vivian, led to the same subject, and gave similar hints,

that Russell was the happy rival who had secretly made himself master of

Lady Julia’s heart. Vivian, though much astonished, finding that

these gentlemen agreed in their discoveries or their suspicions, still

defended his friend Russell, and strongly protested that he would be

responsible for his honour with his life, if it were necessary. The

captain shrugged his shoulders, said it was none of his business, that,

as Mr. Vivian _took it up so warmly,_ he should let it drop; for it was

by no means his intention to get into a quarrel with Mr. Vivian, for

whom he had a particular regard. This said, with all the frankness of a

soldier, Captain Pickering withdrew, adding, as the clergyman passed at

this instant, “There’s a man who could tell you more than any of us, if

he would, but _snug’s_ the word with Wicksted.”

Vivian, in great anxiety and much curiosity, appealed to Mr. Wicksted:

he protested that he knew nothing, suspected nothing, at least could

venture to say nothing; for these were very delicate family matters, and

every gentleman should, on these occasions, make it a principle to see

with his own eyes. Gradually, however, Mr. Wicksted let out his opinion,

and implied infinitely more than Captain Pickering or Mr. Mainwaring

had asserted. Vivian still maintained, in the warmest terms, that it was

impossible his friend Russell should be to blame. Mr. Wicksted simply

pronounced the word _friend_ with a peculiar emphasis, and, with an

incredulous smile, left him to his reflections. Those reflections were

painful; for, though he defended Russell from the attacks of others,

yet he had not sufficient firmness of mind completely to resist the

suggestions of suspicion and jealousy, particularly when they had been

corroborated by so many concurring testimonies. He had no longer the

courage to go immediately to Russell, to tell him of his proposal for

Lady Julia, or to speak to him of any of his secret feelings; but,

turning away from the staircase that led to his friend’s apartment, he

determined to observe Russell with his own eyes, before he should decide

upon the truth or falsehood of the accusations which had been brought

against him. Alas! Vivian was no longer in a condition to observe with

his own eyes; his imagination was so perturbed, that he could neither

see nor hear any thing as it really was. When he next saw Russell and

Lady Julia together, he wondered at his blindness in not having sooner

perceived their mutual attachment: notwithstanding that Lady Julia had

now the strongest motives to suppress every indication of her passion,

symptoms of it broke out continually, the more violent, perhaps, from

her endeavours to conceal them. He knew that she was passionately in

love with Russell; and that Russell should not have perceived what every

other man, even every indifferent spectator, had discovered, appeared

incredible. Russell’s calm manner and entire self-possession sometimes

provoked Vivian, and sometimes quelled his suspicions; sometimes he

looked upon this calmness as the extreme of art, sometimes as a proof of

innocence, which could not be counterfeit. At one moment he was so much

struck with Russell’s friendly countenance, that, quite ashamed of

his suspicions, he was upon the point of speaking openly to him; but,

unfortunately, these intentions were frustrated by some slight obstacle.

At length Miss Strictland, who had lately been very courteous to Mr.

Vivian, took an opportunity of drawing him into one of the recessed

windows; where, with infinite difficulty in bringing herself to speak

on such a subject, after inconceivable bridlings of the head, and

contortions of every muscle of her neck, she insinuated to him her

fears, that my Lord Glistonbury’s confidence had been very ill placed in

Lord Lidhurst’s tutor: she was aware that Mr. Russell had the honour of

Mr. Vivian’s friendship, but nothing could prevent her from speaking,

where she felt it to be so much her duty; and that, as from the

unfortunate circumstances in the family she had no longer any influence

over Lady Julia Lidhurst, nor any chance of being listened to on such a

subject with patience by Lord Glistonbury, she thought the best course

she could take was to apply to Mr. Russell’s friend, who might possibly,

by his interference, prevent the utter disgrace and ruin of one branch

of a noble family.

Miss Strictland, in all she said, hinted not at Vivian’s attachment to

Lady Julia, and gave him no reason to believe that she was apprised of

his having proposed for her ladyship: she spoke with much moderation and

candour; attributed all Lady Julia’s errors to the imprudence of her

new governess, Miss Bateman. Miss Strictland now showed a desire not to

make, but to prevent mischief; even the circumlocutions and stiffness

of her habitual prudery did not, on this occasion, seem unseasonable;

therefore what she suggested made a great impression on Vivian. He

still, however, defended Russell, and assured Miss Strictland that, from

the long experience he had himself had of his friend’s honour, he was

convinced that no temptation could shake his integrity. Miss Strictland

had formed her opinion on this point, she said, and it would be in vain

to argue against it. Every new assertion; the belief of each new person

who spoke to him on the subject; the combination, the coincidence of all

their opinions, wrought his mind to such a height of jealousy, that he

was now absolutely incapable of using his reason. He went in search of

Russell, but in no fit mood to speak to him as he ought. He looked for

him in his own, in Lord Lidhurst’s apartment, in every sitting-room in

the castle; but Mr. Russell was not to be found: at last Lady Sarah’s

maid, who heard him inquiring for Mr. Russell from the servants, told

him, “she fancied that if he took the trouble to go to the west walk,

he might find Mr. Russell, as that was a favourite walk of his.” Vivian

hurried thither, with a secret expectation of finding Lady Julia with

him--there they both were in earnest conversation: as he approached, the

trees concealed him from view; and Vivian heard his own name repeated.

“Stop!” cried he, advancing: “let me not overhear your secrets--I am not

a traitor to my friends!”

As he spoke, his eyes fixed with an expression of concentrated rage upon

Russell. Terrified by Vivian’s sudden appearance and strange address,

and still more by the fierce look he cast on Russell, Lady Julia started

and uttered a faint scream. With astonishment, but without losing his

self-command, Russell advanced towards Vivian, saying, “You are out of

your senses, my dear friend!--I will not listen to you in your present

humour. Take a turn or two with me to cool yourself. The anger of a

friend should always be allowed three minutes’ grace, at least,” added

Russell, smiling, and endeavouring to draw Vivian away: but Vivian stood

immoveable; Russell’s calmness, instead of bringing him to his senses,

only increased his anger; to his distempered imagination this coolness

seemed perfidious dissimulation.

“You cannot deceive me longer, Mr. Russell, by all your art!” cried he.

“Though I am the last to open my eyes, I have opened them. Why did you

pretend to be my counsellor and friend, when you were my rival?--when

you knew that you were my successful rival?----Yes, start and affect

astonishment! Yes--look, if you can, with _innocent_ surprise upon that

lady!--Say that you have not betrayed her father’s confidence!--say,

that you have not practised upon her unguarded heart!--say, that you do

not know that she loves you to distraction!”

“Oh! Mr. Vivian, what have you done?” cried Lady Julia: she could say

no more, but fell senseless on the ground. Vivian’s anger was at once

sobered by this sight.

“What have I done!” repeated he, as they raised her from the ground.

“Wretch! dishonourable villain that I am! I have betrayed her

secret--But I thought every body knew it!----Is it possible that _you_

did not know it, Russell?”

Russell made no reply, but ran to the river which was near them for

some water--Vivian was incapable of affording any assistance, or even of

forming a distinct idea. As soon as Lady Julia returned to her senses,

Russell withdrew; Vivian threw himself on his knees before her, and

said something about the violence of his passion--his sorrow--and

her forgiveness. “Mr. Vivian,” said Lady Julia, turning to him with a

mixture of despair and dignity in her manner, “do not kneel to me;

do not make use of any commonplace phrases--I cannot, at this moment,

forgive you--you have done me an irreparable injury. I confided a secret

to you--a secret known to no human being but my father and yourself--you

have revealed it, and to whom?--Sooner would I have had it proclaimed to

the whole world than to ----; for what is the opinion of the whole world

to me, compared to his?--Sir, you have done me, indeed, an irremediable

injury!--I trusted to your honour--your discretion--and you have

betrayed, sacrificed me.”

“Vile suspicions!” cried Vivian, striking his forehead: “how could I

listen to them for a moment!”

“Suspicions of Mr. Russell!” cried Julia, with a look of high

indignation--“Suspicions of your noble-minded friend!--What wickedness,

or what weakness!”

“Weakness!--miserable weakness!--the sudden effect of jealousy; and

could you know, Lady Julia, by what means, by what arts, my mind was

worked up to this insanity!”

“I cannot listen to this now, Mr. Vivian,” interrupted Lady Julia: “my

thoughts cannot fix upon such things--I cannot go back to the past--what

is done cannot be undone--what has been said cannot be unsaid.--You

cannot recall your words--they were heard--they were understood. I beg

you to leave me, sir, that I may have leisure to _think_--if possible,

to consider what yet remains for me to do. I have no friend--none, none

willing or capable of advising me! I begged of you to leave me, sir.”

Vivian could not, at this moment, decide whether he ought or ought not

to tell Lady Julia that her secret was known, or at least suspected, by

many individuals of the family.

“There’s a servant on the terrace who seems to be looking for us,” said

Vivian; “I had something of consequence to say--but this man--”

“My lady, Miss Bateman desired me to let you know, my lady, that

there is the Lady Playdels, and the colonel, and Sir James, in the

drawing-room, just come;--and she begs, my lady, you will be pleased to

come to them; for Miss Bateman’s waiting for you, my lady, to repeat the

verses, she bid me say, my lady.”

“Go to them, Mr. Vivian; I cannot go.”

“My lady,” persisted the footman, “my lord himself begged you to come;

and he and all the gentlemen have been looking for you every where.”

“Return to my father, then, and say that I am coming immediately.”

“Forced into company!” thought Lady Julia, as she walked slowly towards

the house; “compelled to appear calm and gay, when my heart is--what

a life of dissimulation! How unworthy of me, formed, as I was once

pronounced to be, for every thing that is good and great!--But I am no

longer mistress of myself--no soul left but for one object. Why did

I not better guard my heart?--No!--rather, why can I not follow its

dictates, and at once avow and justify its choice?”

Vivian interrupted Lady Julia’s reverie by pointing out to her, as they

passed along the terrace, a group of heads, in one of the back windows

of the castle, that seemed to be watching them very earnestly. Miss

Strictland’s face was foremost; half her body was out of the window; and

as she drew back, they heard her say--“It is not he!--It is not he!”--As

they passed another front of the castle, another party seemed to be

upon the watch at a staircase window;--the lawyer, the captain, the

clergyman’s heads appeared for a moment, and vanished.

“They seem all to be upon the watch for us,” said Vivian.

“Meanness!” cried Lady Julia. “To watch or to be watched, I know not

which is most degrading; but I cannot think they are watching us.”

