Tales and Novels Volume V Part 37

CHAPTER VII.

In the modern fas.h.i.+onable code of honour, when a man has seduced or carried off his friend's wife, the next thing he has to do is to fight the man whom he has injured and betrayed. By thus appealing to the ordeal of the duel, he may not only clear himself from guilt; but, if it be done with proper spirit, he may acquire celebrity and glory in the annals of gallantry, and in the eyes of the fair and innocent. In our hero's place, most men of fas.h.i.+on would have triumphed in the notoriety of his offence, and would have rejoiced in an opportunity of offering the husband the satisfaction of a gentleman. But, unfortunately for Vivian, he had not yet suited his principles to his practice: he had acted like a man of fas.h.i.+on; but, alas! he still thought and felt like a man of virtue--as the following letter will show.

"TO THE REV. HENRY RUSSELL.

"Indignant as you will be, Russell, at all you hear of me, you cannot be more shocked than I am myself. I do not write to palliate or apologize--my conduct admits of no defence--I shall attempt none, private or public--I have written to my lawyer to give directions that no sort of defence shall be set up on my part, when the affair comes into Doctors' Commons--as it shortly will; for I understand that poor Wharton has commenced a prosecution. As to damages he has only to name them--any thing within the compa.s.s of my fortune he may command. Would to G.o.d that money could make him amends! But he is too generous, too n.o.ble a fellow--profligate as he is in some things, how incapable would he be of acting as basely as I have done! There is not, perhaps, at this moment, a human being who has so high an opinion of the man I have injured as I have myself:--he did not love his wife--but that is no excuse for me--his honour is as much wounded as if I had robbed him of her during the time he loved her most fondly:--he once doted upon her, and would have loved her again, when he was tired of his gallantries; and they might then have lived together as happily as ever, if I had not been--. What was I?--What am I?--Not a villain--or I should glory in what I have done--but the weakest of human beings--and how true it is, Russell, that 'all wickedness is weakness!'

"I understand that W----, wherever he goes, calls me a coward, as well as a scoundrel; and says that I have kept out of the way to avoid fighting him. He is mistaken. It is true, I had the utmost dread of having his life to answer for--and nothing should have provoked me to fire upon him;--but I had determined how to act--I would have met him, and have stood his fire. I should not be sorry, at present, to be put out of the world; and would rather fall by his hand than by any other.

But since this is out of the question, and that things have taken another turn, I have only to live, as long as it shall please G.o.d, a life of remorse--and, at least, to try to make the unfortunate woman who has thrown herself upon my protection as happy as I can.

"If you have any remaining regard for a pupil who has so disgraced you, do me one favour--Go to Miss Sidney, and give her what comfort you can.

Say nothing _for me_, or _of me_, but that I wish her to forget me as soon as possible. She discarded me from her heart when she first discovered this intrigue--before this last fatal step. Still I had hopes of recovering her esteem and affection; for I had resolved--But no matter what I resolved--all my resolutions failed; and now I am utterly unworthy of her love. This, and all that is good and happy in life, all the fair hopes and virtuous promises of my youth, I must give up. Early as it is in my day, my sun has set. I truly desire that she should forget me; for you know I am bound in honour--Honour! How dare I use the word? I am bound, after the divorce, to marry the woman I have seduced.

Oh, Russell! what a wife for your friend!--What a daughter-in-law for my poor mother, after all her care of my education--all her affection--all her pride in me!--It will break her heart! Mine will not break. I shall drag on, perhaps, to a miserable old age. I am of too feeble a nature to feel these things as strong minds would--as you will for me; but do not blame yourself for my faults. All that man could do for me, you did.

This must be some consolation to you, my dear and excellent friend! May I still call you friend?--or have I no friend left upon earth?

"C. VIVIAN."

From this letter some idea may be formed of what this unhappy man suffered at this period of his life, from "the reflections of a mind not used to its own reproaches." The view of the future was as dreadful as the retrospect of the past. His thoughts continually dwelt upon the public trial which was preparing--before him he saw all its disgraceful circ.u.mstances. Then the horror of marrying, of pa.s.sing his whole future existence with a woman whom he could not esteem or trust! These last were secret subjects of anxiety and anguish, the more intensely felt, because he could not speak of them to any human being. Such as Mrs.

