Lord Glistonbury coughed, and cleared his throat, and blew his nose,

and seemed to suffer extremely, but chiefly under the repression of his

usual loquacity. Nothing could be at once a greater proof of his respect

for his nephew’s abilities, and of his lordship’s dislike to him, than

this unnatural silence. Mr. Lidhurst’s compliments on Lady Sarah’s

discrimination seemed, however, to be premature, and unmerited; for,

during the course of this day, she treated all the vast efforts of her

cousin Marmaduke’s gallantry with haughty neglect, and showed, what

she had never before suffered to be visible in her manner, a marked

preference for Mr. Vivian’s conversation. The sort of emulation which

Mr. Lidhurst’s rivalship produced increased the value of the object;

she, for whom there was a contention, immediately became a prize. Vivian

was both provoked and amused by the alternate contempt and jealousy

which Mr. Lidhurst betrayed; this gentleman’s desire to keep him out

of the Glistonbury family, and to supplant him in Lady Sarah’s favour,

piqued him to prove his influence, and determined him to maintain

his ground. Insensibly, Vivian’s attentions to the lady became more

vivacious; and he was vain of showing the ease, taste, and elegance of

his gallantry; and he was flattered by the idea, that all the spectators

perceived both its superiority and its success. Lady Sarah, whose

manners had much improved since the departure of Miss Strictland, was

so much embellished by our hero’s attentions, that he thought her quite

charming. He had been prepared to expect fire under the ice, but he was

agreeably surprised by this sudden spring of flowers from beneath the

snow. The carriage was at the door in the evening, and had waited half

an hour, before he was aware that it was time to depart.

“You are right, my dear son!” Lady Mary began, the r moment they were

seated in the carriage; “you are quite right, and I was quite wrong,

about Lady Sarah Lidhurst: she has feeling, indeed--strong, generous

feeling--and she shows it at the proper time: a fine, decided character!

Her manners, to-day, so easy, and her countenance so animated, really

she looked quite handsome, and I think her a charming woman.--What

changes love can make!--Well, now I am satisfied: this is what I always

wished--connexion, family, fortune, every thing; and the very sort of

character you require in a wife,--the very person, of all others, that

is suited to you!”

“If she were but a little more like her sister--or Selina Sidney

_even!_” said Vivian, with a sigh.

“That very word _even_--your saying like Selina Sidney _even_--shows

that you have not much cause for sighing: for you see how quickly

the mere fancy in these matters changes--and you may love Lady Sarah

presently, as much as you loved _even_ Lady Julia.”

“Impossible! ma’am.”

“Impossible! Why, my dear Charles, you astonish me! for you cannot but

see the views and expectations of all the family, and of the young lady

herself; and your attentions to-day were such as could bear but one

construction.”

“Were they, ma’am? I was not aware of that at the time--that is, I did

not mean to engage myself--Good Heavens! surely I am not engaged?--You

know a man is not bound, like a woman, by a few foolish words;

compliments and gallantry are not such serious things with us men. Men

never consider themselves engaged to a woman till they make an absolute

proposal.”

“I know that is a common maxim with young men of the present day, but I

consider it as dishonourable and base; and very sorry should I be to see

it adopted by my son!” cried Lady Mary indignantly. “Ask your friend

Mr. Russell’s opinion on this point: he long ago told you--I know he

did--that if you had not serious thoughts of Lady Sarah Lidhurst, you

would do very wrong, after all the reports that have gone abroad, to

continue your intimacy with the Glistonburys, and thus to deceive her

and her whole family--I only appeal to Mr. Russell;--will you ask your

friend Russell’s opinion?”

Vivian sighed again deeply for the loss of his friend Russell; but as he

could not, without touching upon Lady Julia’s affairs, explain the cause

of the coolness between him and his friend, he answered only, “that an

appeal to Mr. Russell was unnecessary when he had his mother’s opinion.”

Lady Mary’s wish for the Glistonbury _connexion_ fortified her morality

at this moment, and she replied, “Then my decided opinion is, that

it would be an immoral and dishonourable action to break such a tacit

engagement as this, which you have voluntarily contracted, and which you

absolutely could not break without destroying the peace and happiness of

a whole family. Even that cold Lady Glistonbury grew quite warm to-day;

and you must see the cause.--And in Lady Glistonbury’s state of health,

who could answer for the consequences of any disappointment about her

favourite daughter, just after the loss of her son, too?”

“No more, mother, for Heaven’s sake! I see it all--I feel it all--I must

marry Lady Sarah, then.--By what fatality am I doomed, am I forced

to marry a woman whom I cannot love, whose person and manners are

peculiarly disagreeable to me, and when I’m half in love with another

woman!”

“That would be a shocking thing, indeed,” said Lady Mary, retracting,

and alarmed; for now another train of associations was wakened, and she

judged not by her worldly, but by her romantic system.--“I am sure I

would not, upon any account, urge you to act against your feelings. I

would not be responsible for such a marriage, if you are really in love

with her sister, and if Lady Sarah’s person and manners are peculiarly

and absolutely disagreeable to you. I should do a very wicked

action--should destroy my son’s happiness and morals, perhaps, by

insisting on such a marriage--Heaven forbid!” (A silence of a mile and

a half long ensued.) “But, Charles, after all I saw to-day, how can I

believe that Lady Sarah is so disagreeable to you?”

“Ma’am, she happened not to be absolutely disagreeable to me to-day.”

“Oh! well! then she may not happen to be disagreeable to you to-morrow,

or the next day, or ever again!--And, as to the fancy for her sister,

when all hope is over, you know love soon dies of itself.”

So ended the conversation.--The next morning, at an unusual hour, Lord

Glistonbury made his appearance at Castle Vivian, with an air of great

vexation and embarrassment: he endeavoured to speak of trivial topics;

but, one after another, these subjects dropped. Then Lady Mary, who saw

that he was anxious to speak to her son, soon took occasion to withdraw,

not without feeling some curiosity, and forming many conjectures, as to

the object his lordship might have in view in this conference.

Lord Glistonbury’s countenance exhibited, in quick alternation, a look

of absolute determination and of utter indecision. At length, with

abrupt effort, he said, “Vivian, have you seen the papers to-day?”

“The newspapers?--yes!--no!--They are on the table--I did not look at

them--Is there any thing extraordinary?”

“Yes, faith!--extraordinary, very extraordinary!--But it is not here--it

is not there--this is not the right paper--it is not in your paper.

That’s extraordinary, too”--(then feeling in both pockets)--“I was a

fool not to bring it with me--May be I have it--Yes, here it is!--Not

public news, but private.”

Vivian was all expectation, for he imagined that something about Lady

Julia was coming. Lord Glistonbury, who, in his commerce with public

men, had learned the art of paying in words, to gain time when in danger

of a bankruptcy of ideas, went on, stringing sentences together, without

much meaning, whilst he was collecting his thoughts and studying the

countenance of his auditor.

“You recollect my suggestions the last time I had the honour of speaking

to you on a particular subject. I confess, Mr. Lidhurst’s conduct does

not meet my ideas of propriety; but other persons are free to form what

judgment they think fit upon the occasion. I shall submit the matter to

you, Mr. Vivian, feeling myself called upon to come forward immediately

to explain it to your satisfaction; and I do not fear to commit myself,

by stating at once my sentiments, and the light in which it strikes me;

for there must be some decision shown, somehow or other, and on some

side or other.----Decision is all in all in public business, as

the great Bacon or somebody says--and nobody knows that better than

Marmaduke.”

Here his lordship grew warm, and quitting his parliamentary cant,

assumed his familiar style.

“Gad! he has stolen a march upon us--out-generalled us--but, in

my private opinion, not in the handsomest style possible--Hey,

Vivian?--Hey?”

“My dear lord, I have not heard the fact yet,” said Vivian.

“Oh! the fact is simply--Look here, he has without my encouragement

or concurrence--and, indeed, as he very well knew, contrary to my

approbation and wishes--gone, and declared himself candidate for this

county; and here’s his fine flourishing, patriotic, damned advertisement

in the paper--‘To the gentlemen, clergy, and freeholders of the

county.’----Gad! how it startled me this morning! When I first saw it

I rubbed my eyes, and could hardly believe it was Marmaduke. Though I

pique myself on knowing a man’s style at the first line, yet I could not

have believed it was his, unless I had seen his name at full

length in these great abominable characters--‘John Marmaduke

Lidhurst.’--‘Glastonbury Castle!’ too--as if I had countenanced the

thing, or had promised my support; when he knew, that but yesterday I

was arguing the point with him in my study, and told him I was engaged

to you. Such an ungentlemanlike trick!--for you know it reduces me

to the dilemma of supporting a man who is only my friend, against my

nearest relation by blood, which, of course, would have an odd and

awkward appearance in the eyes of the world!”

Vivian expressed much concern for his lordship’s difficulties; but

observed that the world would be very unjust if it blamed him, and he

was sure his lordship had too much decision of character.

“But, independently of the world,” interrupted his lordship, “even in

our own family, amongst all the Lidhursts and their remotest connexions,

there would be quite a league formed against me; and these family

quarrels are ugly affairs; for though our feudal times are done away,

party clanships have succeeded to feudal clanships; and we chiefs of

parties must keep our followers in good humour, or we are nothing in

the _field_--I should say _in the house_--Ha! ha! ha!----I laugh, but it

is a very serious business; for Marmaduke Lidhurst would be, in private

or public, an impracticable enemy. Marmaduke’s a fellow capable of

inextinguishable hatred; and he is everywhere, and knows every body,

of all the clubs, a rising young man, who is listened to, and who would

make his story credited. And then, with one’s nephew, one can’t settle

these things in _an honourable way_--these family quarrels must be

arranged amicably, not honourably; and that’s the difficulty: the laws

of honour are dead letters in these cases, and the laws of the land do

not reach these niceties of feeling.----But of the most important fact

you are still to be apprised.”

“Indeed!” cried Vivian.

“Yes, you have not yet heard Marmaduke’s master-stroke of policy!”

“No!--What is it, my lord?--I am all attention--pray explain it to me.”

“But there’s the delicacy--there’s the difficulty!--No, no, no.--Upon

my soul, I cannot name it!” cried Lord Glistonbury. “It revolts my

feelings--all my feelings--as a man, as a gentleman, as a father. Upon

my honour, as a peer, I would speak if I could; but, for the soul of me,

I cannot.”

“You know, my dear lord,” said Vivian, “there can be no delicacies

or difficulties with me; your lordship has done me the honour to live

always on such a footing of intimacy with me, that surely there is not

any thing you cannot say to me!”

