Tales and Novels, Vol. V by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales and Novels, Vol. V

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"If I don't do as they do," thought he, "I shall be quite unfashionable.
Russell may say what he pleases, but it is necessary to yield to one's
companions in trifles.

'Whoever would be pleased and please,
Must do what others do with ease.'"

This couplet, which had been repeated to him by Wharton, recurred to
him continually; and thus Wharton, by slight means, in which he seemed
to have no interest or design, prepared Vivian for his purposes, by
working gradually on the easiness of his disposition. He always argued,
that it could not possibly signify what he did with an hour or two of
his day, till at last Vivian found that he had no hours of his own,
that his whole time was at the disposal of others; and now that he
really wanted leisure to consider an important question,--when his
credit, as a member of the senate, and as a man just entering political
life, depended on this decision,--he literally could not command time
to read over the necessary documents. So the appointed day arrived
before Vivian's opinion was formed; and, from mere want of time to
decide for himself, he voted as Wharton desired. Another and another
political question came on; the same causes operated, and the same
consequences ensued. Wharton managed with great address, so as to
prevent him from feeling that he gave up his freewill. Before Vivian
was aware of it, whilst he thought that he was perfectly independent of
all parties, public opinion had enrolled him amongst Wharton's
partisans. Of this Russell was the first to give him warning. Russell
heard of it amongst the political leaders who met at Lord Glistonbury's
dinners; and, knowing the danger there is of a young man's _committing_
himself on certain points, he, with the eagerness of a true friend,
wrote immediately to put Vivian upon his guard:--

"My Dear Vivian,

"I am just going into the country with Lord Lidhurst, and perhaps may
not return for some time. I cannot leave you without putting you on your
guard, once more, against Mr. Wharton. I understand that you are thought
to be one of his party, and that he countenances the report. Take care
that you are not bound hand and foot, before you know where you are.

"Your sincere friend,

"H. Russell."

With the natural frankness of his disposition, Vivian immediately spoke
to Wharton upon the subject.

"What! people say that you are one of my party, do they?" said
Wharton: "I never heard this before, but I am heartily glad to hear
it. You are in for it now, Vivian: you are one of us; and with us you
must stand or fall."

"Excuse me there!" cried Vivian; "I am not of any party; and am
determined to keep myself independent."

"Do you remember the honest Quaker's answer to the man of no party?"
said Wharton.

"No."

"I think it was about the year '40, when party disputes about Whig and
Tory ran high--but no matter what year, it will do for any time. A
gentleman of undeviating integrity, an independent man, just such a man
as Mr. Vivian, offered himself candidate for a town in the east, west,
north, or south of England--no matter where, it will do for any place;
and the first person whose vote he solicited was a Quaker, who asked him
whether he was a Whig or Tory?--'Neither. I am an independent, moderate
man; and when the members of administration are right, I will vote with
them--when wrong, against them.' 'And be these really thy principles?'
quoth the Quaker; 'then a vote of mine thou shalt never have. Thou seest
my door, it leadeth into the street; the right hand side of which is for
the Tory, the left for the Whigs; and for a cold-blooded moderate man,
like thee, there is the kennel, and into it thou wilt be jostled, for
thou beest not _decided_ enough for any other situation.'"

"But why should the moderate man be condemned to the kennel?" said
Vivian. "Was there no middle to your Quaker's road? A stout man cannot
be EASILY jostled into the kennel."

"Pshaw! pshaw!" said Wharton: "jesting out of the question, a man is
nothing in public life, or worse than nothing, a _trimmer_, unless HE
JOINS a party, and unless he abides by it, too."

"As long as the party is in the right, I presume, you mean," said
Vivian.

"Right or wrong'" cried Wharton, "a man must abide by his party. No
power, and no popularity, trust me, without it!--Better stride on the
greasy heads of the mob than be trampled under their dirtier feet. An
armed neutrality may be a good thing, but an unarmed neutrality is fit
only for fools. Besides, in Russell's grand style, I can bring down the
ancients upon you, and tell you that when the commonwealth is in danger
he cannot be a good man who sides with neither party."

"If it be so necessary to join a party, and if, after once joining it, I
must abide by it, right or wrong, for life," said Vivian, "it behoves me
to consider well, before I commit myself; and, before I go into the
ranks, I must see good reason to confide, not only in the abilities, but
in the integrity and public virtue of my leader."

