Tales and Novels, Vol. V by Maria Edgeworth

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

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"Then you no longer love me, Selina? Now, after all I have suffered, you
have the cruelty to tell me so? And you, who could form my character to
every thing that is good and honourable; you, who alone could restore me
to myself--you reject, you cast me from you for ever?"

"I have suffered much," said Selina, in a trembling voice, "since
we parted."

Vivian's eye quickly ran over her face and whole form as she spoke these
words; and he saw, indeed, traces of sickness and suffering: with the
idea of his power over her affections, his hopes revived; he seized the
feeble hand, which lay motionless; but she withdrew it decidedly, and
his hopes again forsook him, when she gently raised her head, and
continued to speak, "I have suffered much since we parted, Mr. Vivian;
and I hope you will spare me unnecessary and useless pain in this
interview: painful to a certain degree it must be to both of us; for I
cannot, even now that all feelings of passion have subsided, and that
the possibility of my being united to you is past, tell you so, with all
the composure which I had expected to do; nor with all the firmness of
voice and manner which is necessary, perhaps, to convince you of the
truth, and to restore your mind to itself."

"The possibility of my being united to you is past!--Why?" interrupted
Vivian, incapable of understanding or listening to any thing else, till
this question was answered.

"Do not force me to what may seem like cruel reproach; but let it
suffice for me to say, that my sentiments have been so much altered by a
_year's experience_, that it is impossible for me ever to become your
wife. My love was founded on esteem. I had, indeed, always fears of the
instability of your character; therefore, I put your resolution to the
proof: the event has proved to me that my fears were but too just. I
speak with difficulty; for I cannot easily give you so much pain as I
know that I am inflicting at this moment. But," resumed she, in a more
resolute tone, "it is absolutely necessary for your future peace of
mind, as well as for my own, that I should convince you I am sincere,
perfectly sincere, at this moment; that I know my own heart; that my
determination has not been hastily formed, and cannot be altered. The
deliberate manner in which I now speak to you will, I hope, persuade you
of this truth. And if I have hesitated, or showed any agitation in this
interview, attribute it to its real cause--the weakness of my health;
feebleness of body, not of mind."

She rose to leave the room; but Vivian detained her, beseeching her,
with all the eloquence of passion in despair, to hear him but for one
moment; whilst he urged that there was no probability of his ever
relapsing into errors from which he had suffered so much; that now his
character was formed by adversity; and that such was the power which
Selina possessed over his heart, that a union with her would, at this
crisis, decide his fate; that her steadiness would give stability to his
resolutions; and that his gratitude would so increase his affection,
that he should have the strongest possible motives to make her a good
husband; that when he was happy in domestic life, he should feel every
energy of his mind revive; that he should exert all his powers to
distinguish himself, and to justify the choice of the woman he adored,