“Why, that’s true,” said Lord Glistonbury, quitting his affected air

of distress, and endeavouring to throw off his real feeling of

embarrassment: “you are right, my dear Vivian! we are certainly upon

terms of such intimacy, that I ought not to be so scrupulous. But there

are certain things, a well-born, well-bred man--in short, it would look

so like--But, in fact, I am driven to the wall, and I must defend myself

as well as I can against this nephew of mine--I know it will look

like the most horrible thing upon earth, like what I would rather be

decapitated than do--I know it will look, absolutely, as if I came

here to ask you to marry my daughter,--which, you know, is a thing no

gentleman could have the most remotely in his contemplation; but, since

I am so pressed, I must tell you the exact truth, and explain to you,

however difficult, Marmaduke’s master-stroke----he has proposed for Lady

Sarah; and has had the assurance to ask me whether there is or is not

any truth in certain reports which he is pleased to affirm have gone

abroad--Heaven knows how or why!----And he urges me--the deep dog! for

his cousin’s sake, to contradict those reports, in the only effectual

manner, by a temporary cessation of the intimate intercourse between

Castle Vivian and Glistonbury Castle, whilst Lady Sarah remains

unmarried; or, if our master politician would speak plainly, till he has

married her himself.----At any rate, I have spoken frankly, Vivian, hey?

you’ll allow; and I am entitled both to a candid interpretation of my

motives, and to equal frankness of reply.”

Whilst his lordship had been speaking, compassion, gratitude, vanity,

rivalship, honour, Lady Mary Vivian’s conversation, Lady Julia’s letter,

then again the _connexion_, the earldom in future, the present triumph

or disappointment about the election, the insolent intrusion of Mr.

Lidhurst, the cruelty of abandoning a lady who was in love with him, the

dishonour, the impossibility of receding after _certain reports_; all

these ideas, in rapid succession, pressed on Vivian’s mind: and his

decision was in consequence of the feelings and of the embarrassment of

the moment. His reply to Lord Glistonbury was a proposal for Lady Sarah,

followed by as many gallant protestations as his presence of mind

could furnish. He did not very well know what he said, nor did Lord

Glistonbury scrupulously examine whether he had the air and accent of

a true lover, nor did his lordship inquire what had become of Vivian’s

late love for Lady Julia; but, quite content that the object should be

altered, the desire the same, he relieved Vivian by exclaiming, “Come,

come, all this sort of thing Lady Sarah herself must hear; and I’ve

a notion--but I can keep a secret. You’ll return with me directly to

Glistonbury. Lady Glistonbury will be delighted to see you; and I shall

be delighted to see Marmaduke’s face, when I tell him you have actually

proposed for Sarah--for now I must tell you all. Our politician

calculated upon the probability that you would not decide, you see,

to make a proposal at once, that would justify me to the world in

supporting my son-in-law against my nephew. As to the choice of the

son-in-law, Sarah settles that part of the business herself, you know;

for, when two proposals are made, both almost equally advantageous, in

the common acceptation of the word, I am too good a father not to

leave the decision to my daughter. So you see we understand one another

perfectly, and will make Marmaduke, too, understand us perfectly,

contrary to his calculations, hey, hey?----Mr. Politician, your

advertisement must be withdrawn, I opine, in the next paper--hey,

Vivian? my dear Vivian!”

With similar loquacity, Lord Glistonbury continued, in the fulness of

his heart, all the way they went together to Glistonbury Castle; which

was agreeable to Vivian, at least by saving him from all necessity of

speaking.

“So!” said Vivian to himself, “the die is cast, and I have actually

proposed for Lady Sarah Lidhurst!--Who would have expected this two

years ago?--I would not have believed it, if it had been foretold to

me even two months ago. But it is a very--a very suitable match, and

it will please the friends of both parties; and Lady Sarah is certainly

very estimable, and capable of very strong attachment; and I like her,

that is, I liked her yesterday very much--I really like her.”

Upon those mixed motives, between convenience and affection, from which,

Dr. Johnson says, most people marry, our hero commenced his courtship of

the Lady Sarah Lidhurst. As the minds of both parties on the subject are

pretty well known to our readers, it would be cruel to fatigue them

with a protracted description of the formalities of courtship. It is

sufficient to say, that my Lord Glistonbury had the satisfaction of

seeing his nephew disappointed.

CHAPTER XIV.

“And the marriage was solemnized with much pomp and magnificence, and

every demonstration of joy.”

Novelists and novel readers are usually satisfied when they arrive

at this happy catastrophe; their interest and curiosity seldom go any

farther: but, in real life, marriage is but the beginning of domestic

happiness or misery.

Soon after the celebration of Vivian’s nuptials, an event happened which

interrupted all the festivities at Glistonbury, and which changed the

bridal pomp to mourning. Lady Glistonbury, who had been much fatigued by

the multitude of wedding-visits she was obliged to receive and return,

had another stroke of the palsy, which, in a few hours, terminated

fatally. Thus, the very event which Vivian had dreaded, as the probable

consequence of his refusal to marry her daughter, was, in fact,

accelerated by the full accomplishment of her wishes. After the loss

of her mother, Lady Sarah Vivian’s whole soul seemed to be engrossed by

fondness for her husband. In public, and to all eyes but Vivian’s, her

ladyship seemed much the same person as formerly: but, in private, the

affection she expressed for him was so great, that he frequently asked

himself whether this could be the same woman, who, to the rest of

the world, and in every other part of her life, appeared so cold and

inanimate. On a very few occasions her character, before her marriage,

had, “when much enforced, given out a hasty spark, and straight was

cold again;” but now she permitted the steady flame to burn without

restraint. Duty and passion had now the same object. Before marriage,

her attachment had been suppressed, even at the hazard of her life; she

had no idea that the private demonstrations of unbounded love from a

married woman to her husband could be either blameable or dangerous: she

believed it to be her duty to love her husband as much as she possibly

could.--Was not he her husband? She had been taught that she should

neither read, speak, nor think of love; and she had been so far too much

restricted on this subject, that, absolutely ignorant and unconscious

even of her danger, she now pursued her own course without chart or

compass. Her injudicious tenderness soon imposed such restraint upon

her husband, as scarcely any lover, much less any husband, could have

patiently endured. She would hardly ever suffer him to leave her.

Whenever he went out of the house, she exacted from him a promise that

he would _be back again_ at a certain hour; and if he were even a

few minutes later than his appointment, he had to sustain her fond

reproaches. Even though he stayed at home all day, she was uneasy if

he quitted the room where she sat; and he, who by this time understood,

through all her exterior calmness, the symptoms of her internal

agitation, saw by her countenance that she was wretched if he seemed

interested in the conversation of any other person, especially of any

other woman.

One day when Vivian, after spending the morning _tête-à-tête_ with Lady

Sarah, signified to her his intention of dining abroad, she repeated her

fond request that he would be sure to come home early, and that he would

tell her at what o’clock exactly she might expect to see him again. He

named an hour at hazard, to free himself from her importunate anxiety;

but he could not help saying, “Pshaw!” as he ran down stairs; an

exclamation which fortunately reached only the ears of a groom, who was

thinking of nothing but the tops of his own boots. Vivian happened to

meet some agreeable people where he dined: he was much pressed to stay

to supper; he yielded to entreaty, but he had the good-natured attention

to send home his servant, to beg that Lady Sarah and his mother would

not sit up for him. When he returned, he found all the family in bed

except Lady Sarah, who was sitting up waiting for him, with her watch

in her hand. The moment he appeared, she assailed him with tender

reproaches, to which he answered, “But why would you sit up when I

begged you would not, my dear Lady Sarah?”

She replied by a continuity of fond reproach; and among other things she

said, but without believing it to be true, “Ah! I am sure you would have

been happier if you had married my sister Julia, or _that_ Miss Sidney!”

Vivian sighed deeply; but the next instant, conscious that he had

sighed, and afraid of giving his wife pain, he endeavoured to turn the

course of her thoughts to some other subject. In vain. Poor Lady Sarah

said no more, but felt this exquisitely, and with permanent anguish.

Thus her imprudence reverted upon herself, and she suffered

in proportion to her pride and to her fondness. By such slight

circumstances is the human heart alienated from love! Struggling to

be free, the restive little deity ruffles and impairs his plumage, and

seldom recovers a disposition to tranquillity. Vivian’s good-nature had

induced him for some time to submit to restraint; but if, instead of

weakly yielding to the fond importunity of his wife--if, instead of

tolerating the insipidity of her conversation and the narrowness of

her views, he had with real energy employed her capacity upon suitable

objects, he might have made her attachment the solace of his life.

Whoever possesses the heart of a woman, who has common powers of

intellect, may improve her understanding in twelve months more than

could all the masters, and lectures, and courses of philosophy, and

abridgments, and _documenting_ in the universe. But Vivian had not

sufficient resolution for such an undertaking: he thought only of

avoiding to give or to feel present pain; and the consequences were,

that the evils he dreaded every day increased.

Vivian’s mother saw the progress of conjugal discontent with anguish and

remorse.

“Alas!” said she to herself, “I was much to blame for pressing this

match. My son told me he could never love Lady Sarah Lidhurst. It would

have been better far to have broken off a marriage at the church-door

than to have forced the completion of such an ill-assorted union.

My poor son married chiefly from a principle of honour; his duty and

respect for my opinion had also great weight in his decision; and I have

sacrificed his happiness to my desire that he should make what the world

calls a splendid alliance. I am the cause of all his misery; and Heaven

only knows where all this will end!”

In her paroxysm of self-reproach, and her eagerness to _set things to

rights_ between her daughter-in-law and her son, she only made matters

worse. She spoke with all the warmth and frankness of her own character

to Lady Sarah, beseeching her to speak with equal openness, and to

explain the cause of the _alteration_ in Vivian.

“I do not know what you mean, madam, by alteration in Mr. Vivian!”

“Is not there some disagreement between you, my dear?”

“There is no disagreement whatever, madam, as far as I know, between Mr.

Vivian and me--we agree perfectly,” said Lady Sarah.

“Well, the _misunderstanding_!”

“I do not know of any _misunderstanding_, madam. Mr. Vivian and I

understand one another perfectly.”

“The _coolness_, then--Oh! what word shall I use!--Surely, my dear Lady

Sarah, there is some _coolness_--something wrong?”

“I am sure, madam, I do not complain of any coolness on Mr. Vivian’s

part. Am I to understand that he complains to your ladyship of any thing

wrong on mine? If he does, I shall think it my duty, when he points out

the particulars, to make any alteration he may desire in my conduct and

manners.”

“Complain!--My son!--He makes no _complaints_, my dear. You

misunderstand me. My son does not complain that any thing is wrong on

your part.”

“Then, madam, if no complaints are made on either side, all is as it

should be, I presume, at present; and if in future I should fail in any

point of duty, I shall hold myself obliged to your ladyship if you will

then act as my monitor.”

Hopeless of penetrating Lady Sarah’s sevenfold fence of pride, the

mother flew to her son, to try what could be done with his open and

generous mind. He expressed a most earnest and sincere wish to make

his wife happy. Conscious that he had given her exquisite pain, he

endeavoured to make atonement by the sacrifices which he thought

would be most grateful to her. He refrained often from company and

conversation that was agreeable to him, and would resign himself for

hours to her society. It was fortunate for Lady Julia Lidhurst that,

by continuing with her good uncle the bishop, she did not see the

consequences of the union which she had so strenuously advised. The

advice of friends is often highly useful to prevent an imprudent match;

but it seldom happens that marriages turn out happily which have been

made from the opinion of others rather than from the judgment and

inclinations of the parties concerned; for, let the general reasons

on which the advice is grounded be ever so sensible, it is scarcely

possible that the adviser can take in all the little circumstances

of taste and temper, upon which so much of the happiness or misery of

domestic life depends. Besides, people are much more apt to repent of

having been guided by the judgment of another than of having followed

their own; and this is most likely to be the case with the weakest

minds. Strong minds can decide for themselves, not by the opinions but

by the reasons that are laid before them: weak minds are influenced

merely by opinions; and never, either before or after their decision,

are firm in abiding by the preponderating reasons.