"Public virtue! sounds fresh from college," said Wharton; "I would as
soon, and sooner, hear a schoolboy read his theme as hear a man begin to
prose about public virtue--especially a member of parliament. Keep that
phrase, my dear Vivian, till some of the treasury bench come to court
you; then look superb, like a French tragic actor, swelling out your
chest, and throwing the head over the left shoulder--thus--exclaim,
'Public virtue forbid!'--practise! practise!--for if you do it well, it
may be worth a loud huzza to you yet; or better still, a snug place or
pension. But stay till you're asked--stay till you're asked--that's the
etiquette; never till then let me hear public virtue come out of your
lips, else you'll raise suspicion of your virtue, and lower your price.
What would you think of a pretty actress who began to talk to you of her
reputation before you put it in any danger? Oh, Vivian! my honest
fellow! unless you would make me think you no better than thousands that
have gone before you, never let me hear from your lips again, till the
_proper_ time, the hypocritical state phrase--public virtue."

"I had always, till now, understood that it was possible to be a patriot
without being a hypocrite," replied Vivian; "I always understood that
Mr. Wharton was a patriot."

"A very fair sarcasm on me," said Wharton, laughing. "But you know, I'm
a sad dog; never set myself up for a pattern man.--Come! let's home to
dinner, and a truce with politics and morality. I find, Vivian, you're
a sturdy fellow, and must have your own way; no bending, no leading
you, I see. Well! it is a good thing to have so much strength of mind:
I envy you."

It must be recorded to the credit of our hero, that in defiance of
Wharton's raillery, he talked, and--oh! still more wonderful!--thought
of public virtue, during nearly half of his first session in parliament.
But, alas! whilst his political principles thus withstood the force of
ridicule, temptation soon presented itself to Vivian in a new shape, and
in a form so seducing, as to draw his attention totally away from
politics, and to put his private, if not his public, honour, in the most
imminent peril.

CHAPTER IV.

One morning, as Vivian was walking with Mr. Wharton up Bond-street, they
were met by a party of fashionable loungers, one of whom asked whether
Mrs. Wharton was not come to town yet.

"Mrs. Wharton!" said Vivian, with an air of surprise.

"Yes, she came to town this morning," said Wharton, carelessly; then
laughing, as he turned to look at Vivian, "Vivian, my good fellow! what
smites you with such surprise? Did not you know I was married?"

"I suppose I must have heard it; but I really forgot it," said Vivian.

"There you had the advantage of me," said Wharton, still laughing. "But
if you never heard of Mrs. Wharton before, keep your own secret; for I
can tell you she would never forgive you, though I might. Put a good
face on the matter, at any rate; and swear you've heard so much of her,
that you were dying to see her. Some of these gentlemen, who have
nothing else to do, will introduce you whenever you please."

"And cannot I," said Vivian, "have the honour of your introduction?"

"Mine! the worst you could possibly have. The honour, as you are pleased
to call it, would be no favour, I assure you. The honour!--honour of a
husband's introduction! What a novice you are, or would make me believe
you to be! But, seriously, I am engaged to-day at Glistonbury's: so,
good morning to you."

Accustomed to hear Wharton talk in the freest manner of women and
marriage in general, and scarcely having heard him mention his own wife,
Vivian had, as he said, absolutely forgotten that Wharton was a married
man. When he was introduced to Mrs. Wharton, he was still more surprised
at her husband's indifference; for he beheld a lady in all the radiance
of beauty, and all the elegance of fashion: he was so much dazzled by
her charms, that he had not immediately power or inclination to examine
what her understanding or disposition might be; and he could only repeat
to himself, "How is it possible that Wharton can be indifferent to such
a beautiful creature!"