Wharton was, she was to be his wife; and he was called upon to defend her against reproach and insult,--if possible, from contempt. During the course of six weeks, which they spent together in exile at Brussels, Vivian became so altered in his appearance, that his most intimate friends could scarcely have known him; his worst enemies, if he had had any, could not have desired the prolongation of his sufferings.

One evening, as he was sitting alone in his hotel, ruminating bitter thoughts, a letter was brought to him from Mr. Russell; the first he had received since he left England. Every one, who has been absent from his friends in a foreign country, must know the sort of emotion which the bare sight of a letter from _home_ excites; but, in Vivian's circ.u.mstances, abandoned as he felt himself, and deserving to be abandoned by his best friends, the sight of a letter from Russell so struck him, that he gazed upon the direction for some minutes, almost without power or wish to open it. At last he opened, and read, "Return to your country, your friends, and yourself, Vivian! Your day is not yet over! Your sun is not yet set!--Resume your energy--recover your self-confidence--carry your good resolutions into effect--and you may yet be an honour to your family, a delight to your fond mother, and the pride of your friend Russell. Your remorse has been poignant and sincere; let it be salutary and permanent in its consequences: this is the repentance which religion requires. The part of a man of sense and virtue is to make his past errors of use to his future conduct. Whilst I had nothing to say that could give you pleasure, I forbore to answer your letter; I forbore to overwhelm a mind sinking under remorse. My sacred duty is to waken the sinner to repentance, not to shut the gates of mercy on the penitent. Now, I can relieve your mind from part of the load by which it has been justly oppressed. You know that nothing can palliate your conduct in an intrigue with a married woman--from this I had hoped your moral and religious education would have preserved you.

But of the premeditated guilt of deceiving the husband, and laying a plan to seduce the wife, I never suspected you; and I may now tell you, that you have not betrayed Mr. Wharton; he has betrayed you. You have not seduced Mrs. Wharton; you have been seduced by her. You are not bound to marry her--Wharton cannot obtain a divorce--he dare not bring the affair to trial; if he does, he is undone. There has been collusion between the parties. The proof of this you will find in the enclosed paper, which will be sworn to, in due legal form, whenever it is necessary. Even when you see them, you will scarcely believe these 'd.a.m.ning proofs' of Wharton's baseness. But I always knew, I always told you, that this pretence to honour and candour, frankness and friends.h.i.+p, with this avowed contempt of all principle and all virtue, could not be safe, could not be sincere, would not _stand the test_.--No--nothing should make me trust to the private honour of a man so corrupt in public life as Mr. Wharton. A man who sells his conscience for his interest will sell it for his pleasure. A man who will betray his country will betray his friend. It is in vain to palter with our conscience: there are not two honours--two honesties. How I rejoice at this moment, in the reflection that your character, as a public man, is yet untarnished You have still this great advantage:--feel its value. Return, and distinguish yourself among your countrymen: distinguish yourself by integrity still more than by talents. A certain degree of talents is now cheap in England: integrity is what we want--true patriotism, true public spirit, n.o.ble ambition not that vile scramble for places and pensions, which some men call ambition; not that bawling, brawling, _Thersites_ character, which other men call public spirit; not that marketable commodity with which Wharton, and such as he, cheat popular opinion for a season;--but that fair virtue which will endure, and abide by its cause to the last; which, in place or out, shall be the same; which, successful or unsuccessful, shall sustain the possessor's character through all changes of party; which, whilst he lives, shall command respect from even the most profligate of his contemporaries; upon which, when he is dying, he may reflect with satisfaction; which, after his death, shall be the consolation of his friends, and the glory of his country. All this is yet in your power, Vivian.--Come, then, and fulfil the promise of your early years! Come, and restore to your mother a son worthy of her!--Come, and surpa.s.s the hopes of your true friend,

"H. RUSSELL."