No letters, no intelligence from home, except a malicious hint now

and then from her cousin Marmaduke, which she did not credit, gave her

reason to suspect that the pair whom she had contributed to unite were

not perfectly happy. So Lady Julia exulted in the success of her past

counsels, and indulged her generous romantic disposition in schemes for

forwarding a union between Russell and Selina, determining to divide her

fortune amongst the children of her friends. She concluded one of her

letters to Lady Sarah Vivian about this time with these words:--

“Could I but see _one other person_,--whom I must not name, rewarded for

his virtues, as you are, by happy love, I should die content, and would

write on my tomb:--

‘Je ne fus point heureux, mais j’ai fait leur bonheur.” [10]

Far removed from all romance and all generosity of sentiment, Lord

Glistonbury, in the mean time, went on very comfortably, without

observing any thing that passed in his family. Whatever uneasiness

obtruded upon his attention he attributed to one cause, anxiety relative

to the question on which his present thoughts were exclusively fixed,

viz. whether Lady Sarah’s first child would be a boy or a girl. “Heaven

grant a boy!” said his lordship; “for then, you know, there’s an end

of Marmaduke as heir-at-law!” Whenever his lordship saw a cloud on the

brows of Lady Mary, of Lady Sarah, or of Vivian, he had one infallible

charm for dispelling melancholy;--he stepped up close to the patient,

and whispered, “It will be a boy!--My life upon it, it will be a boy!”

Sometimes it happened that this universal remedy, applied at random,

made the patient start or smile; and then his lordship never failed to

add, with a nod of great sagacity, “Ah! you didn’t know I knew what you

were thinking of!--Well! well! you’ll see we shall cut out Marmaduke

yet.”

With this hope of cutting out Marmaduke, Lord Glistonbury went on very

happily, and every day grew fonder of the son-in-law, who was the enemy

of his heir-at-law, or whom he considered as such. The easiness of

Vivian’s temper was peculiarly agreeable to his lordship, who enjoyed

the daily pleasure of governing a man of talents which were far superior

to his own. This easiness of temper in our hero was much increased by

the want of motive and stimulus. He thought that he had now lost his

chance of happiness; he cared little for the more or less pain of

each succeeding day; and so passive was his listlessness, that to

a superficial observer, like Lord Glistonbury, it looked like the

good-nature of perfect content.--Poor Vivian!--In this wreck of his

happiness, one saving chance, however, yet remained. He had still a

public character; he was conscious of, having preserved unblemished

integrity as a member of the senate; and this integrity, still more than

his oratorical talents, raised him far above most of his competitors,

and preserved him not only in the opinion of others, but in his own.

When parliament met, he went to town, took a very handsome house for

Lady Sarah, determining to do all he could to oblige and please the

wife whom he could not love. Lady Sarah had complete power, at home

and abroad, of her time and her expenses: her dress, her equipages,

her servants, her whole establishment, were above Vivian’s fortune, and

equal to her ladyship’s birth and rank. She was mistress of every thing

but of his heart. The less he liked her, the more he endeavoured to

compensate for this involuntary fault, by allowing her that absolute

dominion, and that external splendour, which he thought would gratify,

and perhaps fill her mind. As for himself, he took refuge in the House

of Commons. There he forgot for a time domestic uneasiness, and was

truly animated by what so many affect--zeal for the good of his country.

He was proud to recollect, that the profligate Wharton had failed in

the attempt to laugh him out of his public virtue; he was proud that

Wharton’s prophecies of his apostasy had never been accomplished; that,

as a public! character at least, he had fulfilled the promise of his

early youth, and was still worthy of himself, and of that friend whom he

had lost. He clung to this idea, as to the only hope left him in life.

One night, in a debate on some question of importance, he made an

excellent speech, which was particularly well received by the house,

because it came from one who had an unblemished character. When

Vivian went into the coffee-room to refresh himself, after he had done

speaking, several of his acquaintance crowded round him, complimenting

him upon his success--he broke from them all! for he saw, advancing

towards him with a smile of approbation, the friend on whose approbation

he set a higher value than he did even on the applauses of the

house--the friend whose lost affection he had so long and so bitterly

regretted. Russell stretched out his hand--Vivian eagerly seized

it; and, before they had either of them spoken one word, they both

understood each other perfectly, and their reconciliation was completely

effected.

“Yes,” said Russell, as they walked out arm in arm together, “yes, it

is fit that I should forget all private resentment, in the pride and

pleasure I feel, not merely in your public success, but in your public

virtue. Talents, even the rare talent of oratory, you know, I hold

cheap in comparison with that which is so far more rare, as well as more

valuable--political integrity. The abhorrence and contempt of political

profligacy, which you have just expressed, as a member of the senate,

and the consistent conduct by which you have supported your principles,

are worthy of you; and, allow me to say, of your education.”

Vivian felt exalted in his own opinion by such praise, and by these the

warmest expressions he had ever received of Russell’s regard. He forgot

even his domestic uneasiness; and this day, the first for many months he

had spent happily, he passed with his friend. They supped together, and

related mutually all that happened since their parting. Russell told

Vivian that he had lately been agreeably surprised by the gift of a

valuable living from the Bishop of ----, Lady Julia Lidhurst’s uncle;

that the bishop, whom he had till then never seen, had written to him

in the handsomest manner, saying that he knew the obligations his family

owed to Mr. Russell; that it had been the dying request of his nephew,

Lord Lidhurst, that some token of the family esteem and gratitude should

be offered to him, to whom they owed so much; but the bishop added, that

neither family gratitude nor private friendship could have induced him

to bestow church preferments upon any but the person whose character

best entitled him to such a distinction and such a trust.

This letter, as Vivian observed, was well calculated to satisfy

Russell’s conscience and his delicacy. The conversation next turned upon

Lady Julia Lidhurst. Russell was not aware that Vivian knew more of her

attachment to him than what had been discovered the day before he left

Glistonbury; and Vivian could not help admiring the honourable and

delicate manner in which his friend spoke of her, without any air of

mystery, and with the greatest respect. He told Vivian he had heard that

proposals had been lately made to her ladyship by a gentleman of great

talents and of high character; but that she had positively declined his

addresses, and had repeated her declaration that she would never marry.

Her good uncle left her, on this point, entirely at liberty, and did not

mention the proposal to Lord Glistonbury, lest she should be exposed to

any fresh difficulties. Russell expressed much satisfaction at this part

of the bishop’s conduct, as being not only the most kind, but the

most judicious, and the most likely to dispose his niece to change her

determination. He repeated his opinion that, united to a man of sense

and strength of mind, she would make a charming and excellent wife.

Vivian agreed with him; yet observed, that he was convinced she would

never marry--There he paused.--Could Lady Julia herself have overheard

the conversation which afterwards passed between these two gentlemen,

one of whom she had loved and the other of whom she had refused, not a

word would have hurt her feelings: on the contrary, she would have been

raised in her own opinion, and gratified by the strong interest they

both showed for her happiness. They regretted only that a young woman

of such talents, and of such a fine, generous disposition, had been so

injudiciously educated.

“And now, my dear Russell,” cried Vivian, “that we have finished the

chapter of Lady Julia, let us talk of Miss Sidney.”--Russell’s change

of countenance showed that it was not quite so easy for him to talk upon

this subject.--To spare him the effort, Vivian resumed, “As you are a

rich man now, my dear Russell, you will certainly marry; and I know,”

added he, smiling, “that Miss Sidney will be your wife. If ever man

deserved such a prize, you do; and I shall be the first to wish you

joy.”

“Stay, my good friend,” interrupted Russell; “your kindness for me,

and your imagination, are too quick in this anticipation of my

happiness.”--Russell then told him, that he never had declared his

attachment to Selina till Vivian’s marriage had put an end to all

probability of rivalship with his friend. She had expressed high esteem

for Russell, but had told him, that she had suffered so much from

a first unfortunate attachment, that she felt averse from any new

engagements.

“Shall I assure you, as you assured me just now with regard to Lady

Julia,” said Vivian, “that Miss Sidney will he prevailed upon to alter

her determination; and shall I add, that, though I should like Lady

Julia the less, I should like Selina the better, for changing her

mind?”--He went on, generously expressing sincere hopes, that his friend

might obtain Selina Sidney’s affections, and might enjoy that domestic

happiness, which--Vivian was going to say, which he had himself

forfeited; but checking this regret, he only said--“that domestic

happiness, which I consider as the summit of human felicity, and which

no man can deserve better than you do, my dear Russell.”

Russell easily guessed that poor Vivian had not attained this summit

of human felicity by his own marriage, but never adverted to any of the

conversations they had held about Lady Sarah Lidhurst; never recalled

any of Vivian’s vehement declarations concerning the absolute

impossibility of his making such a match; never evinced the least

surprise at his marriage; nor inquired how he had conquered his passion

for Lady Julia. With friendly forgetfulness, he seemed to have totally

obliterated from his mind all that it could do no good to remember.

Vivian was sensible of this delicacy, and grateful for it; but to

imitate Russell’s reserve and silence upon certain subjects required

a force, a forbearance of which he was not capable. At first he had

determined not to say one word to Russell of domestic uneasiness; but

they had not been many hours together before Vivian poured forth all

his complaints, and confessed how bitterly he repented his marriage: be

declared that he had been persuaded, by the united efforts of her family

and of his mother, against his own judgment, or, at least, against his

taste and inclinations, to marry Lady Sarah.

“By whatever persuasions, or by whatever motives, your choice was

decided,” interrupted Russell, “reflect that it is decided for life;

therefore abide by it, and justify it. Above all, make yourself happy

with the means which are yet in your power, instead of wasting your mind

in unavailing regret. You are united to a woman who has every estimable

quality, as you candidly acknowledge: there are some particulars in

which she does not please your taste; but withdraw your attention from

these, and you will be happy with a wife who is so firmly attached to

you. Consider, besides, that--romance apart--love, though a delightful

passion, is not the only resource which a man of sense, virtue, and

activity may find for happiness. Your public duties, your success, and

your reputation as a public character, will--”

Russell was interrupted in this consolatory and invigorating speech, by

the entrance of a servant of Lord Glistonbury’s, who brought a note from

his lordship to Mr. Vivian, requesting to see him as soon as he could

make it convenient to come to Glistonbury House, as his lordship wanted

to speak to him on particular business of the greatest importance.

Vivian was provoked by being thus summoned away from his friend, to

attend to one of what he called Lord Glistonbury’s _important mysteries

about nothing_. Russell was engaged to go into the country the ensuing

day, to take possession of his new living; but he promised that he would

see him again soon; and, with this hope, the two friends parted.

Vivian went to Lord Glistonbury’s: he found his lordship in his study.