Incapable of feeling any of what he, called the romance of love, the
passion, of course, had always been with Mr. Wharton of a very transient
nature. Tired of his wife's person, he showed his indifference without
scruple or ceremony. Notorious and glorying in his gallantries, he was
often heard to declare, that no price was too high to be paid for
beauty, except a man's liberty; but that was a sacrifice which he would
never make to any woman, especially to a wife. Marriage vows and
custom-house oaths he classed in the same order of technical
forms,--nowise binding on the conscience of any but fools and dupes.
Whilst the husband went on in this manner, the wife satisfied herself by
indulgence in her strongest passions--the passion for dress and public
admiration. Childishly eager to set the fashion in trifles, she spent
unconscionable sums on her pretty person; and devoted all her days, or
rather all her nights, to public amusements. So insatiable and restless
is the passion for admiration, that she was never happy for half an hour
together, at any place of public amusement, unless she fixed the gaze of
numbers. The first winter after her marriage she enjoyed the
prerogatives of a fashionable beauty; but the reign of fashion is more
transient even than the bloom of beauty. Mrs. Wharton's beauty soon grew
familiar, and faded in the public eye; some newer face was this season
the mode. Mrs. Wharton appeared twice at the opera in the most elegant
and becoming dresses; but no one followed her lead. Mortified and
utterly dejected, she felt, with the keenest anguish, the first symptoms
of the decline of public admiration. It was just at this period, when
she was miserably in want of the consolations of flattery, that Vivian's
acquaintance with her commenced. Gratified by the sort of delighted
surprise which she saw in his countenance the first moment he beheld
her, seeing that he was an agreeable man, and knowing that he was a man
of fortune and family, she took pains to please him by all the common
arts of coquetry. But his vanity was proof against these: the weakness
of the lady's understanding and the frivolity of her character were, for
some weeks, sufficient antidotes against all the power of her personal
charms; so much so, that at this period he often compared, or rather
contrasted, Mrs. Wharton and Selina, and blessed his happy fate. He
wrote to his friend Russell soon after he was introduced to this
celebrated beauty, and drew a strong and just parallel between the
characters of these two ladies: he concluded with saying,
"Notwithstanding your well-founded dread of the volatility of my
character, you will not, I hope, my dear Russell, do me the injustice to
apprehend that I am in any danger from the charms of Mrs. Wharton."

Vivian wrote with perfect sincerity; he believed it to be impossible
that he could ever become attached to such a woman as Mrs. Wharton, even
if she had not been married, and the wife of his friend. So, in all the
security of conscious contempt, he went every day to wait upon her, or
rather to meet agreeable company at her house,--a house in which all
that was fashionable and dissipated assembled; where beauty, and
talents, and rank, met and mingled; and where political or other
arrangements prevented the host and hostess from scrupulously excluding
some whose characters were not free from suspicion. Lady Mary Vivian
never went to Mrs. Wharton's; but she acknowledged that she knew many
ladies of unblemished reputation who thought it no impropriety to visit
there; and Mrs. Wharton's own character she knew was hitherto
unimpeached. "She is, indeed, a woman of a cold, selfish temper," said
Lady Mary; "not likely to be led into danger by the tender passion, or
by any of the delusions of the imagination."

Vivian agreed with his mother in this opinion, and went on paying his
devoirs to her every day. It was the fashion of the times, and
peculiarly the mode of this house, for the gentlemen to pay exclusive
attention to matrons. Few of the young men seemed to think it worth
while to speak to an unmarried woman in any company; and the few who
might be inclined to it were, as they declared, deterred by the danger:
for either the young ladies themselves, or their mothers, immediately
formed expectations and schemes of drawing them into matrimony--the
grand object of the ladies' wishes and of the gentlemen's fears. The men
said they could not speak to an unmarried woman, or even dance with her
more than twice, without its being reported that they were going to be
married; and then the friends and relatives of the young ladies
pretended to think them injured and ill-treated, if these reports were
not realized. Our hero had some slight experience of the truth of these
complaints in his own case with the Lady Sarah Lidhurst: he willingly
took the rest upon trust--believed all the exaggerations of his
companions--and began to think it prudent and necessary to follow their
example, and to confine his attentions to married women. Many
irresistible reasons concurred to make Mrs. Wharton the most convenient
and proper person to whom he could pay this sort of homage: besides, she
seemed to fall to his share by lot and necessity; for, at Wharton's
house, every other lady and every other gentleman being engaged in
gallantry, play, or politics, Mrs. Wharton must have been utterly
neglected if Vivian had not paid her some attention. Common politeness
absolutely required it; the attention became a matter of course, and was
habitually expected. Still he had not the slightest design of going
beyond the line of modern politeness; but, in certain circumstances,
people go wrong a great way before they are aware that they have gone a
single step. It was presently repeated to Mr. Vivian, by some of Mrs.
Wharton's confidantes, in whispers, and under the solemn promise of
secrecy, that he certainly was a prodigious favourite of hers. He
laughed, and affected to disbelieve the insinuation: it made its
impression, however; and he was secretly flattered by the idea of being
a prodigious favourite with such a beautiful young creature. In some
moments he saw her with eyes of compassion, pitying her for the neglect
with which she was treated by her husband: he began to attribute much of
her apparent frivolity, and many of her faults, more to the want of a
guide and a friend than to a deficiency of understanding or to defects
of character. Mrs. Wharton had just sufficient sense to be cunning--this
implies but a very small portion: she perceived the advantage which she
gained by thus working upon Vivian's vanity and upon his compassion. She
continued her operations, without being violently interested in their
success; for she had at first only a general wish to attract his
attention, because he was a fashionable young man.