“My dear Lady Julia!--yet let me call you dear this once--my hopes are

gone!--even for your forgiveness I have no right to hope--but let me do

you one piece of service--let me put your open temper on its guard. You

flatter yourself that the secret you confided to me is not known to

any body living but to your father--I have reason to believe that it

is suspected, if not positively known, by several other persons in this

castle.”

“Impossible!”

“I am certain, too certain, of what I say.”

Lady Julia made a sudden stop; and, after a pause, exclaimed--

“Then farewell hope! and, with hope, farewell fear!”

“My lady, my lord sent me again, for my lord’s very impatient for you,

my lady,” said the same footman, returning. Lord Glistonbury met them in

the hall.--“Why, Julia! where have you been all this time?” he began, in

an imperious tone; but seeing Mr. Vivian, his brow grew smooth and his

voice good-humoured instantly.--“Ha!--So! so!--Hey! well!--All right!

all right!--Good girl! good girl!--Time for every thing--Hey! Mr.

Vivian?--‘Que la solitude est charmante!’ as Voltaire says--Beg

pardon for sending for you; but interruption, you know, prevents

_têtes-à-têtes_ on the stage from growing tiresome; and the stage, they

say, holds the mirror up to nature. But there’s no nature now left to

hold the mirror up to, except in a few odd instances, as in my Julia

here!--Where so fast, my blushing darling?”

“I thought you wished, sir, that I should go to Lady Playdel and Sir

James.”

“Ay, ay, I sent for you to repeat those charming verses for them that I

could not clearly remember.--Go up! go up!--We’ll follow you!--We have a

word or two to say about something--that’s nothing to you.”

Lord Glistonbury kept Vivian for a full hour in a state of considerable

embarrassment, talking to him of Lady Julia, implying that she was

favourably disposed towards him, but that she had a little pride, that

might make her affect the contrary at first. Then came a disquisition

on pride, with quotations and commonplaces;--then an eulogium, by his

lordship, on his lordship’s own knowledge of the human heart, and more

especially of that “moving toyshop,” the female heart; then anecdotes

illustrative, comprising the gallantries of thirty years in various

ranks of life, with suitable bon-mots and embellishments;--then a little

French sentiment, by way of moral, with some philosophical axioms,

to show that, though he had led such a gay life, he had been a deep

thinker, and that, though nobody could have thought that he had had time

for reading, his genius had supplied him, he could not himself really

tell how, with what other people with the study of years could not

master:--all which Vivian was compelled to hear, whilst he was the whole

time impatient to get away, that he might search for Mr. Russell, with

whom he was anxious to have an explanation. But, at last, when Lord

Glistonbury set him free, he was not nearer to his object. Mr. Russell,

he found upon inquiry, had not returned to the castle, nor did he return

to dinner; he sent word that he was engaged to dine with a party of

gentlemen at a literary club, in a country town nine miles distant.

Vivian spent the greatest part of the evening in Lord Lidhurst’s

apartment, expecting Russell’s return; but it grew so late, that Lord

Lidhurst, who was still indisposed, went to bed; and when Vivian quitted

his lordship, he met Russell’s servant in the gallery, who said his

master had been come in an hour ago: “but, sir,” added the man, “my

master won’t let you see him, I am sure; for he would not let me in, and

he said, that, if you asked for him, I was to answer, that he could not

see you to-night.”--Vivian knocked in vain at Russell’s door; he could

not gain admission; so he went reluctantly to bed, determined to rise

very early, that he might see his friend as soon as possible, obtain his

forgiveness for the past, and ask his advice for the future.

CHAPTER X.

Suspense, curiosity, love, jealousy, remorse, any one of which is enough

to keep a person awake all night, by turns agitated poor Vivian so

violently, that for several hours he could not close his eyes; but at

last, when quite exhausted, he fell into a profound sleep. The first

image that came before his mind, when he awoke in the morning, was that

of Lady Julia; his next recollection was of Russell.

“Is Mr. Russell up yet?” said Vivian to his servant, who was bringing in

his boots.

“Up, sir! Oh, yes, hours ago!--He was _off_ at daybreak!”

“Off!” cried Vivian, starting up in his bed; “off!--Where is he gone?”

“I can’t say, sir. Yes, indeed, sir, I heard Mr. Russell’s man say, that

his master was going post to the north, to some old uncle that was taken

ill, which he heard about at dinner from some of those gentlemen where

he dined yesterday; but I can’t say positively. But here’s a letter he

left for you with me.”

“A letter!--Give it me!--Why didn’t you give it me sooner?”

“Why really, sir, you lay so sound, I didn’t care to waken you; and I

was up so late myself, too, last night.”

“Leave me now; I’ll ring when I want you.”

“TO C. VIVIAN, ESQ.

“I would not see you, after what passed yesterday, because I feared that

I should not speak to you with temper. Lest you should misinterpret any

thing I have formerly said, I must now solemnly assure you, that I never

had the slightest suspicion of the secret you revealed to me till the

moment when it was betrayed by your indiscretion. Still I can

scarcely credit what appears to me so improbable; but, even under this

uncertainty, I think it my duty to leave this family. Had the slightest

idea of what you suggested ever crossed my imagination, I should then

have acted as I do now. I say this, not to justify myself, but to

convince you, that what I formerly hinted about reserve of manners and

prudence was merely a _general reflection_.

“For my own part, I seem to act HEROICALLY; but I must disclaim that

applause to which I am not entitled. All powerful as the temptation must

appear to you, dangerous as it must have been, in other circumstances,

to me, I cannot claim any merit for resisting its influence. My safety I

owe neither to my own prudence or fortitude. I must now, Vivian, impart

to you a secret which you are at liberty to confide where and when you

think necessary--my heart is, and has long been, engaged. Whilst you

were attached to Miss Sidney, I endeavoured to subdue my love for

her; and every symptom of it was, I hope and believe, suppressed. This

declaration cannot now give you any pain; except so far as it may,

perhaps, excite in your mind some remorse for having unwarrantably,

unworthily, and weakly, suffered yourself to feel suspicions of a true

friend. Well as I know the infirmity of your character, and willing as I

have always been to make allowance for a fault which I thought time and

experience would correct, I was not prepared for this last stroke; I

never thought your weakness of mind would have shown itself in suspicion

of your best, your long-tried friend.--But I am at last convinced that

your mind is not strong enough for confidence and friendship. I pity,

but I see that I can no longer serve; and I feel that I can no longer

esteem you. Farewell! Vivian. May you find a friend, who will supply to

you the place of H. RUSSELL.”

Vivian knew Russell’s character too well to flatter himself that the

latter part of this letter was written in anger that would quickly

subside; from the tone of the letter he felt that Russell was deeply

offended. In the whole course of his life he had depended on Russell’s

friendship as a solid blessing, of which he could never be deprived by

any change of circumstances--by any possible chance in human affairs;

and now to have lost such a friend by his own folly, by his own

weakness, was a misfortune of which he could hardly believe the reality.

At the same moment, too, he learned how nobly Russell had behaved

towards him, in the most trying situation in which the human heart can

be placed. Russell’s love for Selina Sidney, Vivian had never till

this instant suspected. “What force, what command of mind!--What

magnanimity!--What a generous friend he has ever been to me!--and I--”

Poor Vivian, always sinning and always penitent, was so much absorbed by

sorrow for the loss of Russell’s friendship, that he could not for some

time think even of the interests of his love, or consider the advantage

which he might derive from the absence of his rival, and from that

rival’s explicit declaration, that his affections were irrevocably

engaged. By degrees these ideas rose clearly to Vivian’s view; his hopes

revived. Lady Julia would see the absolute impossibility of Russell’s

returning, or of his accepting her affection; her good sense, her pride,

would in time subdue this hopeless passion; and Vivian was generous

enough, or sufficiently in love, to feel that the value of her heart

would not be diminished, but rather increased in his opinion, by the

sensibility she had shown to the talents and virtues of his friend. _His

friend_, Vivian ventured now to call him; for with the hopes of love,

the hopes of friendship rose.

“All may yet be well!” said he to himself. “Russell will forgive me

when he hears how I was worked upon by those parasites and prudish

busybodies, who infused their vile suspicions into my mind. Weak as

it is, I never will allow that it is incapable of confidence or of

friendship!--No! Russell will retract that harsh sentence. When he is

happy, as I am sure I ardently hope he will be, in Selina’s love, he

will restore me to his favour. Without his friendship, I could not be

satisfied with myself, or happy in the full accomplishment of all my

other fondest hopes.”

By the time that hope had thus revived and renovated our hero’s soul;

by the time that his views of things had totally changed, and that the

colour of his future destiny had turned from black to white--from all

gloom to all sunshine; the minute-hand of the clock had moved with

unfeeling regularity, or, in plain unmeasured prose, it was now eleven

o’clock, and three times Vivian had been warned that breakfast was

ready. When he entered the room, the first thing he heard, as usual, was

Miss Bateman’s voice, who was declaiming upon some sentimental point, in

all “the high sublime of deep absurd.” Vivian, little interested in

this display, and joining neither in the open flattery nor in the secret

ridicule with which the gentlemen wits and amateurs listened to the

Rosamunda, looked round for Lady Julia. “She breakfasts in her own

room this morning,” whispered Lord Glistonbury, before Vivian had even

pronounced her ladyship’s name.

“So!” said Mr. Pickering, “we have lost Mr. Russell this morning!”

“Yes,” said Lord Glistonbury, “he was forced to hurry away to the north,

I find, to an old sick uncle.”

“Lord Lidhurst, I’m afraid, will break his heart for want of him,”

cried the lawyer, in a tone that might either pass for earnest or irony,

according to the fancy of the interpreter.

“Lord Lidhurst, did you say?”--cried the captain: “are you sure you

meant Lord Lidhurst? I don’t apprehend that a young nobleman ever broke

his heart after his tutor. But I was going to remark----”

What farther the captain was going to remark can never be known to the

world; for Lord Glistonbury so startled him by the loud and rather angry

tone in which he called for the cream, which _stood_ with the captain,

that all his few ideas were put to flight. Mr. Pickering, who noticed

Lord Glistonbury’s displeasure, now resumed the conversation about Mr.