“Where have you been, Vivian?” exclaimed he: “I have sent messenger

after messenger to look for you, half over the town: I thought you were

to have dined with us, but you ran away, and nobody could tell where, or

with whom; and we have been waiting for you at our cabinet council here

with the utmost impatience.”--Vivian answered, that he had unexpectedly

met with his friend Russell; and was proceeding to tell his lordship

how handsomely the Bishop of----had provided for his friend; but Lord

Glistonbury, like many other great men, having the habit of forgetting

all the services of those from whom they have nothing more to expect,

cut short Vivian’s narration, by exclaiming, “True, true! well, well!

that’s all over now--Certainly, _that_ Russell did his duty by my poor

son; and acted as he ought to do--in all things; and I’m glad to hear

my brother has given him a good living; and I hope, as you say, he will

soon be married--so best--so best, you know, Vivian, for reasons of our

own--Well! well! I’m glad he is provided for--not but what that living

would have been of essential service, if it had been reserved for a

friend of mine--but my brother the bishop never can enter into any

political views--might as well not have a brother a bishop--But,

however, Mr. Russell’s a friend of yours--I am not regretting--not so

rude to you to regret----on the contrary, rejoice, particularly as Mr.

Russell is a man of so much merit--But all that’s over now; and I want

to talk to you upon quite another matter. You know I have always said I

should, sooner or later, succeed in my grand object, hey, Vivian?”

“Your lordship’s grand object?--I am not sure that I know it.”

“Oh, surely, you know my grand object. You my son-in-law, and forget my

grand object?--The marquisate, you know; the marquisate, the marquisate!

Did not I always tell you that I would make government, sooner or later,

change my earldom into a marquisate? Well! the thing is done--that is,

as good as done; they have sent to treat with me upon my own terms.”

“I give you joy, my dear lord!” said Vivian.

“Joy!--to be sure you do, my sober sir:--one would think you had no

concern or interest in the business. Joy! to be sure you give me joy;

but, I can tell you, you must give me something more than joy--you must

give me support.”

“How he looks!” continued Lord Glistonbury, “as if he did not know

what is meant by support. Vivian, did you never hear of parliamentary

support?”

“I hope, my dear lord,” replied Vivian, gravely, “that you have not

entered into any engagements, or made any promises for me, which I

cannot have it in my power to perform.”

Lord Glistonbury hesitated in some confusion; and then, forcing a look

of effrontery, in an assured tone, replied, “No. I have not made any

engagements or promises for you which you cannot perform, Vivian, I am

clear; nor any which I have not a right to expect my son-in-law will

confirm with alacrity.”

“What have you engaged?--what have you promised for me, my lord?” said

Vivian, earnestly.

“Only, my dear boy,” said Lord Glistonbury, assuming a facetious tone,

“only that you will be always one of us--And are not you one of us?--my

son-in-law?--the deuce is in it if he is not one of us!--In short, you

know, to be serious, a party must go together, that is, a family party

must go together; and, if a ministry do my business, of course I do

theirs. If I have my marquisate, they have my votes.”

“But not my vote--pardon me, my lord--my vote cannot be bartered in this

manner.”

“But, you know, Mr. Vivian, you know it is for your interest as much as

for mine; for, you know, the marquisate will probably descend, in due

course of time, to your son. So your interest is full as much concerned

as mine; and besides, let me tell you, I have not forgotten your

immediate interest: I have stipulated that you should have the valuable

place which Mr. C---- was to have had.”

All that Russell had said of public virtue was fresh in our hero’s mind.

“I thank you, my dear lord,” said he; “for I am sure this was kindly

intended; but I am not one of those persons, who in public affairs think

only of their private interest--I am not thinking of my interest. But

if a man maintains certain public measures one day, and the next, for

_valuable consideration_, supports diametrically opposite opinions

and measures, he will lose, and deserve to lose, all reputation for

integrity.”

“Integrity! political integrity!” said Lord Glistonbury; “fine words,

which mean nothing. Behind the scenes, as we are now, Vivian, what use

can there be in talking in that strain?--Between you and me, you know

this is all nonsense. For who, of any party, now thinks, really and

truly, of any thing but getting power or keeping it? Power, you know,

stands for the measure of talent; and every thing else worth having is

included in that word power. I speak plainly. And as honour is merely

an affair of opinion, and opinion, again, an affair of numbers, and as

there are numbers enough to keep one in countenance in these things;

really, my dear Vivian, it is quite childish, quite boyish, smells of

the lamp. To declaim about political integrity, and all that, is not

the language of a man who knows any thing of business--any thing of the

world.--But why do I say all this?” cried Lord Glistonbury, checking

himself and assuming an air of more reserved displeasure.--“Mr.

Vivian certainly knows all this as well as I do; I know how my nephew

Marmaduke, who, with all his faults, is no fool, would interpret your

present language: he would say, as I have often heard him say, that

political integrity is only a civil _put off_.”

“Political integrity only a civil put off!” repeated Vivian, with

unfeigned astonishment. When he formerly heard similar sentiments from

the avowed profligate and hackneyed politician Mr. Wharton, he was

shocked; but to hear them repeated, as being coolly laid down by so

young a man as Mr. Lidhurst, excited so much disgust and contempt in

Vivian’s mind, that he could hardly refrain from saying more than either

prudence or politeness could justify.

“Now I am free to confess,” pursued Lord Glistonbury, “that I should

think it more candid and manly, and, I will add, more friendly, and more

the natural, open conduct of a son-in-law to a father-in-law, instead of

talking of political integrity, to have said, at once, I cannot oblige

you in this instance.”

“Surely, my lord, you cannot be in earnest?” said Vivian.

“I tell you, sir, I am in earnest,” cried his lordship, turning suddenly

in a rage, as he walked up and down the room; “I say, it would have

been more candid, more manly, more every thing,--and much more like a

son-in-law--much!--much!----I am sure, if I had known as much as I do

now, sir, you never should have been my son-in-law--never! never!--seen

Lady Sarah in her grave first!--I would!--I would!--yes, sir--I

would!----And you are the last person upon earth I should have expected

it from. But I have a nephew--I have a nephew, and now I know the

difference. No man can distinguish his friends till he tries them.”

Vivian in vain endeavoured to appease Lord Glistonbury by assurances

that he would do any thing in his power to oblige him, except what

he himself considered as dishonourable: his lordship reiterated, with

divers passionate ejaculations, that if Vivian would not oblige him in

this point, on which he had set his heart--where the great object of his

life was at stake--he could never believe he had any regard for him; and

that in short, it must come to an open rupture between them, for that

he should never consider him more as his son. Having uttered this

denunciation as distinctly as passion would permit, Lord Glistonbury

retired to rest.

Vivian went immediately to his mother, to tell her what had passed, and

he felt almost secure of her approbation; but though she praised him for

his generous spirit of independence, yet it was evident the hopes that

the title of marquis might descend to a grandson of her own weighed more

with her than any patriotic considerations. She declared, that indeed

she would not, for any title, or any thing upon earth, have her son

act dishonourably; but what was asked of him, as far as she could

understand, was only such a change of party, such compliances, as every

public man in his place would make: and though she would not have him,

like some she could name, a corrupt tool of government, yet, on the

other hand, it was folly to expect that he alone could do any thing

against the general tide of corruption--that it would be madness in

him to sacrifice himself entirely, without the slightest possibility of

doing any good to his country.

Vivian interrupted her, to represent that, if each public man argued

in this manner, nothing could ever be accomplished for the public good:

that, on the contrary, if every man hoped that something might be done,

even by his individual exertion, and if he determined to sacrifice a

portion of his private interest in the attempt, perhaps much might be

effected.

“Very likely!” Lady Mary said. She confessed she knew little of

politics: so from argument she went to persuasion and entreaties. She

conjured him not to quarrel with the Glistonburys, and not to provoke

Lord Glistonbury’s displeasure. “I see all that artful Marmaduke’s

schemes,” said she: “he knows his uncle’s pertinacious temper; and he

hopes that your notions of patriotism will prevent you from yielding on

a point, on which his uncle has set his heart. Marmaduke will know how

to take advantage of all this, believe me!”

Vivian was shaken in his resolution by his mother’s entreaties--by

the idea of all the family quarrels that would ensue, and of all the

difficulties in which he might be involved, if he persisted in his

generous determination.

“My dear son,” resumed she, “it would be absolute madness to refuse

the place that is now offered you: only consider the situation of your

affairs--consider, I beseech you, the distress you will be in by and

by, if you reject this offer--recollect the immense demands upon you;

recollect that heap of bills for the election, and for the buildings,

and all the poor workmen about the castle! and that coachmaker too! and

remember, the purchase money of the house in town must be paid in three

months. And the only possible means by which you can get out of debt, is

by accepting this place, which would put you at ease at once, and enable

you to continue in the style of life to which you have of late been

accustomed.”

“As to that, I could alter my style of life--I would do any thing,”

cried Vivian, “to pay my debts and preserve my independence. I will

alter my mode of living, and retrench decidedly and vigorously.”

“Well, my dear son, I admire your spirit, and, if you can do this, it

will certainly be best; but I fear that when it comes to the trial, you

will not be able to persevere.”

“I shall--I shall! Believe me, mother, I have resolution enough for

this--you do me injustice,” said Vivian.

“No, my dear Charles, I do you justice; for I do not doubt your

resolution, as far as your own privations are concerned; but, consider

your wife--consider Lady Sarah--consider the luxury in which she

has always been accustomed to live, and the high sphere in which her

relations move! How her pride would be hurt by their looking down

upon her! I have no doubt Lady Sarah would do her duty, and make

any sacrifices for her husband; and if you were--I must now speak

plainly--if you were passionately fond of her--an all-for-love

husband--you could, with honour and propriety, accept of such

sacrifices; but what would retirement be _to_ poor Lady Sarah, and

_with_ Lady Sarah?”

Vivian told his mother that he would take a night to reconsider the

matter coolly; and, satisfied with having gained so much, she suffered

him to go home. As he was quitting his own dressing-room, he paused,

to consider whether he should consult his wife, who was, as yet, in

ignorance of the whole transaction, and who knew nothing of the deranged

state of his affairs. He did her the justice to believe that she

would be willing to live with him in retirement, and to forego all the

luxuries and pride of her rank, for the sake of her duty and of her

love. He was convinced that, in any opposition between her father’s

interests and her husband’s honour, she would strongly abide by her

husband. He recollected all Lady Julia had said of the advantage that

her sister’s firmness of mind might be in steadying his vacillating

temper in any moment of trial. Here was the first _great occasion_,

since his marriage, where his wife’s strength of mind could be of

essential service to him: yet he hesitated whether he should avail

himself of this advantage; and every moment, as he approached nearer

to her apartment, he hesitated more and more; He did not, in the first

place, like to humble himself so far as to ask her counsel; then he

had not courage to confess those debts and embarrassments which he

had hitherto concealed. All that his mother had suggested about the

indelicacy of requiring or accepting great sacrifices from a woman whom,

though he esteemed, he could not love--the horror of retirement

with such a companion--the long years _tête-à-tête_--all these ideas

combined, but chiefly the apprehension of the immediate present pain of

speaking to her on a disagreeable subject, and of being obliged to hear

her speak with that formal deliberation which he detested; added to

this, the dread of her surprise, if not of her reproaches, when all his

affairs should be revealed, operated so irresistibly upon his weakness,

that he decided on the common resource--concealment. His hand was upon

the lock of his chamber-door, and he turned it cautiously and softly,

lest, in entering his apartment, he should waken Lady Sarah: but she was

not asleep.