In spite of the word _adored_, which has usually such power to confound
female judgment, Selina perceived that all he said was merely a
repetition of his former arguments, of which experience had proved the
insufficiency. She was aware that, if before marriage his resolution and
constancy had not been able to support the trial, it would be folly or
madness to marry him with the vague hope that she might reform his
character. She therefore continued steady to her resolution; and as she
found that Vivian's disappointment was greater than she had expected,
she immediately withdrew from his mother's house. The next morning, when
Vivian came to breakfast, after having spent a sleepless night, planning
new arguments or new intreaties in favour of his love, he found that
Miss Sidney was gone. His mother and his friend Russell joined in
representing to him that it would be useless to follow her, that it
would only give himself and Selina unavailing pain. Vivian felt this
stroke severely. His mind was, as it were, adrift again. After the first
violence of his feelings had spent itself, and when he sunk into that
kind of apathy which is the consequence of exhausted passion, his friend
Russell endeavoured to excite him to honourable ambition. Vivian caught
the idea, that if he distinguished himself in public life, and if he
there displayed any steadiness of character, he might win back Selina's
esteem and affection. Fired with this hope, he immediately turned his
whole mind to the object; applied with indefatigable ardour, day and
night, to make himself master of the subjects likely to be discussed in
the ensuing session of parliament. At length his application and his
energy were crowned with success. On a question of considerable
political importance, which he had carefully considered, he made an
excellent speech; a speech which directly made him of consequence in the
house; which, in the language of the newspapers, "was received with
unbounded applause, was distinguished for strength of argument, lucid
order, and a happy choice of expression." But what encouraged our hero
more than newspaper puffs or party panegyrics was the approbation of his
friend Russell. Russell never praised violently; but a few words, or
even a look of satisfaction from him, went farther than the most
exaggerated eulogiums from others. Vivian pursued his course for some
time with honour and increasing reputation. There was one man who never
joined in any of the compliments paid to the rising orator; there was
one man who always spoke of him with contempt, who pronounced that
"Vivian would never go far in politics--that it was not in him--that he
was too soft--_que c'etoit batir sur de la boue, que de compter sur
lui_." This depreciator and enemy of Vivian was the man who, but a few
months before, had been his political _proneur_ and unblushing
flatterer, Mr. Wharton. Exasperated by the consciousness of his own
detected baseness, and provoked still more by his being frustrated in
all his schemes, Wharton now practised every art that a malicious and
unprincipled wit could devise to lower the opinion of Vivian's talents,
and to prevent his obtaining either power or celebrity. Our hero was
stimulated by this conduct to fresh exertions. So far Wharton's enmity
was of service to him; but it was of disservice, by changing, in some
measure, the purity of the motives from which he acted. With love and
honourable ambition now mixed hatred, thoughts of vengeance, views of
vulgar vanity and interest: he thought more of contradicting Mr.
Wharton's prophecies than of fulfilling his own ideas of what was fair
and right. He was anxious to prove, that he could "_go far_ in politics,
that it was _in him_, that he was not too soft, and that it was not
building on mud to depend on him." These indefinite expressions operated
powerfully and perniciously on his imagination. To prove that Wharton
was mistaken in his prognostics, it was necessary to our hero to obtain
the price and stamp of talents--it was essential to gain political
power; and this could not be attained without joining a party. Vivian
joined the party then in opposition. Wharton and he, though both in
opposition, of course, after what had passed, could never meet in any
private company; nor had they any communication in public, though on the
same side of the question: their enmity was so great, that not only the
business of the nation, but even the interests of their party, were
often impeded by their quarrels. In the midst of these disputes, Vivian
insensibly adopted more and more of the language and principles of the
public men with whom he daily associated. He began to hear and talk of
compensations and jobs, as they did; and to consider all measures proved
to be necessary for the support of his party as expedient, if not
absolutely right. His country could not be saved, unless be and his
friends could obtain the management of affairs; and no men, be found,
could gain parliamentary influence, or raise themselves into political
power, without _acting as a body_. Then, of course, all subordinate
points of right were to be sacrificed to the great good of promoting the
views of the party. Still, however, his patriotism was upon the whole
pure; he had no personal views of interest, no desire even to be in
place, independently of a wish to promote the good of his country.
Secret overtures were, about this time, made to him by government; and
inquiries were made if there was any thing which could gratify him, or
by which he could be induced to lay aside his opposition, and to assist
in supporting their measures. Many compliments to his talents and
eloquence, and all the usual _commonplaces_, about the expediency and
propriety of _strengthening the hands of government_, were, of course,
added. Something _specific_ was at length mentioned: it was intimated,
that as he was of an ancient family, it might gratify him that his
mother should be made a baroness in her own right. The offer was
declined, and the temptation was firmly withstood by our hero; his
credit was now at its _acme_ with his own coadjutors. Lady Mary
whispered the circumstance, as a state secret, to all her acquaintance;
and Russell took care that Miss Sidney should hear of it.

Vivian was now cited as an incorruptible patriot. Wharton's malice,
and even his wit, was almost silenced; yet he was heard to say, amidst
the din of applause, "This is only the first offer; he is in the right
to make a show of resistance: he will coquet for a time, and keep
_philandering_ on till he suits himself, and then he'll jilt us,
you'll see."

Such speeches, though they reached Vivian's ear by the kind
officiousness of friends, were never made by Mr. Wharton so directly
that he could take hold of them; and Russell strenuously advised him not
to seek occasion to quarrel with a man who evidently desired only to
raise his own reputation by making Vivian angry, getting him in the
wrong, and forcing him into an imprudent duel.

"Let your actions continue to contradict his words, and they can never
injure you," said Russell.