Russell in a new tone; and the lawyer and he joined in a eulogy

upon that gentleman. Lord Glistonbury said not a word, but looked

embarrassed. Miss Strictland cleared her throat several times, and

looked infinitely more rigid and mysterious than usual. Lady Glistonbury

and Lady Sarah, ditto--ditto. Almost every body, except such visitors

as were strangers at the castle, perceived that there was something

extraordinary going on in the family; and the gloom and constraint

spread so, that, towards the close of breakfast, nothing was uttered, by

prudent people, but awkward sentences about the weather--the wind--and

the likelihood of there being a mail from the continent. Still through

all this, regardless and unknowing of it all, the Rosamunda talked on,

happily abstracted, egotistically secured from the pains of sympathy

or of curiosity by the all-sufficient power of vanity. Even her patron,

Lord Glistonbury, was at last provoked and disgusted. He was heard,

under his breath, to pronounce a contemptuous _Pshaw!_ and, as he rose

from the breakfast table he whispered to Vivian, “There’s a woman, now,

who thinks of nothing living but herself!--All talkèe talkèe!--I begin

to be weary of her.----Gentlemen,” continued his lordship, “I’ve letters

to write this morning.----You’ll ride--you’ll walk--you’re for the

billiard-room, I suppose.----Mr. Vivian, I shall find you in my study, I

hope, an hour hence; but first I have a little business to settle.” With

evident embarrassment Lord Glistonbury retired. Lady Glistonbury,

Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland, each sighed; then, with looks of

intelligence, rose and retired. The company separated soon afterwards;

and went to ride, to walk, or to the billiard-room, and Vivian to the

study, to wait there for Lord Glistonbury, and to meditate upon what

might be the nature of his lordship’s business. As Vivian crossed the

gallery, the door of Lady Glistonbury’s dressing-room opened, and was

shut again instantaneously by Miss Strictland; but not before he saw

Lady Julia kneeling at her father’s feet, whilst Lady Glistonbury and

Lady Sarah were standing like statues, on each side of his lordship.

Vivian waited a full hour afterwards in tedious suspense in the study.

At last he heard doors open and footsteps, and he judged that the family

council had broken up; he laid down a book, of which he had read the

same page over six times, without any one of the words it contained

having conveyed a single idea to his mind. Lord Glistonbury came in,

with papers and parchments in his hands.

“Mr. Vivian, I am afraid you have been waiting for me--have a thousand

pardons to ask--I really could not come any sooner--I wished to speak

to you--Won’t you sit down?--We had better sit down quietly--there’s no

sort of hurry.”

His lordship, however, seemed to be in great agitation-of spirits;

and Vivian was convinced that his mind must be interested in an

extraordinary manner, because he did not, as was his usual practice,

digress to fifty impertinent episodes before he came to the point. He

only blew his nose sundry times; and then at once said, “I wish to speak

to you, Mr. Vivian, about the proposal you did me the honour to make

for my daughter Julia. Difficulties have occurred on our side--very

extraordinary difficulties--Julia, I understand, has hinted to you,

sir, the nature of those difficulties.--Oh, Mr. Vivian,” said Lord

Glistonbury, suddenly quitting the constrained voice in which he spoke,

and giving way to his natural feelings, “you are a man of honour and

feeling, and a father may trust you!----Here’s my girl--a charming

girl she is; but knowing nothing of the world--self-willed, romantic,

open-hearted, imprudent beyond conception; do not listen to any of the

foolish things she says to you. You are a man of sense, you love her,

and you are every way suited to her; it is the first wish of my heart--I

tell you frankly--to see her your wife: then do not let her childish

folly persuade you that her affections are engaged--don’t listen to any

such stuff. We all know what the first loves of a girl of sixteen must

be--But it’s our fault--my fault, my fault, since they will have it so.

I care not whose fault it is; but we have had very improper people about

her--very!--very!--But all may be well yet, if you, sir, will be steady,

and save her--save her from herself. I would farther suggest----”

Lord Glistonbury was going on, probably, to have weakened by

amplification the effect of what he had said, when Lady Julia entered

the room; and, advancing with dignified determination of manner, said,

“I have your commands, father, that I should see Mr. Vivian again:--I

obey.”

“That is right--that is my darling Julia; I always knew she would

justify my high opinion of her.” Lord Glistonbury attempted to draw her

towards him fondly; but, with an unaltered manner, that seemed as if

she suppressed strong emotion, she answered, “I do not deserve your

caresses, father; do not oppress me with praise that I cannot merit: I

wish to speak to Mr. Vivian without control and without witness.”

Lord Glistonbury rose; and growing red and almost inarticulate with

anger, exclaimed, “Remember, Julia! remember, Lady Julia Lidhurst! that

if you say what you said you would say, and what I said you should not

say--I--Lord Glistonbury, your father--I, as well as all the rest of

your family, utterly disclaim and cast you off for ever!--You’ll be a

thing without fortune--without friends--without a name--without a being

in the world--Lady Julia Lidhurst!”

“I am well aware of that,” replied Lady Julia, growing quite pale, yet

without changing the determination of her countenance, or abating any

thing from the dignity of her manner: “I am well aware, that on what

I am about to do depends my having, or my ceasing from this moment to

have, fortune, friends, and a father.”

Lord Glistonbury stood still for a moment--fixed his eyes upon her as if

he would have read her soul; but, without seeking to elude his inquiry,

her countenance seemed to offer itself to his penetration.

“By Heaven, there is no understanding this girl!” cried his lordship.

“Mr. Vivian, I trust her to your honour--to your knowledge of the

world--to your good sense;--in short, sir, to your love and constancy.”

“And I, sir,” said Lady Julia, turning to Vivian, after her father

had left the room, and looking at Vivian so as to stop him short as he

approached, and to disconcert him in the commencement of a passionate

speech; “and I, too, sir, trust to your honour, whilst I deprecate your

love. Imprudent as I was in the first confidence I reposed in you, and

much as I have suffered by your rashness, I now stand determined

to reveal to you another yet more important, yet more humiliating

secret--You owe me no gratitude, sir!--I am compelled, by the

circumstances in which I am placed, either to deceive or to trust you.

I must either become your wife, and deceive you most treacherously; or

I must trust you entirely, and tell you why it would be shameful that I

should become your wife--shameful to me and to you.”

“To me!--Impossible!” cried Vivian, bursting into some passionate

expressions of love and admiration.

“Listen to me, sir; and do not make any of those rash professions, of

which you will soon repent. You think you are speaking to the same

Lady Julia you saw yesterday--No!--you are speaking to a very different

person--a few hours have made a terrible change. You see before you,

sir, one who has been, till this day, the darling and pride of her

father; who has lived in the lap of luxury; who has been flattered,

admired, by almost all who approached her; who had fortune, and rank,

and fair prospects in life, and youth, and spirits, and all the pride of

prosperity; who had, I believe, good dispositions, perhaps some talents,

and, I may say, a generous heart; who might have been,--but that is all

over--no matter what she might have been--she is

‘A tale for ev’ry prating she.’

Fallen!--fallen! fallen under the feet of those who worshipped

her!--fallen below the contempt of the contemptible!--Worse! worse!

fallen in her own opinion--never to rise again.”

Lady Julia’s voice failed, and she was forced to pause. She sunk upon a

seat, and hid her face--for some moments she neither saw nor heard; but

at last, raising her head, she perceived Vivian.

“You are in amazement, sir! and I see you pity me; but let me beg of you

to restrain your feelings--my own are as much as I can bear. O that I

could recall a few hours of my existence! But I have not yet been able

to tell you what has passed. My father, my friends, wish to conceal it

from you: but, whatever I have done, however low I have sunk, I will not

deceive, nor be an accomplice in deceit. From my own lips you shall hear

all. This morning at daybreak, not being able to sleep, and having some

suspicion that Mr. Russell would leave the castle, I rose, and whilst I

was dressing, I heard the trampling of horses in the court. I looked out

of my window, and saw Mr. Russell’s man saddling his master’s horse. I

heard Mr. Russell, a moment afterwards, order the servant to take the

horses to the great gate on the north road, and wait for him there,

as he intended to walk through the park. I thought these were the last

words I should ever hear him speak.--Love took possession of me--I stole

softly down the little staircase that leads from my turret to one of

the back doors, and got out of the castle, as I thought, unobserved: I

hurried on, and waited in the great oak wood, through which I knew Mr.

Russell would pass. When I saw him coming nearer and nearer to me, I

would have given the world to have been in my own room again--I hid

myself among the trees--yet, when he walked on in reverie without

noticing me, taking me probably for one of the servants, I could not

bear to think that this was the last moment I should ever see him, and I

exclaimed--I know not what; but I know that at the sound of my voice

Mr. Russell started, and never can I forget the look--Spare me the

rest!--No!--I will not spare myself--I offered my heart, my hand,--and

they were rejected!--In my madness I told him I regarded neither

wealth, nor rank, nor friends, nor--That I would rather live with him

in obscurity than be the greatest princess upon earth--I said this

and more--and I was rejected--And even at this moment, instead of the

vindictive passions which are said to fill the soul of a woman scorned,

I feel admiration for your noble friend: I have not done him justice;

I cannot repeat his words, or describe his manner. He persuaded, by his

eloquence compelled, me to return to this castle. He took from me all

hope; he destroyed by one word all my illusions--he told me that he

loves another. He has left me to despair, to disgrace; and yet I love,

esteem, and admire him, above all human beings! Admire one who despises

me!--Is it possible? I know not, but it is so--I have more to tell you,

sir!--As I returned to the castle, I was watched by Miss Strictland. How

she knew all that had passed, I cannot divine; perhaps it was by means

of some spy who followed me, and whom I did not perceive: for I neither

saw nor heard any thing but my passion. Miss Strictland communicated

her discovery immediately to my father. I have been these last two hours

before a family tribunal. My mother, with a coldness a thousand times

worse than my poor father’s rage, says, that I have only accomplished

her prophecies; that she always knew and told my father that I should be

a disgrace to my family. But no reproaches are equal to my own; I stand

self-condemned. I feel like one awakened from a dream. A few words!--a

single look from Mr. Russell!--how they have altered all my views,

all my thoughts! Two hours’ reflection--Two hours, did I say?--whole

years--a whole existence--have passed to me in the last two hours: I

am a different creature. But it is too late--too late!--Self-esteem is

gone!--happiness is over for me in this world.”

“Happiness over for you!” exclaimed Vivian in a tone expressive of the

deep interest he felt for her; “Self-esteem gone!--No! Lady Julia;

do not blame yourself so severely for what has passed! Blame the

circumstances in which you have been placed; above all, blame me--blame

my folly--my madness; your secret never would have been known, if I had

not--”

“I thank you,” interrupted Lady Julia, rising from her seat; “but no

consolation can be of any avail. It neither consoles nor justifies me

that others have been to blame.”

“Permit me, at least,” pursued Vivian, “to speak of my own sentiments

for one moment. Permit me to say, Lady Julia, that the confidence with

which you have just honoured me, instead of diminishing my attachment,

has so raised my admiration for your candour and magnanimity, that no

obstacles shall vanquish my constancy. I will wait respectfully, and,

if I can, patiently, till time shall have effaced from your mind these

painful impressions; I shall neither ask nor accept of the interference

or influence of your father, nor of any of your friends; I shall rely

solely on the operation of your own excellent understanding, and shall

hope for my reward from your noble heart.”