“What can have kept you so late, Mr. Vivian?” said she.

“Business, my dear,” answered he, with some embarrassment.

“May I ask what sort of business?”

“Oh!--only--political business.”

“Political business!” She looked earnestly at her husband; but, as if

repressing her curiosity, she afterwards added, “our sex have nothing

to do with politics,” and, turning away from the light, she composed

herself to sleep.

“Very true, my dear,” replied Vivian--not a word more did he say:

content with this evasion of the difficulty, he thus, by his weakness,

deprived himself of the real advantage of his wife’s strength of mind.

Whilst Lady Sarah, in total ignorance of the distress of her husband,

slept in peace, he lay awake, revolving painful thoughts in the

silence of the night. All that his mother had said about the pecuniary

difficulties to which they must soon be reduced recurred with fresh

force; the ideas of the unpaid election bills, all the masons’,

carpenters’, painters’, glaziers’, and upholsterers’ bills, with

“thousands yet unnamed behind,” rose, in dreadful array, before him,

and the enthusiasm of his patriotism was appalled. With feverish

reiteration, he ran over and over, in his mind, the same circle of

difficulties, continually returning to the question, “_Then what can

be done?_” Bitterly did he this night regret the foolish expenses into

which he had early in life been led. If it were to do over again, he

certainly would not turn his house into a castle; if he had foreseen how

much the expense would surpass the estimates, assuredly nothing could

have tempted him to such extravagance. The architect, the masons, the

workmen, one and all, were knaves; but, one and all, they must be

paid. Then what could he do?--And the debts incurred by the contested

elections!--contested elections are cursed things, when the bills come

to be paid; but, cursed or not, they must be paid. Then what could he

do?--The distress in which he should involve his generous mother--the

sacrifices he should require from his wife--the family quarrels--all

that Lady Sarah would suffer from them--the _situation_ of his wife.

Then what could he do?--He MUST submit to Lord Glistonbury, and take the

place that was offered to him.

Vivian sighed--and turned in his bed--and sighed--and thought--and

turned--and sighed again--and the last sigh of expiring patriotism

escaped him!----To this end, to this miserable end, must all patriotism

come, which is not supported by the seemingly inferior virtues of

prudence and economy.

Poor Vivian endeavoured to comfort himself by the reflection that he

should not act from merely mercenary considerations, but that he

was compelled to yield to the solicitations of his mother and of his

father-in-law; that he was forced to sacrifice his own public opinions

to secure domestic peace, and to prevent the distress of his mother,

the misery, and perhaps danger, of his wife and child. Dereliction of

principle, in these circumstances, was something like an amiable, a

pardonable weakness. And then, see it in what light you will, as Lord

Glistonbury observed, “there are so many who will keep a patriot in

countenance now-a-days, for merely changing sides in politics. A man is

not even thought to be a man of talents till he gets something by his

talents. The bargain he makes--the price he gains--is, in most people’s

estimation, the value of the public man.”

All this Vivian said to himself to quiet his conscience; and all this,

he knew, would be _abundantly satisfactory_ to the generality of people

with whom he associated; therefore, from them he could fear neither

reproach nor contempt: but he could not bear even to think of

Russell--he felt all the pangs of remorse, and agony of shame, as the

idea of such a friend came into his mind. Again he turned in his bed,

and groaned aloud--so loud, that Lady Sarah wakened, and, starting up,

asked what was the matter; but receiving no answer, she imagined that

she had been in a dream, or that her husband had spoken in his sleep.

He groaned no more, nor did he even sigh: but fatigued with thinking and

with feeling, he at last fell into a sort of slumber, which lasted till

it was time to rise. Before Vivian was dressed, Lord Glistonbury called

upon him--he went into his dressing-room. His lordship came with his

best address, and most courteous face of persuasion; he held out his

hand, in a frank and cordial manner, as he entered, begging his dear

son’s pardon for the warmth and want of temper, he was free to confess,

he had shown last night; but he was persuaded, he said, that Vivian knew

his sincere regard for him, and convinced that, in short, they should

never _essentially_ differ: so that he was determined to come to talk

the matter over with him when they were both cool; and that he felt

assured that Vivian, after a night’s reflection, would always act so

as to justify his preference of his son-in-law to his nephew, hey,

Vivian?--Lord Glistonbury paused for an answer--Vivian cut himself as he

was shaving, and was glad of a moment’s reprieve; instead of answering,

he only exclaimed, “Cursed razor! cut myself!--My lord, won’t you sit

down? will you do me the honour to--”

Lord Glistonbury seated himself; and, in regular order, with his

tiresome parade of expletives, went through all the arguments that could

be adduced to prove the expediency of Vivian’s taking this place, and

assisting him, as he had taken it for granted his son-in-law would,

on such an occasion. The letters of the great and little men who had

negotiated the business of the marquisate were then produced, and

an account given of all that had passed _in confidence_; and Lord

Glistonbury finished by saying that the affair was absolutely concluded,

he having passed his word and pledged his honour for Vivian; that he

would not have spoken or acted for him if he had not felt that he was,

when acting for his son-in-law, in fact acting for himself--his second

self; that there had been no time to wait, no possibility of consulting

Vivian; that the whole plan was suggested yesterday, in two hours after

the house broke up, and was arranged in the evening; that search and

inquiries had been made every where for Vivian; but, as he could not be

found, Lord Glistonbury said he had ventured to decide for him, and, as

he hoped, for his interest and for that of the family; and the thing,

now done, could not be undone: his lordship’s word was sacred, and could

not be retracted.

Vivian, in a feeble, irresolute tone, asked if there was no possibility

of his being allowed to decline the place that was offered him, and

suggested that he could take a middle course; to avoid voting against

his lordship’s wishes, he could, and he believed that he would, accept

of the Chiltern Hundreds, and go out of parliament for the session.

Lord Glistonbury remonstrated against what he termed the madness of the

scheme.

“A man like you, my dear Vivian, who have distinguished yourself so

much already in opposition, who will distinguish yourself so much more

hereafter in place and in power----”

“No,” said Vivian, rising as he finished shaving himself; “no, my lord,

I shall never more distinguish myself, if I abandon the principles I

believe to be just and true. What eloquence I have--if I have any--has

arisen from my being in earnest: I shall speak ill--I shall not be able

to speak at all--when I get up against my conscience.”

“Oh!” said Lord Glistonbury, laughing, “your romantic patriotism may be

very nice in its feelings; but, believe me, it will not deprive you of

the use of your speech. Look at every one of the fine orators of our

times, and name me one, if you can, who has not spoken, and spoken

equally well, on both sides of the house; ay, and on both sides of most

political questions. Come, come, you’ll find you will get on quite as

well as they got on before you, hey?”

“You will find that I shall be of no use to you--that I shall be a dead

weight on your hands.”

“You a dead weight! you, who are formed to be--now, really, without

flattery--you know there’s no occasion for flattery between you and

me--to be the soul, and, in time, the head of a party----Stay!--I know

all you are going to say, but give me leave to judge--You know there’s

my own nephew, a very clever young man, no doubt, he is allowed to be;

and yet, you see, I make no comparison between you. I assure you I am a

judge in these matters, and you see the house has confirmed my judgment;

and, what is more--for I can keep nothing from you--if it won’t make you

too vain, and make you set too high a price upon yourself, which will be

very troublesome in the present case; but, I say, be that as it may,

I will frankly own to you, that I believe you have been of essential

service in procuring me this great favourite object of my life, the

marquisate.”

“I, my lord! impossible!--for I never took the slightest step toward

procuring it.”

“Pardon me, you took the most effectual step, without knowing it,

perhaps. You spoke so well in opposition, that you made it the interest

of ministry to _muzzle you_; and there was no way so effectual of

getting at you as through me, I being your father-in-law and you my

heir. You don’t see the secret concatenation of these things with a

glance as I do, who have been used to them so long. And there was no way

of coming to the point with me without the marquisate--that was my _sine

qua non_; and you see I gained my point--by your means, chiefly, I am

free to allow--though Marmaduke would gladly persuade me it was by his

negotiating. But I do you justice; I did you justice, too, in more than

words, when I stipulated for that place for you, which, in fact, I knew

you could not go on much longer without. So, my dear Vivian, all this

explained to our mutual satisfaction, we have nothing more to do but to

shake hands upon it and go down stairs; for I have engaged myself and

Secretary----to breakfast with you, and he has _full powers_, and is to

carry back our _capitulation_--and,” continued Lord Glistonbury, looking

out of the window, “here’s our friend’s carriage.”

“Oh, my lord, it is not yet too late!” cried Vivian; “it may yet be

arranged otherwise. Is there no way--no possibility----”

A loud knock at the house door.

“I wish to Heaven, my lord!----”

“So do I wish to Heaven, with all my soul, that you would finish this

nonsense, my dear Vivian, and come down to breakfast. Come, come,

come!--Hey, hey, hey!--This is absolutely too ridiculous, and I must go,

if you don’t. Only consider a political breakfast of this nature!”

Lord Glistonbury hurried down stairs:--reluctantly, and with a heavy

heart and repugnant conscience, Vivian followed. At this instant, he

wished for Russell, to prevent what he knew would be the consequence of

this interview. But Russell was absent--the keeper of his conscience,

the supporter of his resolution, was not at hand. Woe to him who is not

the keeper of his own conscience--the supporter of his own resolution!

The result of this political breakfast was just what every reader,

who knows the world but half as well as Lord Glistonbury knew it, has

probably long since anticipated. The capitulation of the patriots of

the Glistonbury band, with Vivian at their head, was settled. Lord

Glistonbury lost no character by this transaction, for he had none to

lose--he was quite at his ease, or quite callous. But Vivian bartered,

for a paltry _accommodation_ of his pecuniary difficulties, a reputation

which stood high in the public opinion--which was invaluable in his

own--which was his last stake of happiness. He knew this--he felt it

with all the anguish of exquisite but USELESS sensibility.

Lord Glistonbury and his new friend, Secretary ----, who was a man of

wit as well as a politician, rallied Vivian upon his gravity and upon

his evident depression of spirits.

“Really, my dear Vivian,” cried Lord Glistonbury, “my patience is now

exhausted, and I must not let you expose yourself here, before our

friend, as a novice--Hey! hey!--Why, will you never open your eyes, and

see the world as it is! Why! what!--Did you never read the fable of the

dog and his master’s meat?--Well! it is come to that now in England;

and he is a foolish dog, indeed, who, when he can’t save the meat, won’t

secure his share--hey?”

His lordship and the secretary laughed in concert.

“Look, how Vivian preserves his solemnity!” continued Lord Glistonbury;

“and he really looks as if he was surprised at us. My dear Vivian, it

requires all my knowledge of your _bonne foi_ to believe that you are in

earnest, and not acting the part of a patriot of _older_ times.”

“Oh!” cried the secretary, with a facetious air, “Mr. Vivian assuredly

knows, as well as we do, that--

‘A patriot is a fool in ev’ry age, Whom all lord chamberlains allow the

stage.’