The rapid succession of feelings with which Vivian read this letter can scarcely be imagined. The paper it enclosed was from a former waiting-maid of Mrs. Wharton's; a woman who was expected to be the princ.i.p.al evidence on Mr. Wharton's side. She had been his mistress; one of those innumerable mistresses, to whom he had, of course, addressed his transferable promises of eternal constancy. She too, of course, had believed the vow, in spite of all experience and probability; and while she pardoned his infidelities to her mistress, &c. all which she deemed _very natural for a gentleman like him_, yet she was astonished and outrageous when she found him faithless to her own charms. In a fit of jealousy she flew to Mr. Russell, whom she knew to be Vivian's friend; and, to revenge herself on Wharton, revealed the secrets which she had in her power; put into Russell's hands the proofs of collusion between Mr. Wharton and his wife; and took malicious pains to substantiate her evidence, to a lawyer's full satisfaction; knowing that she might prevent the possibility of a divorce, and that she should thus punish her perjured inconstant in the most sensible manner, by at once depriving him of twenty thousand pounds damages, and by chaining him again to a wife whom he abhorred.

The same post which brought Vivian this woman's deposition and Russell's letter brought Mrs. Wharton notice that the whole plan of collusion was discovered: she was therefore prepared for Vivian's reproaches, and received the first burst of his astonishment and indignation with a studied Magdalen expression of countenance: then she attempted a silly apology, laying all the blame on her husband, and vowing that she had acted under terror, and that her life would not have been safe in his hands if she had not implicitly obeyed and executed his horrid plans.

She wept and kneeled in vain. Finding Vivian immoveable in his purpose to return immediately to England, she suddenly rose from her knees, and, all beautiful as she was, looked in Vivian's eyes like a fiend, whilst, with an unnatural smile, she said to him, "You see, fool as I am thought to be, I have been too clever for _some people_; and I can tell Mr.

Wharton that I have been too clever for him too. His heart is set upon a divorce; but he can't have it. He can't marry Miss P----, nor yet her fortune, nor ever shall! I shall remain at Brussels--I have friends here--and friends who were my friends before I was forced to give my hand to Mr. Wharton, or my smiles to you, sir!--people who will not tease me with talking of remorse and repentance, and such ungallant, ungentlemanlike stuff; nor sit bewailing themselves, like a country parson, instead of das.h.i.+ng out with me here in a fas.h.i.+onable style, as a man of any spirit would have done. But you!--you're neither good nor bad; and no woman will ever love you, nor ever did. Now you know my whole mind."

"Would to Heaven I had known it sooner!" said Vivian. "No--I rejoice that I did not sooner know, and that I never could have suspected, such depravity!--under such a form, too."

Mrs. Wharton's eye glanced with satisfaction upon the large mirror opposite to her. Vivian left her in utter disgust and horror. "Drive on!" cried he, as he threw himself into the chaise that was to carry him away; "Faster! faster!"

The words, "and no woman will ever love you, nor ever, did," rung upon Vivian's ear. "There she is mistaken, thank Heaven!" said he to himself: yet the words still dwelt upon his mind, and gave him exquisite pain.

Upon looking again at Russell's letter, he observed that Selina Sidney's name was never mentioned; that she was neither directly nor indirectly alluded to in the whole letter. What omen to draw from this he could not divine. Again he read it; and all that Russell said of public life, and his exhortations to him to come and distinguish himself in public and in the political world, struck him in a new light. It seemed as if Russell was sensible that, there were no farther hopes of Selina, and that therefore he tried to turn Vivian's mind from love to ambition. Fourteen times he read over this letter before he reached England; but he could not discover from it any thing as to the point on which his heart was most interested. He reached London in this, uncertainty.

"Put me out of suspense, my best friend," cried he, the moment he saw Russell: "tell me, is Selina living?"

"Yes--she has been very ill, but is now recovered--quite recovered, and with your mother, who is grown fonder of her than ever she was."

"Selina alive! well! and with my mother!--and may I--I don't mean may I _now_,--but may I _ever_ hope?--Believe me, I feel myself capable of any exertions, any forbearance, to obtain her forgiveness--to merit--May I ever hope for it?--Speak!"

Russell a.s.sured him that he need not dread Miss Sidney's resentment, for that she felt none; she had expressed pity more than anger--that she had taken pains to sooth his mother; and had expressed sincere satisfaction on hearing of his _release_ from his unworthy bondage, and at his return home to his friends.