“You do not think it possible,” said Lady Julia, looking at Vivian with

dignified determination, “you do not think it possible, after all that

has passed, after all that I have told you, that I could so far degrade

myself or you, as to entertain any thoughts of becoming your wife?

Farewell! Mr. Vivian.----You will not see me again. I shall obtain

permission to retire, and live with a relation in a distant part of the

country; where I shall no more be seen or heard of. My fortune will, I

hope, be of use to my sister.----My poor father!--I pity him; he loves

me: he loses his daughter for ever; worse than loses her! My mother,

too--I pity her! for, though she does not love me, she will suffer for

me; she will suffer more than my father, by the disgrace that would be

brought upon my family, if ever the secret should be publicly known. My

brother!--Oh, my beloved brother! he knows nothing yet of all this!--But

why do I grieve you with my agony of mind? Forget that Lady Julia

Lidhurst ever existed!--I wish you that happiness which I can never

enjoy--I wish you may deserve and win a heart capable of feeling real

love!--Adieu!”

CHAPTER XI.

Convinced that all farther pursuit of Lady Julia Lidhurst would be

vain, that it could tend only to increase her difficulties and his

mortification, Vivian saw that the best thing he could possibly do was

to leave Glistonbury. Thus he should relieve the whole family from the

embarrassment of his presence; and, by immediate change of scene and

of occupation, he had the best chance of recovering from his own

disappointment. If Lady Julia was to quit the castle, he could have

no inducement to stay; if her ladyship remained, his continuing in her

society would be still more dangerous to his happiness. Besides, he felt

offended with Lord Glistonbury, who evidently had wished to conceal from

him the truth; and, without considering what was just or honourable, had

endeavoured to secure, at all events, an establishment for his daughter,

and a connexion for his family. To the weight of these reasons must be

added a desire to see Mr. Russell, and to effect a reconciliation with

him. The accumulated force of all these motives had power to overcome

Vivian’s habitual indecision: his servant was surprised by an order to

have every thing ready for his journey to town immediately. Whilst his

man prepared to obey, or at least to meditate upon the cause of this

unusually decided order, our hero went in quest of Lord Glistonbury,

to pay his compliments to his lordship previous to his departure. His

lordship was in his daughter Julia’s dressing-room, and could not be

seen; but presently he came to Vivian in great hurry and distress of

mind.

“A sad stroke upon us, Mr. Vivian!--a sad stroke upon us all--but most

upon me; for she was the child of my expectations--I hear she has

told you every thing--you, also, have been very ill-used--Never was

astonishment equal to mine when I heard Miss Strictland’s story. I need

not caution you, Mr. Vivian, as to secrecy; you are a man of honour, and

you see the peace of our whole family is at stake. The girl is going

to a relation of ours in Devonshire.--Sha’n’t stay here--sha’n’t stay

here--Disgrace to my family--She who was my pride--and, after all, says

she will never marry.--Very well!--very well!--I shall never see her

again, that I am determined upon.--I told her, that if she did not

behave with common sense and propriety, in her last interview with you,

I would give her up--and so I will, and so I do.--The whole is Lady

Glistonbury’s fault--she never managed her rightly when she was a child.

Oh! I should put you on your guard in one particular--Miss Bateman knows

nothing of what has happened--I wish Miss Strictland knew as little--I

hate her. What business had she to play the spy upon my daughter? She

does well to be a prude, for she is as ugly as sin. But we are in her

power. She is to go to-morrow with Julia to Devonshire. It will make a

quarrel between me and Miss Bateman--no matter for that; for now, the

sooner we get rid of that Rosamunda, too, the better--she talks me dead,

and will let no one talk but herself. And, between you and me, all

this could not have happened, if she had looked after her charge

properly.--Not but what I think Miss Strictland was still less fit to

guide a girl of Julia’s genius and disposition. All was done wrong at

first, and I always said so to Lady Glistonbury. But, if the secret can

be kept--and _that_ depends on you, my dear friend--after six months’ or

a twelve-month’s _rustication_ with our poor parson in the country, you

will see how tamed and docile the girl will come back to us. This is my

scheme; but nobody shall know my whole mind but you--I shall tell her

I will never see her again; and that will pacify Lady Glistonbury, and

frighten Julia into submission. She says she’ll never marry.--Stuff!

Stuff!--You don’t believe her!--What man who has seen any thing of the

world ever believes such stuff?”

Vivian’s servant came into the room to ask his master some question

about horses.

“Going!--where? Going!--when? Going!--how?” cried Lord Glistonbury, as

soon as the servant withdrew. “Surely, you are not going to leave us,

Mr. Vivian?”

Vivian explained his reasons--Lord Glistonbury would not allow them any

weight, entreated and insisted that he should stay at least a few days

longer; for his going “just at this moment would seem quite like a

break up in the family, and would be the most unfriendly and cruel thing

imaginable.” Why Lord Glistonbury so earnestly pressed his stay, perhaps

even his lordship himself did not exactly know; for, with all the air of

being a person of infinite address and depth of design, his lordship was

in reality childishly inconsistent; what the French call _inconséquent_.

On any subject, great or small, where he once took it into his head, or,

as he called it, _made it a point_, that a thing should be so or so, he

was as peremptory, or, where he could not be peremptory, as anxious,

as if it were a matter of life and death. In his views there was no

perspective, no keeping--all objects appeared of equal magnitude; and

even now, when it might be conceived that his whole mind was intent upon

a great family misfortune, he, in the course of a few minutes, became

as eager about a mere trifle as if he had nothing else in the world to

think of. From the earnestness with which Lord Glistonbury urged him to

stay a few days, at least one day longer, Vivian was induced to believe

that it must be a matter of real consequence to his lordship--“And, in

his present state of distress, I cannot refuse such a request,” thought

Vivian. He yielded, therefore, to these solicitations, and consented to

stay a few days longer; though he knew the prolonging his visit would

be, in every respect, disagreeable.

At dinner Lord Glistonbury announced to the company that the physician

had advised change of air immediately for Lord Lidhurst; and that,

in consequence, his son would set out early the next morning for

Devonshire--that his daughter Julia wished to go with her brother, and

that Miss Strictland would accompany them. Lord Glistonbury apologized

for his daughter’s absence, “preparations for her journey so suddenly

decided upon,” &c. Lady Glistonbury and Lady Sarah looked terribly

grim whilst all this was saying; but the gravity and stiffness of their

demeanour did not appear any thing extraordinary to the greater part of

the company, who had no idea of what was going forward. The lawyer, the

captain, and the chaplain, however, interchanged significant looks; and

many times, during the course of the evening, they made attempts to draw

out Vivian’s thoughts, but they found him impenetrable. There was an

underplot of a quarrel between Miss Strictland and Miss Bateman,

to which Vivian paid little attention; nor was he affected, in the

slightest degree, by the Rosamunda’s declaration to Lord Glistonbury,

that she must leave his family, since she found that Miss Strictland had

a larger share than herself of his lordship’s confidence, and was, for

what reason she could not divine, to have the honour of accompanying

Lady Julia into Devonshire. Vivian perceived these quarrels, and heard

the frivolous conversation of the company at Glistonbury Castle without

interest, and with a sort of astonishment at the small motives by which

others were agitated, whilst his whole soul was engrossed by love and

pity for Lady Julia. In vain he hoped for another opportunity of seeing

and speaking to her. She never appeared. The next morning he rose at

daybreak that he might have the chance of seeing her: he begged Miss

Strictland to entreat her ladyship would allow him to say a few words

before she set out; but Miss Strictland replied, that she was assured

the request would be vain; and he thought he perceived that Miss

Strictland, though she affected to lament Lady Julia’s blindness to her

own interests and contumacy, in opposing her father’s wishes, was,

in reality, glad that she persisted in her own determination. Lord

Lidhurst, on account of the weak state of his health, was kept in

ignorance of every thing that could agitate him; and, when Vivian took

leave of him, the poor young man left many messages of kindness and

gratitude for Mr. Russell.

“I am sorry that he was obliged to leave me; for, ill or well, there is

no human being, I will not except any one but my sister Julia, whom I

should so much wish to have with me. Tell him so; and tell him--be

sure you remember my very words, for perhaps I shall never see him

again--tell him, that, living or dying, I shall feel grateful to him. He

has given me tastes and principles very different from those I had when

he came into this house. Even in sickness, I feel almost every hour

the advantage of my present love for literature. If I should live and

recover, I hope I shall do him some credit; and I trust my family

will join in my gratitude. Julia, my dear sister! why do you weep so

bitterly?--If I had seen you come into the room, I would not have spoken

of my health.”

Lord Glistonbury came up to tell them that Miss Strictland was ready.

“Mr. Vivian,” cried his lordship, “will you hand Julia into the

carriage?--Julia, Mr. Vivian is offering you his services.”

Vivian, as he attended Lady Julia, had so much respect for her feelings,

that, though he had been waiting with extreme impatience for an

opportunity _to say a few words_, yet now he would not speak, but handed

her along the gallery, down the staircase, and across the great hall, in

profound silence. She seemed sensible of this forbearance; and, turning

to him at a moment when they could not be overheard, said, “It was not

from unkindness, Mr. Vivian, I refused to see you again, but to convince

you that my mind is determined--if you have any thing to say, I am ready

to hear it.”

“Is there nothing to be hoped from time?” said Vivian. “Your father, I

know, has hopes that----All I ask is, that you will not make any rash

resolutions.”

“I make none; but I tell _you_, for your own sake, not to cherish any

vain hope. My father does not know my mind sufficiently, therefore he

may deceive you; but I will not.----I thought, after the manner in which

I spoke to you yesterday, you would have had too much strength of mind

to have rendered this repetition of my sentiments necessary.----Attach

yourself elsewhere as soon as you can.--I sincerely wish your happiness.

Miss Strictland is waiting.--Farewell!”

She hurried forward to the carriage; and, when she was gone, Vivian

repented that he had seen her again, as it had only given them both

additional and fruitless pain.

What passed during some succeeding days at Glistonbury Castle he

scarcely knew; no trace remained in his mind of anything but the

confused noise of people, who had been talking, laughing, and diverting

themselves in a manner that seemed to him incomprehensible. He exerted

himself, however, so far as to write to Russell, to implore his

forgiveness, and to solicit a return of his friendship, which, in his

present state of unhappiness, was more necessary to him than ever. When

he had finished and despatched this letter, he sunk again into a sort of

reckless state, without hope or determination, as to his future life.