But off the stage we lay aside heroics, or how should we ever get

on?--Did you hear, my lord,” continued the secretary, turning to Lord

Glistonbury, “that there is another blue riband fallen in to us by the

death of Lord G----?”

“I had a great regard for poor Lord G----. Many applications, I suppose,

for the vacant riband?”

From the vacant riband they went on to talk over this man’s pension and

the other man’s job; and considered who was to get such and such a

place when such and such a person should resign or succeed to something

better. Then all the miserable mysteries of ministerial craft were

unveiled to Vivian’s eyes. He had read, he had heard, he had believed,

that public affairs were conducted in this manner; but he had never,

till now, actually seen it: he was really novice enough still to feel

surprise at finding that, after all the fine professions made on all

sides, the main, the only object of these politicians, was to keep their

own, or to get into the places of others. Vivian felt every moment his

disgust and his melancholy increase. “And it is with these people I

have consented to act! And am I to be hurried along by this stream of

corruption to infamy and oblivion! Then Russell--”

Vivian resolved to retract the engagement he had just made with Lord

Glistonbury and the secretary, and he waited only for a pause in their

conversation to explain himself. But, before any pause occurred, more

company came in,--the secretary hurried away, saying to Vivian, who

would have stopped him at the door, “Oh, my dear sir, every thing is

settled now, and you must be with us in the house to-night--and you will

find the whole business will go on as smoothly as possible, if gentlemen

will but act together, and strengthen the hands of government. I beg

pardon for breaking away--but so many people are waiting for me--and any

thing further we can settle when we meet in the house.”

Lord Glistonbury also refused to listen to farther explanations--said

that all was settled, and that it was impossible to make any

recantations.

CHAPTER XV.

The hour of going to the House of Commons at length arrived; Lord

Glistonbury saw that Vivian was so much out of spirits, and in such

confusion of mind, that he began to fear that our hero’s own account

of himself was just, and that he would not be able to command ideas,

or even words, when he was to speak in opposition to what he called his

principles and his conscience. “This son of mine, instead of being our

great Apollo, will be a dead weight on our hands, unless we can contrive

to raise his spirits.”

So, to raise his spirits, Lord Glistonbury accompanied him to the

coffee-room of the house, and insisted upon his taking some refreshment

before he should attempt to speak. His lordship _fortified_ him with

bumper after bumper, till at last Vivian came up to the speaking point.

He took his seat in his new place in the house, and, endeavouring

to brave away the sense of shame, rose to speak. Notwithstanding the

assistance of the wine, and the example of Mr. Marmaduke Lidhurst, who

spoke before him with undaunted assurance, Vivian could scarcely get on

with a hesitating, confused, inconsistent speech, uttered in so low and

indistinct a voice, that the reporters in the gallery complained that

they could not catch this honourable member’s meaning, or that his words

did not reach them. Conscious of his failure, and still more conscious

of its cause, he retired again to the coffee-room as soon as he had

finished speaking, and again Lord Glistonbury plied him with wine,

saying that he would find he would _do very well in reply_ presently.

It happened that Lord Glistonbury was called away--Vivian remained. Mr.

Wharton, with a party of his friends, entered the coffee-room. Wharton

seemed much heated both with wine and anger--he was talking eagerly

to the gentlemen with him, and he pronounced the words, “Infamous

conduct!--Shabby!--Paltry fellow!” so loud, that all the coffee-room

turned to listen. Colonel S----, a gentleman who was one of Wharton’s

party, but who had a good opinion of Vivian, at this moment took him by

the arm, and, drawing him aside, whispered, in confidence, that he was

persuaded there had been some _mistake_ in the arrangements, which, as

it was reported, Lord Glistonbury had just made with the ministry, for

that Mr. Wharton and many of his lordship’s former party, complained of

having been shamefully deserted. “And to break our word and honour

to our party, is a thing no gentleman _can_ do. Wharton had a direct

promise from his lordship, that he never would _come in_ till he should

_come in_ along with him. And now it is confidently said, that Lord

Glistonbury has made his bargain for his own marquisate, and provided

only for himself, his nephew, and his son-in-law.”

Thrown into the utmost consternation by the idea of this double

forfeiture of honour, this breach both of public and private faith,

Vivian, after thanking Colonel S---- for his friendly manner of

communicating this information, and declaring that the transaction was

totally unknown to him, begged that the colonel would do him the favour

and the justice to be present when he should require an explanation from

Lord Glistonbury. To this Colonel S---- consented, and they hastened

in search of his lordship: his lordship was not to be found; but Mr.

Marmaduke Lidhurst was, however, in the coffee-room, and upon Vivian’s

referring to him, he could not deny the truth of the charge, though he

used all his powers of circumlocution to evade giving a direct answer.

The shame, the indignation, that rapidly succeeded to each other in

Vivian’s countenance, sufficiently convinced Colonel S---- that he had

no share in the _private_ part of this disgraceful transaction; and he

very handsomely assured Vivian, that he would set the matter in its

true point of view with his friends. Marmaduke soon found a pretence to

withdraw--some member was speaking in the house, whom he must hear, he

said, and away he went.

At this moment Mr. Wharton, who was walking down the room with his

friends, passed by Vivian, and, as he passed, said,

“That _private vices are public benefits_, we all know; but that public

vices are private benefits, some of us, alas! have yet to learn. But I’d

have that little, whiffling, _most noble and puissant prince_ expectant,

his majesty’s _right trusty and entirely beloved cousin_ elect, know,

that plain Bob Wharton is not a man to be duped and deserted with

impunity.”

“Whom does he mean?--What does he mean?” whispered some of the

bystanders. “What prince is he talking of?--Which of the princes?”

“Oh! none of the princes,” replied another. “You know _most noble and

puissant prince_ is the title of a marquis, and _our right trusty and

entirely beloved cousin_, the style in which the king writes to him.”

“But who is this marquis expectant?”

“Don’t you know?--Lord Glistonbury.”

“But some of his lordship’s friends ought to take it up, surely.”

“Hush!--his son-in-law will hear you.”

“Where?”

“There--don’t look!”

Vivian was, with reason, so much exasperated by the treacherous

duplicity of Lord Glistonbury’s conduct, that he was ill inclined to

undertake his lordship’s defence, and determined to leave it to himself,

or to his nephew; yet the whispers operated not a little upon his

weakness. Wharton, who was walking with his set up and down the room,

again came within Vivian’s hearing, and, as he passed, exclaimed,

“_Public vice!_ and _public virtue!_ precious, well-matched pair!”

“Who is _public vice_, and who is _public virtue_?” said one of

Wharton’s companions.

“Don’t you know?” replied Wharton: “the heir-at-law and the son-in-law.”

On hearing this speech, Vivian, who knew that he was one of the persons

to whom it alluded, started forward to demand an explanation from

Wharton: but Colonel S---- held him back. “You are not called upon, by

any means, to take notice of this,” said the colonel: “Wharton did not

address himself to you, and though he might mean what he said for you,

yet he speaks under a false impression; and besides, he is not quite

sober. Leave it to me, and I will settle it all to your satisfaction

before to-morrow.” Vivian listened unwillingly and uneasily to the

friendly counsel: he was more hurt than he had ever before felt himself

by any of Wharton’s sarcasms, because there was now in them a mixture of

truth; and a man seldom feels more irritable than when he is conscious

that he is partly to blame, and apprehensive that others will think him

more blameable than he really is. His irritability was increased by

the whispers he had heard, and the looks he now perceived among the

bystanders: the voice, the opinion of numbers, the fear of what others

would think or say, operated against his better judgment.

“Come,” said Colonel S----, “let us go and see what they are doing in

the house.”

Vivian refused to stir, saying that it would be leaving the field

to Wharton. Wharton at this instant repassed; and still running the

changes, with half-intoxicated wit, upon the same ideas, reiterated,

“_Public vice!_--We all knew where _that_ would end in these days--in

public honours; but none of you would believe me, when I told you where

_public virtue_ would end--in private treachery!”

“That’s neat!--that’s strong!--faith, that’s home!” whispered some one.

“Mr. Wharton!” cried Vivian, going up to him, “I could not help hearing

what you said just now--did you intend it for me?”

“You heard it, it seems, sir, and that is sufficient,” replied Wharton,

in an insolent tone: “as to what I meant, I presume it is pretty

evident; but, if you think it requires any explanation, I am as ready to

give as you can be to ask it.”

“The sooner the better, then, sir,” said Vivian. The two gentlemen

walked away together, whilst the spectators exclaimed, “Very spirited

indeed!--very right!--very proper!--Vivian could do no less than call

him out. But, after all, what was the quarrel about? Which of them was

to blame?”

Long before these points were settled, the challenge was given and

accepted. Colonel S----, who followed Vivian and Wharton, endeavoured

to set things to rights, by explaining that Vivian had been deceived

by Lord Glistonbury, and kept totally in the dark respecting the

negotiation for the marquisate. But Wharton, aware that by _taking up

the matter immediately in such a spirited way_ he should do himself

infinite honour with his party, and with that majority of the world who

think that the greatest merit of a man is to stand to be shot at,

was not at all willing to listen to these representations. Colonel

S----declared that, were he in Mr. Wharton’s place, he should, without

hesitation, make an apology to Mr. Vivian, and publicly acknowledge that

what he said in the coffee-room was spoken under a false impression,

which a plain statement of facts had totally removed: but Wharton

disdained all terms of accommodation; his policy, pride, and desire of

revenge, all conspired to produce that air of insolent determination

to fight, which, with some people, would obtain the glorious name of

COURAGE. By this sort of courage can men of the most base and profligate

characters often put themselves in a moment upon an equal footing with

men of principle and virtue!

It was settled that Mr. Wharton and Vivian should meet, at eight o’clock

the next morning, in a field near town. Colonel S---- consented to be

Vivian’s second. Russell was not yet returned--not expected till ten the

next day.

Left to his cool reflection, Vivian thought with horror of the misery

into which the event of this duel might involve all with whom he was

connected, and all who were attached to him. The affair was of course to

be kept a secret from all at Glistonbury House, where Vivian was engaged

to dine with a large ministerial party. He went home to dress, hoping

to have a quarter of an hour to himself; but, on entering his own

dressing-room, he, to his surprise and mortification, found his wife

seated there, waiting for him with a face of anxious expectation; a case

of newly-set diamonds on a table beside her. “I thought you were at your

father’s, my dear: are you not to be at Glistonbury House to-day?” said

Vivian.

“No,” replied Lady Sarah. “Surely, Mr. Vivian, you know that my father

gives a political dinner, and I suppose you are to be there?”

“Oh, yes!” cried Vivian; “I did not know what I was saying--I am to

be there, and must dress (looking at his watch), for I have no time to

spare.”

“Be that as it may, I must intrude upon your time for a few minutes,”

said Lady Sarah.

Vivian stood impatiently attentive, whilst Lady Sarah seemed to find it

difficult to begin some speech which she had prepared.

“Women, I know, have nothing to do with politics,” she began in

a constrained voice; but, suddenly quitting her air and tone of

constraint, she started up and exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, _dear_ husband!

what have you done?--No, no, I cannot, will not believe it, till I hear

it from your OWN lips!”