For some time Vivian adhered to his friend's advice, and he proudly felt
the superiority of principle and character. But, alas! there was one
defence that his patriotism wanted--economy. Whilst he was thus active
in the public cause, and exulting in his disinterestedness, his private
affairs were getting into terrible disorder. The expense of building his
castle had increased beyond all his calculations--the expense of his
election--the money he had lost at play whilst he was in Wharton's
society--the sums he had lent to Wharton--the money he had spent
abroad,--all these accumulated brought him to great difficulties: for
though his estate was considerable, yet it was so settled and tied up
that he could neither sell nor mortgage. His creditors became
clamorous--he had no means of satisfying or quieting them: an execution
was actually sent down to his castle, just as it was finished. Lady Mary
Vivian was in the greatest alarm and distress: she had no means of
extricating her son. As to his fashionable friends--no hopes from such
extravagant and selfish beings. What was to be done? At this critical
moment, the offers from _a certain quarter_ were renewed in another,
and, as it seemed, a more acceptable form,--a pension was proffered
instead of a title; and it was promised that the business should be so
managed, and the pension so held in another name, that nothing of the
transaction should transpire; and that his seceding from opposition
should be made to appear a change of sentiments from conviction, not
from interested motives. Vivian's honourable feelings revolted from
these offers, and abhorred these subterfuges; but distress--pecuniary
distress! he had never before felt its pressure; he had never till now
felt how powerful, how compulsatory it is over even generous and
high-spirited souls. Whilst Vivian was thus oppressed with difficulties,
which his imprudence had brought upon him; whilst his mind was
struggling with opposing motives, he was, most fortunately for his
political integrity, relieved, partly by accident, and partly by
friendship. It happened that the incumbent of the rich living, of which
Vivian had the presentation, was dying just at this time; and Russell,
instead of claiming the living which Vivian had promised to him,
relinquished all pretensions to it, and insisted upon his friend's
disposing of his right of presentation. The sum which this enabled
Vivian to raise was fully sufficient to satisfy the execution which had
been laid on his castle; and the less clamorous creditors were content
to be paid by instalments, annually, from his income. Thus he was saved
for the present; and he formed the most prudent resolves for the future.
He was most sincerely grateful to his disinterested friend. The full
extent of the sacrifice which Russell made him was not, however, known
at this time, nor for some years afterwards.

But, without anticipation, let us proceed with our story. Amongst those
fashionable and political friends with whom our hero had, since his
return to England, renewed his connexion, was my Lord Glistonbury. His
lordship, far from thinking the worse of him for _his affair_ with Mrs.
Wharton, spoke of it in modish _slang_, as "a new and fine feather in his
cap;" and he congratulated Vivian upon his having "carried off the prize
without paying the price." Vivian's success as a parliamentary orator
had still further endeared him to his lordship, who failed not to
repeat, that he had always prophesied Vivian would make a capital figure
in public life; that Vivian was his member, &c. At the recess, Lord
Glistonbury insisted upon carrying Vivian down to spend the holidays
with him at Glistonbury Castle.

"You must come, Vivian: so make your fellow put your worldly goods into
my barouche, which is at the door; and we are to have a great party at
Glistonbury, and private theatricals, and the devil knows what; and you
must see my little Julia act, and I must introduce you to _the
Rosamunda_. Come, come! you can't refuse me!--Why, you have only a
bachelor's castle of your own to go to; and that's a dismal sort of
business, compared with what I have _in petto_ for you--'the feast of
reason, and the flow of soul,' in the first style, I assure you. You
must know, I always--even in the midst of the wildest of my wild
oats--had a taste for the belles-lettres, and philosophy, and the muses,
and the _literati,_ and so forth--always a touch of the Mecaenas about
me.--And now my boy's growing up, it's more particularly proper to bring
these sort of people about him; for, you know, clever men who have a
reputation can sound a flourish of trumpets advantageously before 'a
Grecian youth of talents rare' makes his appearance on the stage of the
great world--Ha! hey!--Is not this what one may call prudence?--Ha!--
Good to have a father who knows something of life, and of books too,
hey? Then, for my daughters, too--daughter, I mean; for Lady Sarah's
Lady Glistonbury's child: her ladyship and Miss Strictland have
manufactured her after their own taste and fashion; and I've nothing to
say to that--But my little Julia--Ah, I've got a different sort of
governess about her these few months past--not without family battles,
you may guess. But when Jupiter gives the nod, you know, even Juno,
stately as she is, must bend. So I have my Rosamunda for my little
Julia--who, by-the-bye, is no longer my _little_ Julia, but a prodigious
fine woman, as you shall see. But, all this time, is your fellow putting
your things up? No!--Hey? how? Oh, I understand your long face of
hesitation--you have not seen the ladies since the Wharton affair, and
you don't know how they might look.--Never fear! Lady Glistonbury shall
do as I please, and look as I please. Besides, _entre nous_, I know she
hates the Whartons; so that her morality will have a loophole to creep
out of; and you'll be safe and snug, whilst all the blame will be thrown
on them--Hey!--Oh, I understand things--pique myself on investigating
the human heart. Come, we have not a moment to lose; and you'll have
your friend Russell, too--Come, come! to have and to hold, as the
lawyers say--"