He could not decide whether he should go to his mother immediately on

leaving Glistonbury, or to Mr. Russell, or (which he knew was the best

course he could pursue) attend his duty in parliament, and, by plunging

at once into public business, change the course of his thoughts, and

force his mind to resume its energy. After altering his determination

twenty times, after giving at least a dozen contradictory orders about

his journey, his servant at last had his ultimatum, _for London_--the

carriage to be at the door at ten o’clock the next morning. Every thing

was ready at the appointed hour. Breakfast over, Vivian waited only to

pay his compliments to Lady Glistonbury, who had breakfasted in her own

apartment. Lady Sarah, with a manner as formal as usual, rose from the

breakfast-table, and said she would let her mother know that Mr.

Vivian was going. Vivian waited half an hour--an hour--two hours. Lady

Glistonbury did not appear, nor did Lady Sarah return. The company had

dispersed after the first half-hour. Lord Glistonbury began to believe

that the ladies did not mean to make their appearance. At length a

message came from Lady Glistonbury.--“Lady Glistonbury’s compliments to

Mr. Vivian--her ladyship was concerned that it was out of her power to

have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Vivian, as she was too much indisposed

to leave her room.--She and Lady Sarah wished him a very good journey.”

Vivian went up to his room for his gloves, which he missed at the moment

when he was going. Whilst he was opening the empty drawers one after

another, in search of his gloves, and, at the same time, calling

his servant to find them, he heard a loud scream from an adjoining

apartment. He listened again--all was silent; and he supposed that what

he had heard was not a scream: but, at that moment, Lady Sarah’s maid

flung open his door, and, running in with out-stretched arms, threw

herself at Vivian’s feet. Her sobs and tears prevented his understanding

one syllable she said. At last she articulated intelligibly, “Oh,

sir!--don’t be so cruel to go--my lady!--my poor lady! If you go, it

will kill Lady Sarah!”

“Kill Lady Sarah?--Why I saw her in perfect health this morning at

breakfast!”

“Dear, dear sir! you know nothing of the matter!” said the maid, rising,

and shutting the door: “you don’t know what a way she has been in ever

since the talk of your going--fits upon fits every night, and my lady,

her mother, and I up holding her--and none in the house knowing it but

ourselves. Very well at breakfast! Lord help us! sir. How little you

know of what she has suffered! Lord have mercy upon me! I would not be

a lady to be so much in love, and left so, for any thing in the whole

world. And my Lady Sarah keeps every thing so to herself;--if it was not

for these fits they would never have knowed she cared no more for you

than a stone.”

“And, probably you are quite mistaken,” said Vivian; “and that I have

nothing to do with the young lady’s illness. If she has fits, I am

very sorry for it; but I can’t possibly----Certainly, you are quite

mistaken!”

“Lord, sir!--mistaken! As if I could be mistaken, when I know my lady as

well as I know myself! Why, sir, I know from the time of the election,

when you was given to her by all the country--and to be sure when we

all thought it would be a match directly--and the Lord knows what put

it off!--I say, from that time, her heart was set upon you. Though she

never said a word to me, or any one, I knew how it was, through all her

coldness--And to be sure, when you was in Lon’on so much with us, all

the town said, as all the country did afore, that to be sure it was to

be a match--But then that sad affair, with that artfullest of women,

that took you off from all that was good, and away, the Lord knows

where, to foreign parts!--Well! to be sure, I never shall forget the day

you come back again to us!--and the night of the ball!--and you dancing

with my lady, and all so happy; then, to be sure, all were sarten it was

to be immediately----And now to go and break my poor lady’s heart at the

last--Oh, sir, sir! if you could but see her, it would touch a heart of

marble!”

Vivian’s astonishment and dismay were so great, that he suffered

the girl, who was an unpractised creature, to go on speaking without

interruption: the warmth of affection with which she spoke of her lady,

also, surprised him: for, till this instant, he had no idea that any one

could love Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and the accounts she gave of the lady’s

sufferings not only touched his compassion, but worked upon his vanity.

“This cold, proud young lady that never loved none before, to think,”

as her maid said, “that she should come to such a pass, as to be in fits

about him. And it was her belief that Lady Sarah never would recover it,

if he went away out of the castle this day.”

The ringing of a bell had repeatedly been heard, whilst Lady Sarah’s

maid was speaking; it now rang violently, and her name was called

vehemently from the adjoining apartment. “I must go, I _must_ go!--Oh,

sir! one day, for mercy’s sake! stay one day longer!”

Vivian, though he had been moved by this girl’s representations,

was determined to effect his retreat whilst it was yet in his power;

therefore he ran down stairs, and had gained the hall, where he was

shaking hands with Lord Glistonbury, when my Lady Glistonbury’s own

woman came in a great hurry to say, that her lady, finding herself a

little better now, and able to see Mr. Vivian, begged he would be so

good as to walk up to her dressing-room.

Vivian, with a heavy heart and slow steps, obeyed; there was no

refusing, no evading such a request. He summoned all his resolution, at

the same time saying to himself, as he followed his conductor along the

gallery, “It is impossible that I can ever be drawn in to marry Lady

Sarah.--This is a concerted plan, and I shall not be so weak as to be

the dupe of so gross an artifice.”

Lady Glistonbury’s maid showed him into her lady’s dressing-room and

retired. Lady Glistonbury was seated, and, without speaking, pointed to

a chair which was set opposite to her. “So! a preparation for a scene,”

thought Vivian. He bowed, but, still keeping his hat in his hand, did

not sit down:--he was extremely happy to hear, that her ladyship found

herself something better--much honoured by her permitting him to pay

his respects, and to offer his grateful acknowledgments to her ladyship

before his departure from Glistonbury.

Her ladyship, still without speaking, pointed to the chair. Vivian

sat down, and looked as if he had “screwed his courage to the sticking

place.” Lady Glistonbury had sometimes a little nervous trembling of

her head, which was the only symptom of internal agitation that was ever

observable in her; it was now increased to a degree which Vivian had

never before seen.

“Are you in haste, sir, to be gone?” said Lady Glistonbury.

“Not if her ladyship had any commands for him; but otherwise, he had

intended, if possible, to reach town that night.”

“I shall not delay you many minutes, Mr. Vivian,” said her ladyship.

“You need not be under apprehension that Lady Glistonbury should seek to

detain you longer than your own inclinations induce you to stay; it is,

therefore, unnecessary to insult her with any appearance of haste or

impatience.”

Vivian instantly laid down his hat, and protested that he was not in

the slightest degree impatient: he should be very ungrateful, as well as

very ill-bred, if, after the most hospitable manner in which he had been

received and entertained at Glistonbury Castle, he could be in haste to

quit it. He was entirely at her ladyship’s orders.

Lady Glistonbury bowed formally--was again silent--the trembling of her

head very great--the rest of her form motionless.

“I have sent for you, Mr. Vivian,” said she, “that I might, before you

leave this castle, set you right on a subject which much concerns me.

From the representations of a foolish country girl, a maid-servant of my

daughter, Lady Sarah Lidhurst, which I have just discovered she has made

to you, I had reason to fear that you might leave Glistonbury with very

false notions----”

A cry was heard at this moment from the inner apartment, which made

Vivian start; but Lady Glistonbury, without noticing it, went on

speaking.

“With notions very injurious to my daughter Sarah; who, if I know any

thing of her, would rather, if it were so ordained, go out of this

world, than condescend to any thing unbecoming her sex, her education,

and her family.”

Vivian, struck with respect and compassion for the mother, who spoke to

him in this manner, was now convinced that there had been no concerted

plan to work upon his mind, that the maid had spoken without the

knowledge of her lady; and the more proudly solicitous Lady Glistonbury

showed herself to remove what she called the false impression from his

mind, the more he was persuaded that the girl had spoken the truth. He

was much embarrassed between his good-nature and his dread of becoming a

sacrifice to his humanity.

He replied in general terms to Lady Glistonbury, that he had the highest

respect for Lady Sarah Lidhurst, and that no opinion injurious to her

could be entertained by him.

“Respect she must command from all,” said Lady Glistonbury; “_that_ it

is out of any man’s power to refuse her: as to the rest, she leaves you,

and I leave you, sir, to your own conscience.”

Lady Glistonbury rose, and so did Vivian. He hoped that neither her

ladyship nor Lady Sarah had any cause----He hesitated; the words, _to

reproach, to complain, to be displeased_, all came to his lips; but each

seemed improper; and, none other being at hand to convey his meaning,

he could not finish his sentence: so he began another upon a new

construction, with “I should be much concerned if, in addition to all my

other causes of regret in leaving Glistonbury Castle, I felt that I had

incurred Lady Glistonbury’s or Lady Sarah’s displea--disapprobation.”

“As to that, sir,” said Lady Glistonbury, “I cannot but have my own

opinion of your conduct; and you can scarcely expect, I apprehend, that

a mother, such as I am, should not feel some disapprobation of conduct,

which has----Sir, I beg I may not detain you--I have the honour to wish

you a good journey and much happiness.”

An attendant came from an inner apartment with a message! from Lady

Sarah, who was worse, and wished to see her mother--“Immediately!--tell

her, immediately!”

The servant returned with the answer. Vivian was retiring, but he

came back, for he saw at that moment a convulsive motion contract Lady

Glistonbury’s face: she made an effort to walk; but if Vivian had

not supported her instantly, she must have fallen. She endeavoured to

disengage herself from his assistance, and again attempted to walk.

“For God’s sake, lean upon me, madam!” said Vivian, much alarmed. With

his assistance, she reached the door of the inner room: summoning all

the returning powers of life, she then withdrew her arm from his, and

pointing back to the door at which Vivian entered, she said, “That is

your way, sir.”

“Pardon me--I cannot go--I cannot leave you at this moment,” said

Vivian.

“This is my daughter’s apartment, sir,” said Lady Glistonbury, stopping,

and standing still and fixed. Some of the attendants within, hearing her

ladyship’s voice, opened the door; Lady Glistonbury made an effort

to prevent it, but in vain: the chamber was darkened, but as the door

opened, the wind from an open window blew back the curtain, and some

light fell upon a canopy bed, where Lady Sarah lay motionless, her eyes

closed, and pale as death; one attendant chafing her temples, another

rubbing her feet: she looked up just after the door opened, and, raising

her head, she saw Vivian--a gleam of joy illumined her countenance, and

coloured her cheek.

“Sir,” repeated Lady Glistonbury, “this is my daughter’s----”

She could articulate no more. She fell across the threshold, struck with

palsy. Her daughter sprang from the bed, and, with Vivian’s assistance,

raised and carried Lady Glistonbury to an arm-chair near the open

window, drew back the curtain, begged Vivian to go to her father, and

instantly to despatch a messenger for medical assistance. Vivian sent

his own servant, who had his horse ready at the door, and he bid the man

go as fast as he could.