“What is the matter, my dear Lady Sarah?--You astonish and almost alarm

me!” said Vivian, endeavouring to preserve composure of countenance.

“I will not--Heaven forbid that I should alarm you as I have been

alarmed!” said Lady Sarah, commanding her voice again to a tone of

tranquillity. “I ought, and, if I were not weak, should be convinced

that there is no reason for alarm. There has been some mistake, no

doubt; and I have been to blame for listening to idle reports. Let

me, however, state the facts. Half an hour ago, I was at Gray’s the

jeweller’s, to call for my poor mother’s diamonds, which, you know, he

has reset----”

“Yes--Well!”

“And whilst I was in the shop, a party of gentlemen came in, all of them

unknown to me, and, of course, I was equally unknown to them; for they

began to speak of you in a manner in which none knowing me could venture

in my presence. They said--I cannot bear to repeat or to think of

what they said--you cannot have bartered your public reputation for

a marquisate for my father!--You cannot have done that which is

dishonourable--you cannot have deserted your party for a paltry place

for yourself!--You turn pale.--I wish, if it pleased God, that I was

this moment in my grave!”

“Heaven forbid, my dear Lady Sarah!” cried Vivian, forcing a smile, and

endeavouring to speak in a tone of raillery. “Why should you wish to

be in your grave, because your husband has just got a good warm place?

Live! live!” said he, raising her powerless hand; “for consider--as I

did--and this consideration was of no small weight with me--consider, my

dear Sarah, how much better you will live for it!”

“And you did consider me? And that _did_ weigh with you?”

“--Oh, this is what I dreaded most!” cried Lady Sarah.--“When will you

know my real character? When will you have confidence in your wife, sir?

When will you know the power, the unconquered, unconquerable power of

her affection for you?”

Vivian, much struck by the strength of her expression as she uttered

these words, was a moment silent in astonishment; and then could only,

in an incoherent manner, protest, that he did know--that he had always

done justice to her character--that he believed in her affection--and

had the greatest confidence in its power.

“No, sir, no!--Do not say that which I cannot credit!--You have not

confidence in the power of my affection, or you would never have done

this thing to save me pain. What pain can be so great to me as the

thought of my husband’s reputation suffering abasement?--Do you think

that, in comparison with this, I, your wife, could put the loss of a

service of plate, or house in town, or equipage, or servants, or such

baubles as these?” added she, her eyes glancing upon the diamonds; then,

snatching them up, “Take them, take them!” cried she; “they were my

mother’s; and if her spirit could look down from heaven upon us she

would approve my offer--she would command your acceptance. Then here on

my knees I conjure you, my beloved husband, take them--sell them--sell

plate, furniture, house, equipage, sell every thing rather than your

honour!”

“It is sold,” said Vivian, in a voice of despair.

“Redeem it, redeem it at any price!” cried Lady Sarah. “No! I will kneel

here at your feet--you shall not raise me--till I have obtained this

promise, this justice to me, to yourself!”

“It is too late,” said Vivian, writhing in agony.

“Never too late,” cried Lady Sarah. “Give up the place.--Never too

late!--Give up the place--write this moment, and all will be well; for

your honour will be saved, and the rest is as nothing in my eyes!”

“High-minded woman!” cried Vivian: “why did not I hear you sooner? Why

did not I avail myself of your strength of soul?”

“Use it now--hear me now--let us waste no time in words--here is a pen

and ink--write, my dearest husband! and be yourself again.”

“You waste the energy of your mind on me,” cried Vivian, breaking from

Lady Sarah, and striking his forehead violently; “I am not worthy of

such attachment! It is done--it cannot be undone: I am a weak, ruined,

dishonoured wretch!--I tell you, it CANNOT be undone!”

Lady Sarah rose, and stood in despair. Then, looking up to heaven, she

was silent for some moments. After which, approaching her husband, she

said, in an altered, calm voice, “Since it cannot be undone, I will urge

you no more. But, whether in glory or in shame, you are secure that your

wife will abide by you.”

Vivian embraced her with a tenderness which he had never before felt.

“Excellent woman! in justice to myself, I must tell you,” cried he,

“that I was deceived into this situation. I CAN say no more!”

At this moment a servant knocked at the door, bringing a message from

Lord Glistonbury, to say that all the company were assembled, and that

dinner waited for Mr. Vivian.

“You are not in a fit state to go. Shall I send an apology to my

father?”

“Oh, no! I must go,” cried Vivian, starting up, “I must go, or it will

be thought--or it will be suspected--I can’t explain it to you, my dear;

but I must go--I must _appear_ to-day, and in spirits too, if possible.”

He hurried away. A servant delivered to Lady Sarah a number of notes

and cards. The notes were notes of congratulation, from many of her

acquaintance, upon the report in circulation, that her father was

immediately to be a marquis. The cards were from people who were to be

at her assembly that night. This was one of _her nights_, which were

usually crowded. Lady Sarah’s first wish was to write apologies, and to

say that she was not well enough to see company; but, recollecting

that her husband had said, “he must _appear_, and in spirits, too, if

possible,” she thought that it might be more for their interest, and

according to his wishes, that she should see company, and that no

appearance of dejection should be discerned in his wife. She prepared

herself accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, walked through her

splendid apartments, to see whether the decorations had been properly

executed.

In the mean time Vivian dined at Lord Glistonbury’s, with a large

ministerial party. As soon as he could, after dinner, Vivian got away;

and Lord Glistonbury attributed his retiring early to the awkwardness

he might feel in the company of men whom he had, till now, so violently

opposed. This his lordship thought a foolish _young man’s feeling,_

which would soon wear away. Vivian returned home, anxious to escape from

crowds, and to have some hours of leisure to pass alone; but, the moment

he entered his own house, he saw the great staircase lined with roses

and orange-trees; he found the rooms lighted up and prepared for

company; and Lady Sarah dressed, for the first time, in all her mother’s

diamonds.

“Good Heavens!--Do you see company to-night?” cried he.

“Yes; for I thought, my dear, that you would wish it.”

“I wish it!--Oh! if you knew how I wish to be alone!”

“Then, as no one is yet come, I can still shut my doors, and order them

to say that I am not well enough to see company--I am sure it is true.

Shall I?”

“No, my dear, it is too late,” said Vivian: “I am afraid it is

impossible for you to do that.”

“Not impossible, if you wish it.”

“Well, do as you please.”

“Which is most for your interest? I have no other pleasure.”

“You are too good to me, and I fear I shall never have it in my power to

show you any gratitude----”

“But decide which is best to be done, my dear,” said Lady Sarah.

“Why, my dear, I believe you judged rightly--see your friends, and make

the best of it: but I can appear only for a moment; I have business of

consequence--letters--papers--that must be finished to-night; and I must

go now to my study.”

“You shall not be interrupted,” said Lady Sarah: “I will exert myself as

much as possible.”

A tremendous knock at the door.--Vivian passed through the saloon,

and gained his study, where, after remaining for some time in painful

reflection, he was roused by hearing the clock strike twelve. He

recollected that he had several arrangements to make in his affairs

this night; and that it was incumbent on him to sign and execute a will,

which had been for some time in his possession, with certain blanks not

yet filled up. His wife was, by his marriage settlements, amply provided

for; but he inserted in his will some clauses which he thought would add

to her peculiar comfort, and took care to word them so that his respect

and esteem should be known hereafter to all the world; and that, if

he died, he should leave her the consolation of knowing that his last

feelings for her were those of gratitude and affection. To his mother

he left all that was in his power to contribute to the ease of her

declining years--often obliged to pause whilst he wrote, overcome by

the thoughts of what her grief would be if he died. He left his friend

Russell _in remainder_, to a considerable part of his estate; and he was

just adding the bequest of certain books, which they had read together

in his better days, when the door of the study suddenly opened, and his

mother entered.

“What is all this?” cried she: “immersed in papers at such a time as

this!”

“I so hate crowded assemblies,” said Vivian, huddling his papers

together, and advancing to meet his mother.

“So do I,” said Lady Mary; “but I have been waiting with exemplary

patience where I was stationed by Lady Sarah, at the card-table,

every instant expecting your arrival, that I might have a few minutes’

conversation with you, and inquire how matters went on at the house, and

congratulate----”

Before she had finished the word _congratulate_, she stopped short; for

she had, by this time, a full view of her son’s countenance: and she

knew that countenance so well, that it was impossible to disguise it so

as to deceive her maternal penetration.

“My dear son!” said she, “something is going wrong: I conjure you, tell

me what is the matter!”--Her eye glanced upon the parchments, and she

saw that it was a will. Vivian forced a laugh; and asked her if she

had the weakness some people felt, of disliking to see a will, or of

fancying that a man was going to die if he made his will. Then, to quiet

her apprehensions, and to put a stop to her farther inquiries, he threw

aside his papers, and returned with her to the company, where he exerted

himself to appear as gay as the occasion required. Lord Glistonbury, who

had called in for a few moments, was now playing the great man, as well

as his total want of dignity of mind and manners would permit; he was

answering, in whispers, questions about his marquisate, and sustaining

with all his might his new part of the friend of government. Every thing

conspired to strike Vivian with melancholy--yet he constrained himself

so far, that his _charming spirits_ delighted all who were uninterested

in observing any but the external signs of gaiety; but his mother saw

that his vivacity was forced. She made inquiries from all the gentlemen

of her acquaintance about what had passed the preceding day both at the

House of Commons, and to-day at the dinner at Lord Glistonbury’s: but

those who had been at Lord Glistonbury’s dinner assured her that every

thing had been as amicable as could be; and his ministerial friends said

that every thing had gone on as smoothly as possible at the house:

of what had passed between Mr. Wharton and Vivian in the coffee-room

_nobody could_ give her an account. Baffled, but not satisfied, the

anxious mother sent to the hotel where Mr. Russell lodged, to inquire

whether he was returned to town, and to beg to see him immediately. From

him, she thought, she should learn the truth; or, by his influence over

her son, she hoped that, if there was any danger of a quarrel, it

might be in time prevented. Her servant, however, brought word that

Mr. Russell was not expected from the country till ten o’clock the

next morning; but that her note would be given to him directly on

his arrival. She applied herself next to the study of her daughter’s

countenance, whilst she asked two or three questions, calculated to

discover whether Lady Sarah was under any anxiety about Vivian. But

though Lady Sarah’s countenance exhibited not the slightest variation

under this trial, yet this tranquillity was by no means decisively

satisfactory; because, whatever might be her internal agitation, she

knew that Lady Sarah _could_ maintain the same countenance. Lady Sarah,

who plainly discerned her mother’s anxious curiosity, thought it her

duty to keep her husband’s secrets; and, imagining that she knew the

whole truth, was not farther alarmed by these hints, nor did they lead

her to suspect the real state of the case.