Seizing Vivian's arm, Lord Glistonbury carried him off before he had
half understood all his lordship had poured forth so rapidly; and before
he had decided whether he wished or not to accept of this invitation.

CHAPTER VIII.

On his way to Glistonbury Castle, Vivian had full leisure to repent of
having accepted of this invitation, recollecting, as he did, all the
former reports about himself and Lady Sarah Lidhurst. He determined,
therefore, that his visit should be as short as possible; and the chief
pleasure he promised himself was the society of his friend Russell.

On his arrival at the castle, he was told that Mr. Russell was out
riding; and that every body else was in the theatre at a rehearsal,
except Lady Glistonbury, the Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland. He found
these three ladies sitting in form in the great deserted drawing-room,
each looking like a copy of the other, and all as if they were deploring
the degeneracy of the times. Vivian approached with due awe; but, to his
great surprise and relief, at his approach their countenances exhibited
some signs of life. Lord Glistonbury _presented_ him on his return from
abroad: Lady Glistonbury's features relaxed to a smile, though she
seemed immediately to repent of it, and to feel it incumbent upon her to
maintain her rigidity of mien. Whilst she, and of course Miss Strictland
and the Lady Sarah, were thus embarrassed between the necessity of
reprobating the sin, and the desire of pleasing the sinner, Lord
Glistonbury ran on with one of his speeches, of borrowed sense and
original nonsense, and then would have carried him off to the rehearsal,
but Lady Glistonbury called Vivian back, begging, in her formal manner,
"that her lord would do her the favour to leave Mr. Vivian with her for
a few minutes, as it was so long since she had the pleasure of seeing
him at Glistonbury." Vivian returned with as good a grace as he could;
and, to find means of breaking the embarrassing silence that ensued,
took up a book which lay upon the table, "Toplady's Sermons"--no hope of
assistance from that: he had recourse to another--equally unlucky,
"Wesley's Diary:" another--"The Pilgrim's Progress." He went no farther;
but, looking up, he perceived that the Lady Sarah was _motioned_ by her
august mother to leave the room. Vivian had again recourse to "Toplady."

"Very unfashionable books, Mr. Vivian," said Miss Strictland, bridling
and smiling as in scorn.

"Very unfashionable books!" repeated Lady Glistonbury, with the same
inflection of voice, and the same bridling and smiling. "Very
different," continued her ladyship, "very different from what you have
been accustomed to see on _some_ ladies' tables, no doubt, Mr. Vivian!
Without mentioning names, or alluding to transactions that ought to be
buried in eternal oblivion, and that are so very distressing to your
friends here to think of, sir, give me leave to ask, Mr. Vivian, whether
it be true what I have heard, that the prosecution, and every thing
relative to it, is entirely given up?"

"Entirely, madam."

"Then," said Lady Glistonbury, glancing her eye at Miss Strictland,
"_we_ may welcome Mr. Vivian with safe consciences to Glistonbury; and
since the affair will never become public, and since Lady Sarah knows
none of the improper particulars; and since she may, and, from her
education, naturally will, class all such things under the head of
impossibilities and false reports, of which people, in our rank of life
especially, are subject every hour to hear so many; there cannot, as I
am persuaded you will agree with me in thinking, Miss Strictland, be any
impropriety in our and Lady Sarah's receiving Mr. Vivian again on the
same footing as formerly."