“Then you don’t leave Glistonbury to-day, sir?” said the servant.

“Do as I order you--Where’s Lord Glistonbury?”

His lordship, with the newspapers and letters open in his hand,

came up--but they dropped on hearing the intelligence that Vivian

communicated. His lordship was naturally humane and good-natured; and

the shock was greater, perhaps, to him, from the sort of enmity in which

he lived with Lady Glistonbury.

“I dread to go up stairs,” said he. “For God’s sake, Vivian, don’t

leave me in this distress!--do order your carriage away!----Put up Mr.

Vivian’s carriage.”

Lady Sarah’s maid came to tell them that Lady Glistonbury had recovered

her speech, and that she had asked, “if Mr. Vivian was gone?”

“Do come up with me,” cried Lord Glistonbury, “and she will see you are

not gone.”

“Here’s my lord and Mr. Vivian, my lady,” said the girl.

Then, turning to Lady Glistonbury’s woman, she added, in a loud whisper,

“Mr. Vivian won’t go to-day.”

Lady Sarah gave her maid some commission, which took her out of the

room. Lady Sarah, no longer the formal, cold, slow personage whom

Vivian detested, now seemed to him, and not only seemed but was, quite

a different being, inspired with energy, and quickness, and presence

of mind: she forgot herself, and her illness, and her prudery, and

her love, and every other consideration, in the sense of her mother’s

danger. Lady Glistonbury had but imperfectly recovered her recollection.

At one moment she smiled on Vivian, and tried to stretch out her hand to

him, as she saw him standing beside Lady Sarah. But when he approached

Lady Glistonbury, and spoke to her, she seemed to have some painful

recollection, and, looking round the room, expressed surprise and

uneasiness at his being there. Vivian retired; and Lord Glistonbury, who

was crying like a child, followed, saying, “Take me out with

you--Dr. G---- ought to be here before now--I’ll send for another

physician!--Very shocking--very shocking--at Lady Glistonbury’s time of

life, too--for she is not an old woman by any means. Lady Glistonbury

is eighteen months younger than I am!--Nobody knows how soon it may be

their turn!--It’s very shocking!--If I had known she was ill, I would

have had advice for her sooner. She is very patient--too patient--a

great deal too patient. She never will complain--never tells what she

feels, body or mind--at least never tells _me_; but that may be my fault

in some measure. Should be very sorry Lady Glistonbury went out of the

world with things as they are now between us. Hope to God she will get

over this attack!--Hey! Mr. Vivian?”

Vivian said whatever he could to fortify this hope, and was glad to see

Lord Glistonbury show feelings of this sort. The physician arrived, and

confirmed these hopes by his favourable prognostics. In the course

of the day and night her face, which had been contracted, resumed

its natural appearance; she recovered the use of her arm: a certain

difficulty of articulation, and thickness of speech, with what the

physician called hallucination of mind, and a general feebleness of

body, were all the apparent consequences of this stroke. She was not

herself sensible of the nature of the attack, or clear in her ideas of

any thing that had passed immediately previous to it. She had only an

imperfect recollection of her daughter’s illness, and of some hurry

about Mr. Vivian’s going away. She was, however, well enough to go into

her dressing-room, where Vivian went to pay his respects to her, with

Lord Glistonbury. By unremitting exertions, and unusual cheerfulness,

Lady Sarah succeeded in quieting her mother’s confused apprehensions on

her account. When out of Lady Glistonbury’s hearing, all the attendants

and the physicians repeatedly expressed fear that Lady Sarah would

over-fatigue and injure herself by this extraordinary energy; but her

powers of body and mind seemed to rise with the necessity for exertion;

and, on this great occasion, she suddenly discovered a warmth and

strength of character, of which few had ever before discerned even the

slightest symptoms.

“Who would have expected this from Sarah?” whispered Lord Glistonbury to

Vivian. “Why, her sister did not do more for me when I was ill! I always

knew she loved her mother, but I thought it was in a quiet, commonplace

way--Who knows but she loves me too?--or might--” She came into the

room at this moment--“Sarah, my dear,” said his lordship, “where are my

letters and yesterday’s papers, which I never read?--I’ll see if there

be any thing in them that can interest your mother.”

Lord Glistonbury opened the papers, and the first article of public news

was, “a dissolution of parliament confidently expected to take place

immediately.” This must put an end to Vivian’s scheme of going to town

to attend his duty in parliament. “But, may be, it is only newspaper

information.” It was confirmed by all Lord Glistonbury and Vivian’s

private letters. A letter from his mother, which Vivian now for the

first moment had time to peruse, mentioned the dissolution of parliament

as certain; she named her authority, which could not be doubted; and, in

consequence, she had sent down supplies of wine for an election; and she

said that she would “be immediately at Castle Vivian, to keep open house

and open heart for her son. Though not furnished,” she observed, “the

castle would suit the better all the purposes of an election; and

she should not feel any inconvenience, for her own part, let the

accommodations be what they might.”

Lord Glistonbury directly proposed and insisted upon Lady Mary

Vivian’s making Glistonbury her head-quarters. Vivian objected: Lady

Glistonbury’s illness was an ostensible and, he hoped, would be a

sufficient excuse for declining the invitation. But Lord Glistonbury

persisted: “Lady Glistonbury, he was sure, would wish it--nothing would

be more agreeable to her.” His lordship’s looks appealed to Lady Sarah,

but Lady Sarah was silent; and, when her father positively required her

opinion, by adding, “Hey! Sarah?” she rather discouraged than pressed

the invitation. She said, that though she was persuaded her mother

would, if she were well, be happy to have the pleasure of seeing Lady

Mary Vivian; yet she could not, in her mother’s present situation,

venture to decide how far her health might be able to stand any election

bustle.

Lady Sarah said this with a very calm voice, but blushed extremely as

she spoke; and, for the first time, Vivian thought her not absolutely

plain; and, for the first time, he thought even the formality and

deliberate coolness of her manner were not disagreeable. He liked her

more, at this moment, than he had ever imagined it possible he could

like Lady Sarah Lidhurst; but he liked her chiefly because she did not

press him into her service, but rather forwarded his earnest wish to get

away from Glistonbury.

Lord Glistonbury appealed to the physician, and asked whether company

and amusement were not “the best things possible for his patient?

Lady Glistonbury should not be left alone, surely! Her mind should be

interested and amused; and an election would be a fortunate circumstance

just at present!”

The physician qualified the assent which his lordship’s peremptory tone

seemed to demand, by saying, “that certainly moderate amusement, and

whatever interested without agitating her ladyship, would be salutary.”

His lordship then declared that he would leave it to Lady Glistonbury

herself to decide: quitting the end of the room where they were holding

their consultation, he approached her ladyship to explain the matter.

But Lady Sarah stopped him, beseeching so earnestly that no appeal might

be made to her mother, that Vivian was quite moved; and he settled the

business at once to general satisfaction, by declaring that, though

neither he nor Lady Mary Vivian could think of intruding as inmates

at present, yet that they should, as soon as Lady Glistonbury’s health

would permit, be as much at Glistonbury Castle as possible; and that the

short distance from his house would make it, he hoped, not inconvenient

to his lordship for all election business. Lord Glistonbury acceded, and

Lady Sarah appeared gratefully satisfied. His lordship, who always took

the task of explanation upon himself, now read the paragraph about the

dissolution aloud to Lady Glistonbury; informed her, that Lady Mary

Vivian was coming immediately to the country; and that they should hope

to see Lady Mary and Mr. Vivian almost every day, though he could

not prevail upon them to take up their abode during the election

at Glistonbury. Lady Glistonbury listened, and tried, and seemed to

understand--bowed to Mr. Vivian and smiled, and said she remembered he

was often at Glistonbury during the last election--that she was happy

to hear she should have the pleasure to see Lady Mary Vivian--that some

people disliked _election times_, but for her part she did not, when she

was strong. Indeed, the last election she recollected with particular

pleasure--she was happy that Lord Glistonbury’s interest was of

service to Mr. Vivian. Then “she hoped his canvass _to-day_ had been

successful?”--and asked some questions that showed her mind had become

confused, and that she was confounding the past with the present. Lady

Sarah and Mr. Vivian said a few words to set her right--she looked

first at one, and then at the other, listening, and then said--“I

understand--God bless you both.” Vivian took up his hat, and looked out

of the window, to see if his carriage was at the door.

“Mr. Vivian wishes you a good morning, madam,” said Lady Sarah: “he is

going to Castle Vivian, to get things ready for Lady Mary’s arrival.”

“I wish you health and happiness, sir,” said Lady Glistonbury,

attempting to rise, whilst some painful reminiscence altered her

countenance.

“Pray do not stir, don’t disturb yourself, Lady Glistonbury. I shall pay

my respects to your ladyship again as soon as possible.”

“And pray bring me good news of the election, and how the poll stands

to-morrow, Mr. Vivian,” added her ladyship, as he left the room.

CHAPTER XII.

Vivian, who had felt oppressed and almost enslaved by his compassion,

breathed more freely when he at last found himself in his carriage,

driving away from Glistonbury. His own castle, and the preparations for

his mother’s arrival, and for the expected canvass, occupied him so much

for the ensuing days, that he had scarcely time to think of Lady Julia

or of Lady Sarah, of Russell or Selina: he could neither reflect on the

past, nor anticipate the future; the present, the vulgar present,

full of upholsterers, and paper-hangers, and butlers, and grooms, and

tenants, and freeholders, and parasites, pressed upon his attention with

importunate claims. The dissolution of parliament took place. Lady

Mary Vivian arrived almost as soon as the newspaper that brought this

intelligence: with her came a new set of thoughts, all centering in

the notion of her son’s consequence in the world, and of his

happiness--ideas which were too firmly associated in her mind ever to be

separated. She said that she had regretted his having made such a long

stay in the country during the last session, because he had missed

opportunities of distinguishing himself farther in parliament. The

preceding session her ladyship had received gratifying compliments on

her son’s talents, and on the figure he had _already_ made in public

life; she felt her self-love as well as her affection interested in

his continuing his political career with spirit and success. “As to the

present election,” she observed, “there could be little doubt that he

would be re-elected with the assistance of the Glistonbury interest;

and,” added her ladyship, smiling significantly, “I fancy your interest

is pretty strong in that quarter. The world has given you by turns to

Lady Julia and Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and I am asked continually which of

the Lady Lidhursts you are in love with. One of these ladies certainly

must be my daughter-in-law; pray, if you know, empower me to say which.”