One morning when be called upon Wharton to accompany him to the House of
Commons, he found Mrs. Wharton in tears, her husband walking up and down
the room in evident ill-humour. He stopped speaking when Vivian entered;
and Mrs. Wharton endeavoured, or seemed to endeavour, to conceal her
emotion. She began to play on her harp; and Wharton, addressing himself
to Vivian, talked of the politics of the day. There was some incoherence
in the conversation; for Vivian's attention was distracted by the air
that Mrs. Wharton was playing, of which he was passionately fond.

"There's no possibility of doing any thing while there is such a cursed
noise in the room!" cried Wharton. "Here I have the heads of this bill
to draw up--I cannot endure to have music wherever I go--"

He snatched up his papers and retired to an adjoining apartment, begging
that Vivian would wait one quarter of an hour for him.--Mrs. Wharton's
tears flowed afresh, and she looked beautiful in tears.

"You see--you see, Mr. Vivian--and I am ashamed you should see--how I am
treated.--I am, indeed, the most unfortunate creature upon the face of
the earth; and nobody in this world has the least compassion for me!"

Vivian's countenance contradicted this last assertion most
positively.--Mrs. Wharton understood this; and her attitude of
despondency was the most graceful imaginable.

"My dear Mrs. Wharton"--(it was the first time our hero had ever called
her "his dear Mrs. Wharton;" but it was only a platonic dear)--"you
take trifles much too seriously--Wharton was hurried by business--a
moment's impatience must be forgiven."

"A moment!" replied Mrs. Wharton, casting up to heaven her beautiful
eyes--"Oh! Mr. Vivian, how little do you know of him!--I am the most
miserable creature that ever existed; but there is not a man upon earth
to whom I would say so except yourself."

Vivian could not help feeling some gratitude for this distinction; and,
as he leaned over her harp with an air of unusual interest, he said he
hoped that he should ever prove himself worthy of her esteem and
confidence.

At this instant Wharton interrupted the conversation, by passing hastily
through the room.--"Come, Vivian," said he; "we shall be very late at
the house."

"We shall see you again of course at dinner," said Mrs. Wharton to
Vivian in a low voice. Our hero replied by an assenting bow.

Five minutes afterwards he repented that he had accepted the invitation,
because he foresaw that he should resume a conversation which was at
once interesting and embarrassing. He felt that it was not right to
become the depository of this lady's complaints against her husband; yet
he had been moved by her tears, and the idea that he was _the only man
in the world_ to whom she would open her heart upon such a delicate
subject, interested him irresistibly in her favour. He returned in the
evening, and was flattered by observing, that amongst the crowd of
company by which she was surrounded he was instantly distinguished. He
was perfectly persuaded of the innocence of her intentions; and, as he
was attached to another woman, he fancied that he could become the
friend of the beautiful Mrs. Wharton without danger. The first time he
had an opportunity of speaking to her in private, he expressed this idea
in the manner that he thought the most delicately flattering to her
self-complacency. Mrs. Wharton seemed to be perfectly satisfied with
this conduct; and declared, that unless she had been certain that he was
not a man of gallantry, she should never have placed any confidence in
his friendship.

"I consider you," said she, "quite as a married man:--by-the-bye, when
are you to be married, and what sort of a person is Miss Sidney?--I am
told she is excessively handsome, and amiable, and sensible.--What a
happy creature she is!--just going to be united to the man she loves!"
Here the lady gave a profound sigh; and Vivian had an opportunity of
observing that she had the longest dark eyelashes that he had ever seen.