Lady Mary was at length tolerably well satisfied, by a conversation with

her son; during the course of which she settled in her imagination that

he had only been inserting in his will a bequest to his friend Russell;

and that the depression of his spirits arose from the struggle he had

had in determining to vote against his patriotic ideas. She rose to

depart; and Vivian, as he conducted her down stairs, and put her into

her carriage, could scarcely repress his feelings; and he took so tender

a leave of her, that all her apprehensions revived; but there was a

cry of “_Lady--somebody’s_ carriage!” and Lady Mary’s coachman drove

on immediately, without giving her time for one word more. After his

mother’s departure, Vivian, instead of returning to the company, went to

his study, and took this opportunity of finishing his will; but as the

servants were all in attendance at supper he could not get any body to

witness it; and for this he was obliged to wait till a very late hour,

when all the company at last departed. The rattle of carriages at length

died away; and when all was silence, just as he was about to ring for

his witnesses, he heard Lady Sarah’s step coming along the corridor

towards the study: he went out immediately to meet her, drew her arm

within his affectionately, and took two or three turns with her, up and

down the empty saloon, whilst a servant was extinguishing the lights.

Vivian’s mind was so full that he could not speak; and he was scarcely

conscious that he had not spoken, till Lady Sarah broke the silence by

asking if he had finished his business.

“No, my dear, I have more to do yet; but you will oblige me if you will

go to rest--you must be fatigued--mind and body.”

“_You_ seem fatigued almost to death,” said Lady Sarah: “and cannot you

finish the remainder of your business as well to-morrow?”

“No,” replied Vivian; “it must be finished before to-morrow. I am bound

in duty to finish it before to-morrow.”

“If it is a point of duty, I have no more to say,” replied Lady Sarah;

“but,” continued she, in a tone of proud humility, “but if I might so

far intrude upon your confidence, as to inquire----”

“Make no inquiries, my dear; for I cannot answer any, even of yours,”

said Vivian. “And let me beg of you to go to rest; my mind will then

be more at ease. I cannot command my thoughts whilst I am anxious about

you; and I am anxious--more anxious than ever I was in my life--about

you at this moment. You will oblige me if you will go to rest.”

“I CANNOT rest, but I will leave you, since you desire it--I have no

idle curiosity--Good night!”

“Good night! and thank you once more, my excellent wife, for all your

kindness.”

“There cannot be a better woman!” said Vivian to himself as she retired.

“Why have I not loved her as she deserved to be loved? If I live, I will

do my utmost to make her happy--if I live, I will yet repair all. And,

if I die, she will have but little reason to deplore the loss of such a

husband.”

Vivian now executed his will--wrote several letters of business--burnt

letters and arranged papers--regretted that Russell, who was to be his

executor, was not near him--made many bitter reflections on the past,

many good resolutions for the future, in case he should survive; then,

overpowered with fatigue of mind, slept for some time, and was awakened

by the clock striking seven. By eight o’clock he was at the place

appointed--Mr. Wharton appeared a few minutes afterwards. Their seconds

having measured out the distance, they took their ground. As Vivian

had given the challenge, Wharton had the first fire. He fired--Vivian

staggered some paces back, fired his pistol into the air, and fell.

The seconds ran to his assistance, and raised him from the ground. The

bullet had entered his chest. He stretched out his hand to Mr. Wharton

in token of forgiveness, and, as soon as he could speak, desired the

seconds to remember that it was he who gave the challenge, and that he

thought he deserved to bear the blame of the quarrel. Wharton, callous

as he was, seemed struck with pity and remorse: he asked what friends

Vivian would wish to have apprised of his situation. A surgeon was in

attendance. Vivian, faint from loss of blood, just pronounced Russell’s

name, and the name of the hotel where he was to be found, adding

“_nobody else_.” Wharton rode off, undertaking to find Mr. Russell;

and Vivian was carried into a little public-house, by the orders of the

surgeon, who thought that he could not bear the motion of a carriage.

Wharton met Mr. Russell, who was coming from town. He had come to London

earlier than he had intended, and, in consequence of Lady Mary Vivian’s

note, which he had received immediately on his arrival, had made such

inquiries as convinced him that her apprehensions were just; and having

discovered the place where the parties were to meet, he had hastened

thither, in hopes of preventing the fatal event. The moment he saw Mr.

Wharton he knew that he was too late. Without asking any other question

than, “Is Vivian alive?” he pressed forwards. The surgeon, who was the

next person he saw, gave him no hopes of his friend’s recovery, but said

he might last till night, or linger perhaps for a day or two. Vivian

had by this time recovered his senses and his speech; but when Russell

entered the room where he lay, he was so much struck by the grief in his

countenance that he could not recollect any one of the many things he

had to say. Russell, the firm Russell, was now quite overcome.

“Yes, my dear friend,” said Vivian; “this is the end of all your

care--of all your hopes of me!--Oh, my poor, poor mother! What will

become of her! Where can we find consolation for her!--You and Selina

Sidney! You know how fond my mother was of her--how fond she was of my

mother--till I, the cause of evil to all my friends, separated them.

You must reunite them. You must repair all. This hope--this hope of your

happiness, my beloved friend, will soothe my last moments!----How much

happier Selina will be with you than----”

Russell sobbed aloud.--“Yes, yield to your feelings, for I know how

strong they are,” said Vivian: “you, that have always felt more for me

than I have ever felt for myself! But it is well for you that my life

ends; for I have never been any thing but a torment and a disgrace to

you!--And yet I had good dispositions!--but there is no time for regret

about myself; I have others to think of, better worth thinking of.”

Vivian called for pen, ink, and paper, had himself raised in his bed,

and supported, whilst he wrote to Selina, and to his mother.

“Do not stop me,” cried he to Russell; “it is the only act of

friendship--the only thing I can do in this world now with pleasure, and

let me do it.”

His notes contained nearly what he had just said to Russell--he put them

open into his friend’s hand; then, good-natured to the last, Vivian took

up his pen again, with no small difficulty, and wrote a few affectionate

words to his wife. “She _well_ deserves this from me,” said he. “Be

a friend to her, Russell--when I am gone, she will, I know, want

consolation,” After Russell had assured him that he would do all he

desired, Vivian said, “I believe there is no one else in the world who

will regret my death, except, perhaps, Lady Julia Lidhurst. How

generous she was to forgive me!--Tell her, I remembered it when I was

dying!--Weakness, weakness of mind!--the cause of all my errors!----Oh,

Russell! how well you knew me from the first!--But all is over

now!--My experience can be of no use to me--Every thing swims before my

eyes.----One comfort is, I have not the blood of a fellow-creature

to answer for. My greatest error was making that profligate man my

friend--he was my ruin. I little thought, a few years ago, that I should

die by his hand--but I forgive him, as I hope to be forgiven myself! Is

the clergyman who was sent for come?--My dear Russell, this would be too

severe a task for you.--He is come? Then let me see him.”

Vivian was left for some time to his private devotions. The clergyman

afterwards summoned Russell to return:--he found his friend calmed and

resigned. Vivian stretched out his hand--thanked him once more--and

expired!

“Oh! worthy of a better fate!” thought Russell.--“With such a

heart!--With such talents!--And so young!--With only one fault of

character!--Oh, my friend! is it all over?--and all in vain?”

Vivian’s mother and widow arrived just at this moment; and Russell and

Lord Glistonbury, who followed breathless, could not stop them from

entering the apartment. The mother’s grief bordered on distraction; but

it found relief in tears and cries. Lady Sarah shed no tear, and uttered

no exclamation; but advancing, insensible of all opposition, to the bed

on which her dead husband lay, tried whether there was any pulse,

any breath left; then knelt down beside him in silent devotion. Lord

Glistonbury, striking his forehead continually, and striding up and down

the room, repeated, “I killed him!--I killed him!--I was the cause

of his death!--My victim!--My victim!--But take her away!--Take _her_

away--I cannot.--For mercy’s sake, force her away, Mr. Russell!”

“There is no need of force,” said Lady Sarah, rising, as her father

approached; “I am going to leave my husband for ever.”----Then, turning

to Mr. Russell, she inquired if his friend had left any message or

letter for her--desired to see the letter--retired with it--still

without shedding a tear--a few hours afterwards was taken ill, and,

before night, was delivered of a dead son.

Lady Sarah survived, but has never since appeared in what is called the

WORLD.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It is to be regretted that a word, used in the days of Charles II.

and still intelligible in our times, should have become obsolete; _viz_.

the feminine for intriguer--an _intriguess_. See the Life of Lord Keeper

North, whose biographer, in speaking of Lord Keeper Bridgeman, says,

“And what was worst of all, his family was no way fit for that place (of

Chancellor), his lady being a most violent INTRIGUESS in business.”

Had Mr. Walsingham lived in Ireland, even there he might have found

in the dialect of the lower Irish both a substantive and a verb, which

would have expressed his idea. The editor once described an individual

of the Beaumont species to an Irish labourer, and asked what he would

call such a person--“I’d call her a policizer--I would say she was fond

of policizing.”

[2] Life of Admiral Roddam, Monthly Magazine.

[3] This reminds us of an expression of Charles the Second--“It is very

strange, that every one of my friends keeps a _tame knave_”--_Note by

the Editor_.

[4] Young wild ducks.

[5] _Note by the Editor_.--It is much to be regretted that the original

papers belonging to this correspondence, including all the notes and

letters, which Mrs. Beaumont either wrote herself, or those, still

more important, which she caused to be written by her confidential

amanuensis, which would doubtless form all together a body _of domestic

diplomacy equally curious and useful_, are irrecoverably lost to the

world. After the most diligent search, the Editor is compelled to

rest under the persuasion that they must all have been collected and

committed to the flames by the too great prudence of the principal party

concerned. Had they been trusted to the discretion of a _friend_, the

public would, doubtless, long since have been favoured with the whole.

[6] See Bacon on Cunning.

[7] See Annual Register, 1761, for an entertaining account of the trial

of Mr. M’Naughton.

[8] Supposed to be from the pen of Mr. Twigg, who was presented with a

living in the gift of Mrs. Beaumont.

[9] Literally copied from a family receipt-book in the author’s

possession.

[10] From some lines of Delille’s, on Rousseau, concluding with the

following:--

“Malheureux! le trépas est donc ton seule asile! Ah! dans la tombe, au

moins, repose enfin tranquille! Ce beau lac, ces flots purs, ces fleurs,

ces gazons frais, Ces pâles peupliers, tout t’invite à la paix. Respire,

donc, enfin, de tes tristes chimères. Vois accourir vers toi les époux,

et les mères. Contemple les amans, qui viennent chaque jour, Verser sur

ton tombeau les larmes de l’amour! Vois ce groupe d’enfans, se jouant

sous l’ombrage, Qui de leur liberté viennent te rendre hommage; Et dis,

en contemplant ce spectacle enchanteur, _Je ne fus point heureux, mais

j’ai fait leur bonheur_.”

Ill-fated mortal! doom’d, alas! to find The grave sole refuge from thy

restless mind. This turf, these flow’rs, this lake, this silent wave,

These poplars pale, that murmur o’er your grave, Invite repose.--Enjoy

the tranquil shore, Where vain chimeras shall torment no more. See to

thy tomb the wife and mother fly, And pour their sorrows where thy ashes

lie! Here the fond youth, and here the blushing maid, Whisper their

loves to thy congenial shade; And grateful children smiling through

their tears, Bless the loved champion of their youthful years: Then

cry, triumphant, from thy honour’d grave-- _Joyless I lived, but joy to

others gave_. C.S.E.

THE END.