Lady Mary Vivian spoke but half in earnest, till the extraordinary

commotion her words created in her son, convinced her that the report

had not, now at least, been mistaken.

“Next to Miss Selina Sidney,” continued Lady Mary, “who, after her

positive and long persisted-in refusal, is quite out of the question, I

have, my dear son, always wished to see you married to one of the

Lady Lidhursts; and, of course, Lady Julia’s talents, and beauty, and

youth----”

Vivian interrupted and hastily told his mother that Lady Julia Lidhurst

was as much out of the question as Miss Sidney could be; for that he had

offered himself, and had been refused; and that he had every reason to

believe that the determination of his second mistress against him would

be at least as absolute and unconquerable as that of his first. His

mother was in amazement. That her son could be refused by Lady Julia

Lidhurst appeared a moral and political impossibility, especially when

the desire for a connexion between the families had been so obvious on

the side of the Glistonburys. What could be the meaning of this? Lady

Julia was perhaps under an error, and fancied he was some way engaged to

Miss Sidney; “or, perhaps,” said Lady Mary, who had a ready wit for

the invention of delicate distresses, “perhaps there is some difficulty

about the eldest sister, Lady Sarah; for you know the first winter you

were given to her.--Ay, that must be the case. I will go to Glistonbury

to-morrow, and I will have Lady Julia to myself for five minutes: I

think I have some penetration, and I will know the truth.”

Lady Mary was again surprised, by hearing from her son that Lady

Julia was not at Glistonbury--that she was gone with her brother into

Devonshire. So there was a dead silence for some minutes, succeeded by

an exclamation from Lady Mary, “There is some grand secret here--I

must know it!” Her ladyship forthwith commenced a close and able

cross-examination, which Vivian stopped at last by declaring that he

was not at liberty to speak upon the subject: he knew, he said, that his

mother was of too honourable and generous a temper to press him farther.

His mother was perfectly honourable, but at the same time extremely

curious; and though she continually repeated, “I will not ask you

another question--I would not upon any account lead you to say a

syllable that could betray any confidence reposed in you, my dear son;”

yet she indulged herself in a variety of ingenious conjectures: “I know

it is so;” or, “I am sure that I have guessed now, but I don’t ask

you to tell me.--You do right to deny it.”--Amongst the variety of her

conjectures, Lady Mary did not find out the truth; she was prepossessed

by the idea that Russell was attached to Selina Sidney--a secret which

her own penetration had discovered whilst her son was abroad with

Mrs. Wharton, and which she thought no mortal living knew but herself.

Pre-occupied with this notion, Russell was now omitted in all her

combinations. His having quitted Glistonbury did not create any

suspicion of the real cause of his sudden departure, because there was

a sufficient reason for his going to the north to see his sick relation;

and Lady Mary was too good a philosopher to assign two causes for the

same event, when she had found one that was adequate to the production

of the effect. She therefore quietly settled it in her imagination, that

Lady Julia Lidhurst was going to be married immediately to a certain

young nobleman, who had been lately at Glistonbury whilst they were

acting plays. The next day she went with Vivian to Glistonbury Castle;

for, waiving all the ceremonials of visiting, she was anxious to see

poor Lady Glistonbury, of whose illness she had been apprised, in

general terms, by her son. An impulse of curiosity, mixed perhaps with

motives of regard for her good friend Lady Glistonbury, hastened this

visit. They found Lady Glistonbury much better; she looked nearly as

well as she had done before this stroke; and she had now recovered her

memory, and the full use of her understanding. Vivian observed, that

she and Lady Sarah were both convinced, by Lady Mary Vivian’s curiosity,

that he had given no hint of any thing which they did not wish to be

known: and the pleasurable consciousness of his integrity disposed him

to be pleased with them. Lord Glistonbury, on his side, was convinced

that Vivian had behaved honourably with respect to his daughter Julia;

so all parties were well satisfied with each other. His lordship

answered Lady Mary Vivian’s inquiries after his son and his daughter

Julia by saying, that Miss Strictland had just returned to Glistonbury

with rather more favourable accounts of Lord Lidhurst’s health, and that

Julia and he were now at his brother the Bishop of ----‘s. Between this

brother and my Lord Glistonbury there had never been any great intimacy,

their characters and their politics being very different. The moment

Lady Mary Vivian heard Lord Glistonbury pronounce, with such unusual

cordiality, the words, “my brother the bishop,” she recollected that the

bishop had a very amiable, accomplished, and remarkably handsome son;

so she arranged directly in her imagination that this was the person to

whom Lady Julia was engaged. Being now thoroughly convinced that

this last conjecture was just, she thought no more about Lady Julia’s

affairs; but turned her attention to Lady Sarah, whose cold and guarded

manners, however, resisted her utmost penetration. Disappointed in all

her attempts to lead to sentiment or love, the conversation at last ran

wholly upon the approaching election, upon the canvass, and the strength

of the various interests of the county; on all which subjects Lady Sarah

showed surprisingly exact information. Presently Lord Glistonbury took

Vivian with him to his study to examine some poll-book, and then

put into his hands a letter from Lady Julia Lidhurst, which had been

enclosed in one to himself.

“I told you that I intended to _rusticate_ Julia,” said his lordship,

“with a poor parson and his wife--relations, distant relations of

ours in Devonshire; but this plan has been defeated by my foolish good

brother the bishop. On their journey they passed close by his palace;

I charged Miss Strictland to be incog.; but they stayed to rest in the

town, for Lidhurst was fatigued; and some of the bishop’s people found

them out, and the bishop sent for them, and at last came himself. He was

so sorry for Lidhurst’s illness, and, as Miss Strictland says, so much

charmed with Julia, whom he had not seen since she was a child, that he

absolutely took possession of them; and Julia has made her party good

with him, for he writes me word he cannot part with her; that I must

allow her to remain with him; and that they will take all possible care

of Lyndhurst’s health. I believe I must yield this point to the bishop;

for altogether it looks better that Julia should be at the palace than

at the parsonage; and, though my poor brother has not the knowledge of

the world one could wish, or that is necessary to bring this romantic

girl back to reason, yet--But I keep you from reading your letter, and

I see you are impatient--Hey?--very natural!--but, I am afraid, all in

vain--I’ll leave you in peace. At any rate,” added Lord Glistonbury,

“you know I have always stood your firm friend in this business; and you

know I’m discreet.”

Vivian never felt so grateful for any instance of his lordship’s

friendship and discretion as for that which he gave at this moment, by

quitting the room, and leaving him in peace to read his letter.

CHAPTER XIII.

“Before you open this letter, you will have heard, probably, that my

uncle, the Bishop of ----, has taken me under his protection. I cannot

sufficiently regret that I was not a few years, a few months, sooner,

blessed with such a Mentor. I never, till now, knew how much power

kindness has to touch the mind in the moment of distress; nor did I

ever, till now, feel how deeply the eloquence of true piety sinks into

the heart. This excellent friend will, I hope, in time restore me to my

better self. From the abstraction, the selfishness of passion, I think

I am already somewhat recovered. After being wholly absorbed by one

sentiment, I begin to feel again the influence of other motives, and to

waken to the returning sense of social duty. Among the first objects to

which, in recovering from this trance, or this fever of the soul, I have

power to turn my attention, your happiness, sir, next to that of my

own nearest relations, I find interests me most. After giving you this

assurance, I trust you will believe that, to insure the felicity, or

even to restore the health and preserve the life of any relation

or friend I have upon earth, I should not think myself justified in

attempting to influence your mind to any thing which I did not sincerely

and firmly believe would be for your permanent advantage as well as for

theirs. Under the solemn faith of this declaration, I hope that you will

listen to me with patience and confidence. From all that I have myself

seen, and from all that I have heard of your character, I am convinced

that your wife should be a woman of a disposition precisely opposite, in

many respects, to mine. Your character is liable to vary, according to

the situations in which you are placed; and is subject to sudden but

transient impressions from external circumstances. You have hitherto had

a friend who has regulated the fluctuations of your passions; now that

he is separated from you, how much will you feel the loss of his cool

and steady judgment! Should you not, therefore, in that bosom friend, a

wife, look for a certain firmness and stability of character, capable

of resisting, rather than disposed to yield, to sudden impulse; a

character, not of enthusiasm, but of duty; a mind, which, instead of

increasing, by example and sympathy, any defects of your own--pardon the

expression--should correct or compensate these by opposite qualities?

And supposing that, with such sobriety and strength of character as I

have described, there should be connected a certain slowness, formality,

and coldness of manner, which might not at first be attractive to a man

of your vivacity, let not this repel you: when once you have learned

to consider this manner as the concomitant and indication of qualities

essential to your happiness, it would, I am persuaded, become agreeable

to you; especially as, on nearer observation, you would soon discover

that, beneath that external coldness, under all that snow and ice, there

is an accumulated and concentrated warmth of affection.

“Of this, sir, you must lately have seen an example in my own family.

At the moment when my poor mother was struck with palsy, you saw my

sister’s energy; and her character, probably, then appeared to you in a

new point of view. From this burst of latent affection for a parent, you

may form some idea what the power of the passion of love would be in her

soul; some idea, I say; for I am persuaded that none but those who

know her as well as I do can form an adequate notion of the strength of

attachment of which she is capable.

“You will be surprised, perhaps, sir, to hear me reason so coolly for

others on a subject where I have acted so rashly for myself; and you

may feel no inclination to listen to the advice of one who has shown so

little prudence in her own affairs: therefore, having stated my reasons,

and suggested my conclusions, I leave you to apply them as you think

proper; and I shall only add, that the accomplishment of my wishes, on

this subject, would give me peculiar satisfaction. It would relieve my

mind from part of a weight of self-reproach. I have made both my parents

unhappy. I have reason to fear that the shock my mother received, by my

means, contributed much to her late illness. An event that would

restore my whole family to happiness must, therefore, be to me the most

desirable upon earth. I should feel immediate relief and delight, even

in the hope of contributing to it by any influence I can have over your

mind. And, independently of the pleasure and pride I should feel

in securing my sister’s happiness and yours, I should enjoy true

satisfaction, sir, in that intimate friendship with you, which only the

ties of such near relationship could permit or justify. You will accept

of this assurance, instead of the trite and insulting, because unmeaning

or unsafe, offer of friendship, which ladies sometimes make to those who

have been their lovers.

“JULIA LIDHURST.

