Tales and Novels, Vol. V by Maria Edgeworth

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

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"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 trepas 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 pales peupliers, tout t'invite a la paix.
Respire, donc, enfin, de tes tristes chimeres.
Vois accourir vers toi les epoux, et les meres.
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 liberte 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.

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