The tone in which Russell spoke, and the seriousness and embarra.s.sment of his manner, alarmed Vivian inexpressibly. He stood silent, and dared not ask farther explanation for some minutes.--At length he broke silence, and conjured his friend to go immediately to Miss Sidney and his mother, and to request permission for him to see them both in each other's presence. Russell said, that if Vivian insisted, he would comply with his request; but that he advised him not to attempt to see Miss Sidney at present; not till he had been some time in London--till he had given some earnest of the steadiness of his conduct--till he had appeared again, and distinguished himself in public life. "This might raise you again in her esteem; and," continued Russell, "you must be aware that her love depends on her esteem--at least, that the one cannot exist without the other."

"Will you deliver a letter to her from me?" said Vivian. "If you think I had better not attempt to see her yet, you will deliver a letter for me?"

After some hesitation, or rather some deliberation, Russell answered, in a constrained voice, "I will deliver your letter, if you insist upon it."

Vivian wrote:--Russell undertook to deliver the letter, though with evident reluctance. In the mean time Vivian went to see his mother, whom he longed, yet dreaded to meet. Her manner was not now severe and haughty, as when she last addressed him; but mild and benign: she held out her hand to him, and said, "Thank G.o.d! my son is restored to me, and to himself!"

She could say no more; but embraced him tenderly. Russell had shown Lady Mary that her son had been the dupe of a preconcerted scheme to work upon his pa.s.sions. She deplored his weakness, but she had been touched by his sufferings; and was persuaded that his remorse would guard him against future errors. Therefore not a word or look of reproach escaped from her. When he spoke of Selina, Lady Mary, with great animation of countenance and warmth of eulogium, declared, that it was the first wish of her heart to see her son married to a woman of such a n.o.ble character and angelic temper; "_but_," added her ladys.h.i.+p, her manner changing suddenly, as she p.r.o.nounced the word _but_--before she could explain the _but_, Russell came into the room, and told Vivian that Miss Sidney desired to see him. Vivian heard the words with joy; but his joy was checked by the great gravity and embarra.s.sment of his friend's countenance, and by a sigh of ill omen from his mother. Eager to relieve his suspense, he hastened to Selina, who, as Russell told him, was in Lady Mary's dressing-room--the room in which he had first declared his pa.s.sion for her. Hope and fear alternately seized him--fear prevailed the moment that he beheld Selina. Not that any strong displeasure appeared in her countenance--no, it was mild and placid; but it was changed towards him, and its very serenity was alarming. Whilst she welcomed him to his native country and to his friends, and while she expressed hopes for his future happiness, all hope forsook him, and, in broken sentences, he attempted to stammer out some answer; then, throwing himself into a chair, he exclaimed, "I see all future happiness is lost for me--and I deserve it!"

"Do not reproach yourself," said Selina in a sweet voice; but the voice, though sweet, was so altered to him, that it threw him into despair. "It is my wish, not to inflict, but to spare you pain. I have, therefore, desired to see you as soon as possible, that you might not form false expectations."

"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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 grat.i.tude 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 repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sion, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 _p.r.o.neur_ and unblus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sociated. 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 he 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 a.s.sist 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 acc.u.mulated 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 t.i.tle; 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 friends.h.i.+p. It happened that the inc.u.mbent 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 antic.i.p.ation, let us proceed with our story. Amongst those fas.h.i.+onable and political friends with whom our hero had, since his return to England, renewed his connexion, was my Lord Glis...o...b..ry. His lords.h.i.+p, 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 lords.h.i.+p, 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 Glis...o...b..ry insisted upon carrying Vivian down to spend the holidays with him at Glis...o...b..ry 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 Glis...o...b..ry, 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 a.s.sure 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 Glis...o...b..ry's child: her ladys.h.i.+p and Miss Strictland have manufactured her after their own taste and fas.h.i.+on; 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 Glis...o...b..ry 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 Glis...o...b..ry carried him off before he had half understood all his lords.h.i.+p had poured forth so rapidly; and before he had decided whether he wished or not to accept of this invitation.