“---- Palace:”

At the first reading of this letter, Vivian felt nothing but a renewal

of regret for having lost all chance of obtaining the affections of the

person by whom it was written: on a second perusal, he was moved by the

earnest expression of her wishes for his happiness; and the desire to

gratify her, on a point on which she was so anxious, influenced him much

more than any of her arguments. Whatever good sense the letter contained

was lost upon him; but all the sentiment operated with full force, yet

not with sufficient power to conquer the repugnance he still felt to

Lady Sarah’s person and manners. Lord Glistonbury made no inquiries

concerning the contents of his daughter Julia’s letter; but, as far

as politeness would permit, he examined Vivian’s countenance when he

returned to the drawing-room. Lady Glistonbury’s manner was as calm as

usual; but the slight shake of her head was a sufficient indication

of her internal feelings. Lady Sarah looked pale, but so perfectly

composed, that Vivian was convinced she, at least, knew nothing of

her sister’s letter. So great indeed was the outward composure, and so

immoveable was Lady Sarah, that it provoked Lady Mary past endurance;

and as they drove home in the evening, she exclaimed, “I never saw

such a young woman as Lady Sarah Lidhurst! She is a stick, a stone, a

statue--she has completely satisfied my mind on one point. I own that

when I found Lady Julia was out of the question, I did begin to think

and wish that Lady Sarah might be my daughter-in-law, because she

has really been so carefully brought up, and the connexion with the

Glistonbury family is so desirable: then I had a notion, before I saw

her this morning, that the girl liked you, and might be really capable

of attachment; but now, indeed, I am convinced of the folly of that

notion. She has no feeling--none upon earth--scarcely common sense!

She thinks of nothing but how she holds her elbows. The formality and

importance with which she went on cutting off ends of worsted from that

frightful tapestry work, whilst I talked of you, quite put me out of all

manner of patience. She has no feeling--none upon earth!”

“Oh, ma’am,” said Vivian, “you do her injustice: she certainly has

feeling--for her mother.”

“Ay, for her mother, may be! a kind of mechanical affection!”

“But, ma’am, if you had seen her at the time that her mother was struck

with palsy!”

Much to his own surprise, Vivian found himself engaged in a defence, and

almost in an eulogium upon Lady Sarah; but the injustice of his mother’s

attack, on this point, was, he knew, so great, that he could not join in

Lady Mary’s invective.

“Why, my dear Charles!” said she, “do you recollect, on this very road,

as we were returning from Glistonbury Castle, this time two years, you

called Lady Sarah a petrifaction?”

“Yes, ma’am; because I did not know her then.”

“Well, my dear, I must have time to analyze her more carefully, and

I suppose I shall discover, as you have done, that she is not a

petrifaction. So, then, Lady Sarah really is to be the woman after all.

I am content, but I absolutely cannot pretend to like her--I like the

connexion, however; and the rest is your affair.--You haven’t proposed

yet?”

“Bless me! no, ma’am! God forbid! How fast your imagination goes, my

dear mother!--Is there no difference between saying, that a woman is not

a petrifaction, and being in love with her?”

“In love! I never said a word about being in love--I know that’s

impossible--I asked only if you had proposed for her?”

“Dear ma’am, no!”

Lady Mary expressed her satisfaction; and, perhaps, the injustice with

which she continued, for some days, to asperse Lady Sarah Lidhurst, as

being unfeeling, served her more, in Vivian’s opinion, than any other

mode in which she could have spoken of her ladyship. Still he felt glad

that he had not _yet proposed_. He had not courage either to recede or

advance; circumstances went on, and carried him along with them, without

bringing him to any decision. The business of the election proceeded;

every day Lord Glistonbury was with him, or he was at Glistonbury

Castle; every hour he saw more plainly the expectations that were

formed: sometimes he felt that he was inevitably doomed to fulfil these,

and at other times he cherished the hope that Lady Julia would soon

return home, and that, by some fortunate revolution, she might yet be

his. He had not now the advantage of Russell’s firmness to support

him in this emergency. Russell’s answer to his letter was so coolly

determined, and he so absolutely declined interfering farther in his

affairs, that Vivian saw no hopes of regaining his friendship, or of

benefiting by his counsels. Thus was Vivian in all the helplessness

and all the horrors of indecision, when an event took place, which

materially changed the face of affairs in the Glistonbury family. Just

at the time when the accounts of his health were the most favourable,

and when his friends were deceived by the most sanguine hopes of his

recovery, Lord Lidhurst died. His mother was the only person in

the family who was prepared for this catastrophe: they dreaded to

communicate the intelligence to her, lest it should bring on another

attack of her dreadful malady; but to their astonishment, she heard it

with calm resignation,--said she had long foreseen this calamity, and

that she submitted to the will of Heaven. After pity for the parents who

lost this amiable and promising young man, heir to this large fortune

and to this splendid title, people began to consider what change would

be made in the condition of the rest of the family. The Lady Lidhursts,

from _being very small fortunes_, became heiresses to a large

estate. The earldom of Glistonbury was to devolve to a nephew of Lord

Glistonbury, in case the Lady Lidhursts should not marry, or should not

have heirs male; but, in case they should marry, the title was to go

to the first son. All these circumstances were of course soon known and

talked of in the neighbourhood; and many congratulated Vivian upon the

great accession of fortune, and upon the high expectations of the lady

to whom they supposed him engaged.

On the first visit which Vivian and his mother paid after the death of

Lord Lidhurst at Glistonbury Castle, they found there a young man very

handsome, but of a dark, reserved countenance, whose physiognomy and

manner immediately prepossessed them against him; on his part, he seemed

to eye them with suspicion, and to be particularly uneasy whenever

Vivian either mentioned the election or approached Lady Sarah. This

young man was Mr. Lidhurst, Lord Glistonbury’s nephew and heir-at-law.

It was obvious, almost at first sight, that the uncle disliked the

nephew; but it was not so easy to perceive that the nephew despised the

uncle. Mr. Lidhurst, though young, was an excellent politician; and his

feelings were always regulated by his interests. He had more abilities

than Lord Glistonbury, less vanity, but infinitely more ambition. In

Lord Glistonbury, ambition was rather affected, as an air suited to

his rank, and proper to increase his consequence: Mr. Lidhurst’s was an

earnest, inordinate ambition, yet it was cold, silent, and calculating;

his pride preyed upon him inwardly, but it never hurried him into saying

or doing an extravagant thing. Those who were not actuated solely

by ambition, he always looked upon as fools, and those who were, he

considered, in general, as knaves: the one he marked as dupes, the other

as rivals. He had been at the Bishop of ----‘s, during Lord Lidhurst’s

illness, and at the time of his death. Ever since Lady Julia’s arrival

at the bishop’s, he had foreseen the probability of this event, and had,

in consequence of the long-sightedness of his views, endeavoured to make

himself agreeable to her. He found this impossible; but was, however,

easily consoled by hearing that she had resolved never to marry; he only

hoped that she would keep her resolution; and he was now at Glistonbury

Castle, in the determination to propose for his other cousin, Lady

Sarah, who would, perhaps, equally well secure to him his objects.

“Well! my dear Vivian,” said Lord Glistonbury, drawing him aside, “how

d’ye relish my nephew, Marmaduke Lidhurst? Need not be afraid to speak

the truth, for I tell you at once that he is no particular favourite

here; not _en bonne odeur_; but that’s only between you and me. He

thinks that I don’t know that he considers me as a shallow fellow,

because I haven’t my head crammed with a parcel of statistical tables,

all the fiscal and financiering stuff which he has at his calculating

fingers’ ends; but I trust that I am almost as good a politician as he

is, and I’m free to believe, have rather more knowledge of the world--

‘In men, not books, experienced was my lord’--

Hey? Hey, Vivian? and can see through him with half an eye, I can tell

him.--Wants to get Lady Sarah--Yes, yes; but never came near us till we

lost my poor boy--he won’t win Lady Sarah either, or I’m much mistaken.

Did you observe how jealous he was of you?--Right!--right!--he has

penetration!--Stay, stay! you don’t know Marmaduke yet--don’t know half

his schemes. How his brow clouded when we were talking of the election!

I must hint to you, he has been sounding me upon that matter; he has a

great mind to stand for this county--talks of starting at the first day

of the poll. I told him it could not do, as I was engaged to you. He

answered, that of course was only a conditional promise, in case none of

my own relations stood. I fought shy, and he pressed confoundedly.--Gad!

he would put me in a very awkward predicament, if he was really to

stand! for you know what the world would say, if they saw me opposing

my own nephew, a rising young man, and not for a relation either; and

Marmaduke Lidhurst is just your deep fellow to plan such a thing

and execute it, not caring at what or whose expense. I can tell him,

however, I am not a man to be bullied out of my interest, or to be

outwitted either.--Stand firm, Vivian, my good friend, and I’ll stand

by you; depend on me!--I only wish----” Here his lordship paused. “But

I cannot say more to you now; for here is my precious heir-at-law coming

to break up the confederacy. I’ll ride over and see you to-morrow;--now,

let us all be mute before Marmaduke, our master politician, as becomes

us--Hey! Vivian? Hey?”

Notwithstanding this sort of jealousy of Marmaduke, and the bravadoing

style in which Lord Glistonbury spoke of him, he spoke to him in a very

different manner: it was apparent to Vivian that his lordship was

under some awe of his nephew, and that, whilst he cherished this secret

dislike, he dreaded coming to any open rupture with a man who was, as

his lordship apprehended, so well able to make his own party good in the

world. When Marmaduke did emerge from that depth of thought in which he

generally seemed to be sunk, and when he did condescend to converse,

or rather to speak, his theme was always of persons in power, or his

sarcasms against those who never would obtain it; from any one thing he

asserted, it could never be proved, but, from all he said, it might

be inferred, that he valued human qualities and talents merely as they

could, or could not, obtain a price in the political market. The power

of speaking in public, as it is a means in England of acquiring all

other species of power, he deemed the first of Heaven’s gifts; and

successful parliamentary speakers were the only persons of whom he

expressed admiration. As Vivian had spoken, and had been listened to

in the House of Commons, he was in this respect an object of Marmaduke

Lidhurst’s envy; but this envy was mitigated by contempt for our hero’s

want of perseverance in ambition.

“There is that Mr. Vivian of yours,” said he to his uncle, whilst Vivian

was gone to talk to the ladies--“you’ll find he will be but a woman’s

man, after all!--Heavens! with his fluency in public, what I would

have done by this time of day! This poor fellow has no consistency of

ambition--no great views--no reach of mind. Put him in for a borough,

and he would be just as well content as if he carried the county. You’ll

see he will, after another session or two, cut out, and retire without a

pension, and settle down into a mere honest country gentleman. He would

be no connexion to increase the consequence of your family. Lady Sarah

Lidhurst would be quite lost with such a nobody! Her ladyship, I am

convinced, has too much discrimination, and values herself too highly,

to make such a _missy_ match.”