"I was married," continued she, "before I knew what I was about. You
know Mr. Wharton can be so charming when he pleases--and then he was so
much in love with me, and swore he would shoot himself if I would not
have him--and all that sort of thing.--I protest I was terrified; and I
was quite a child, you know. I had been out but six weeks, and I thought
I was in love with him. That was because I did not know what love
was--_then_;--besides, he hurried and teased me to such a degree!--After
all, I'm convinced I married him more out of compassion than any thing
else; and now you see how he treats me!--most barbarously and
tyrannically!--But I would not give the least hint of this to any man
living but yourself. I conjure you to keep my secret--and--pity
me!--that is all I ask--pity me sometimes, when your thoughts are not
absorbed in a happier manner."

Vivian's generosity was piqued: he could not be so selfish as to be
engrossed exclusively by his own felicity. He thought that delicacy
should induce him to forbear expatiating upon Selina's virtues and
accomplishments, or upon his passion. He carried this delicacy so far,
that sometimes for a fortnight or three weeks he never mentioned her
name. He could not but observe that Mrs. Wharton did not like him the
less for this species of sacrifice. It may be observed, that Mrs.
Wharton managed her attack upon Vivian with more art than could be
expected from so silly a woman; but we must consider that all her
faculties were concentrated on one object; so that she seemed to have an
instinct for coquetry. The most silly animals in the creation, from the
insect tribe upwards, show, on some occasions, where their interests are
immediately concerned, a degree of sagacity and ingenuity, which,
compared with their usual imbecility, appears absolutely wonderful. The
opinion which Vivian had early formed of the weakness of this lady's
understanding prevented him from being on his guard against her
artifices: he could not conceive it possible that he should be duped by
a person so obviously his inferior. With a woman of talents and
knowledge, he might have been suspicious; but there was nothing in Mrs.
Wharton to alarm his pride or to awaken his fears: he fancied that he
could extricate himself in a moment, and with the slightest effort, from
any snares which she could contrive; and, under this persuasion, he
neglected to make even that slight effort, and thus continued from hour
to hour in voluntary captivity.

Insensibly Vivian became more interested for Mrs. Wharton; and, at the
same time, submitted with increased facility to the influence of her
husband. It was necessary that he should have some excuse to the world,
and yet more to his own conscience, for being so constantly at
Wharton's. The pleasure he took in Wharton's conversation was still a
sort of involuntary excuse to himself for his intimacy with the lady.
"Wharton's wit more than Mrs. Wharton's beauty," thought he, "is the
attraction that draws me here--I am full as ready to be of his parties
as of hers; and this is the best proof that all is as it should be."

Wharton's parties were not always such as Vivian would have chosen; but
he was pressed on, without power of resistance. For instance, one night
Wharton was going with Lord Pontipool and a set of dissipated young men,
to the house of a lady who made herself fashionable by keeping a
faro-bank.

"Vivian, you'll come along with us?" said Wharton. "Come, we must have
you--unless you are more happily engaged."

His eye glanced with a mixture of contempt and jealousy upon his wife.
Mrs. Wharton's alarmed and imploring countenance at the same moment
seemed to say, "For Heaven's sake, go with him, or I am undone." In such
circumstances it was impossible for Vivian to say no: he followed
immediately; acting, as he thought, from a principle of honour and
generosity. Wharton was not a man to give up the advantage which he had
gained. Every day he showed more capricious jealousy of his wife, though
he, at the same time, expressed the most entire confidence in the honour
of his friend. Vivian still thought he could not do too much to convince
him that his confidence was not misplaced; and thus, to protect Mrs.
Wharton from suspicion, he yielded to all her husband's wishes. Vivian
now felt frequently ashamed of his conduct, but always proud of his
motives; and, with ingenious sophistry, he justified to himself the
worst actions, by pleading that he did them with the best intentions.

CHAPTER V.

By this time Lady Mary Vivian began to hear hints of her son's
attachment to Mrs. Wharton; and, much alarmed, she repented having
encouraged him to form a political or fashionable intimacy with the
Whartons. Suddenly awakened to the perception of the danger, Lady Mary
was too vehement in her terror. She spoke with so much warmth and
indignation, that there was little chance of her counsels being of use.

"But, my dear madam, it is only a platonic attachment," argued Vivian,
when his mother represented to him that the world talked loudly of his
intimacy with Mrs. Wharton.

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