Miss Strictland bowed her formal assent: Vivian bowed, because he saw
that a bow was expected from him; and then he pondered on what might be
meant by the words, _on the same footing as formerly_; and he had just
framed a clause explanatory and restrictive of the same, when he was
interrupted by the sound of laughter, and of numerous, loud, and mingled
voices, coming along the gallery that led to the drawing-room. As if
these were signals for her departure, and as if she dreaded the
intrusion and contamination of the revel rout, Lady Glistonbury arose,
looked at her watch, pronounced her belief that it was full time for her
to go to dress, and retired through a Venetian door, followed by Miss
Strictland, repeating the same belief, and bearing her ladyship's
tapestry work: her steps quickened as the door at the opposite end of
the room opened; and, curtsying (an unnecessary apology to Mr. Vivian)
as she passed, she left him _to himself_. And now,

"He sees a train profusely gay,
Come pranckling o'er the place."

Some were dressed for comic, some for tragic characters; but all seemed
equally gay, and talked equally fast. There had been a dressed rehearsal
of "The Fair Penitent," and of "The Romp;" and all the spectators and
all the actors were giving and receiving exuberant compliments. Vivian
knew many of the party,--some of them bel-esprits, some fashionable
amateurs; all pretenders to notoriety, either as judges or performers.
In the midst of this motley group, there was one figure who stood
receiving and expecting universal homage: she was dressed as "The Fair
Penitent;" but her affected vivacity of gesture and countenance was in
striking contrast to her tragic attire; and Vivian could hardly forbear
smiling at the _minauderies_ with which she listened and talked to the
gentlemen round her; now languishing, now coquetting; rolling her eyes,
and throwing herself into a succession of studied attitudes, dealing
repartees to this side and to that; and, in short, making the greatest
possible exhibition both of her person and her mind.

"Don't you know her? Did you never see her before?--No! you've been
out of England; but you've heard of her, certainly?--_Rosamunda_,"
--whispered Lord Glistonbury to Vivian.

"And who is Rosamunda?" said Vivian; "an actress."

"Actress!--Hush!--Bless you! no--but the famous poetess. Is it possible
that you hav'n't read the poems of Rosamunda?--They were in every
body's hands a few months ago; but you were abroad--better engaged, or
as well, hey? But, as I was going to tell you, that's the reason she's
called _The Rosamunda_--I gave her the name, for I patronized her from
the first. Her real name is Bateman; and Lady Glistonbury and her set
call her Miss Bateman still, but nobody else. She's an amazing clever
woman, I assure you--more genius than any of 'em since the time of
Rousseau!--Devil of a salary!--and devil of a battle I had to fight
with some of my friends before I could fix her here; but I was
determined I would follow my own ideas in Julia's education. Lady
Glistonbury had her way and her routine with Lady Sarah; and it's all
very well, vastly well--

'Virtue for her too painful an endeavour,
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.'

You know the sort of thing! Yes, yes; but I was not content to have my
Julia lost among the _mediocres_, as I call them: so I took her out of
Miss Strictland's hands; and the Rosamunda's her governess."

"Her governess!" repeated Vivian, with uncontrollable astonishment;
"Lady Julia Lidhurst's governess!"

"Yes, you may well be surprised," pursued Lord Glistonbury, mistaking
the cause of the surprise: "no one in England could have done it but
myself; she refused innumerable applications,--immense offers; and,
after all, you know, she does not appear as governess _titree_--only as
a friend of the family, who directs Lady Julia Lidhurst's literary
talents. Oh, you understand, a man of the world knows how to manage
these things--sacrifices always to the vanity of the sex, or the pride,
as the case may be, I never mind names, but things, as the
metaphysicians say--distinguish betwixt essentials and accidents--sound
philosophy that, hey? And, thank Heaven! a gentleman or a nobleman need
not apologize in these days for talking of philosophy before ladies,
even if any body overheard us, which, as it happens, I believe nobody
does. So let me, now that _you know your Paris_, introduce you to 'The
Rosamunda.'--Mr. Vivian--the Rosamunda. Rosamunda--Mr. Vivian."

After Vivian had for a few minutes acted audience, very little to his
own satisfaction, he was relieved by Lord Glistonbury's exclaiming, "But
Julia! where's Julia all this time?"

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