On the first visit which Vivian and his mother paid after the death of Lord Lidhurst at Glistonbury Castle, they found there a young man very handsome, but of a dark, reserved countenance, whose physiognomy and manner immediately prepossessed them against him; on his part, he seemed to eye them with suspicion, and to be particularly uneasy whenever Vivian either mentioned the election or approached Lady Sarah. This young man was Mr. Lidhurst, Lord Glistonbury's nephew and heir-at-law. It was obvious, almost at first sight, that the uncle disliked the nephew; but it was not so easy to perceive that the nephew despised the uncle. Mr. Lidhurst, though young, was an excellent politician; and his feelings were always regulated by his interests. He had more abilities than Lord Glistonbury, less vanity, but infinitely more ambition. In Lord Glistonbury, ambition was rather affected, as an air suited to his rank, and proper to increase his consequence: Mr. Lidhurst's was an earnest, inordinate ambition, yet it was cold, silent, and calculating; his pride preyed upon him inwardly, but it never hurried him into saying or doing an extravagant thing. Those who were not actuated solely by ambition, he always looked upon as fools, and those who were, he considered, in general, as knaves: the one he marked as dupes, the other as rivals. He had been at the Bishop of ——'s, during Lord Lidhurst's illness, and at the time of his death. Ever since Lady Julia's arrival at the bishop's, he had foreseen the probability of this event, and had, in consequence of the long-sightedness of his views, endeavoured to make himself agreeable to her. He found this impossible; but was, however, easily consoled by hearing that she had resolved never to marry; he only hoped that she would keep her resolution; and he was now at Glistonbury Castle, in the determination to propose for his other cousin, Lady Sarah, who would, perhaps, equally well secure to him his objects.

"Well! my dear Vivian," said Lord Glistonbury, drawing him aside, "how d'ye relish my nephew, Marmaduke Lidhurst? Need not be afraid to speak the truth, for I tell you at once that he is no particular favourite here; not en bonne odeur; but that's only between you and me. He thinks that I don't know that he considers me as a shallow fellow, because I haven't my head crammed with a parcel of statistical tables, all the fiscal and financiering stuff which he has at his calculating fingers' ends; but I trust that I am almost as good a politician as he is, and I'm free to believe, have rather more knowledge of the world—

'In men, not books, experienced was my lord'—

Hey? Hey, Vivian? and can see through him with half an eye, I can tell him.—Wants to get Lady Sarah—Yes, yes; but never came near us till we lost my poor boy—he won't win Lady Sarah either, or I'm much mistaken. Did you observe how jealous he was of you?—Right!—right!—he has penetration!—Stay, stay! you don't know Marmaduke yet—don't know half his schemes. How his brow clouded when we were talking of the election! I must hint to you, he has been sounding me upon that matter; he has a great mind to stand for this county—talks of starting at the first day of the poll. I told him it could not do, as I was engaged to you. He answered, that of course was only a conditional promise, in case none of my own relations stood. I fought shy, and he pressed confoundedly.—Gad! he would put me in a very awkward predicament, if he was really to stand! for you know what the world would say, if they saw me opposing my own nephew, a rising young man, and not for a relation either; and Marmaduke Lidhurst is just your deep fellow to plan such a thing and execute it, not caring at what or whose expense. I can tell him, however, I am not a man to be bullied out of my interest, or to be outwitted either.—Stand firm, Vivian, my good friend, and I'll stand by you; depend on me!—I only wish——" Here his lordship paused. "But I cannot say more to you now; for here is my precious heir-at-law coming to break up the confederacy. I'll ride over and see you to-morrow;—now, let us all be mute before Marmaduke, our master politician, as becomes us—Hey! Vivian? Hey?"

Notwithstanding this sort of jealousy of Marmaduke, and the bravadoing style in which Lord Glistonbury spoke of him, he spoke to him in a very different manner: it was apparent to Vivian that his lordship was under some awe of his nephew, and that, whilst he cherished this secret dislike, he dreaded coming to any open rupture with a man who was, as his lordship apprehended, so well able to make his own party good in the world. When Marmaduke did emerge from that depth of thought in which he generally seemed to be sunk, and when he did condescend to converse, or rather to speak, his theme was always of persons in power, or his sarcasms against those who never would obtain it; from any one thing he asserted, it could never be proved, but, from all he said, it might be inferred, that he valued human qualities and talents merely as they could, or could not, obtain a price in the political market. The power of speaking in public, as it is a means in England of acquiring all other species of power, he deemed the first of Heaven's gifts; and successful parliamentary speakers were the only persons of whom he expressed admiration. As Vivian had spoken, and had been listened to in the House of Commons, he was in this respect an object of Marmaduke Lidhurst's envy; but this envy was mitigated by contempt for our hero's want of perseverance in ambition.

"There is that Mr. Vivian of yours," said he to his uncle, whilst Vivian was gone to talk to the ladies—"you'll find he will be but a woman's man, after all!—Heavens! with his fluency in public, what I would have done by this time of day! This poor fellow has no consistency of ambition—no great views—no reach of mind. Put him in for a borough, and he would be just as well content as if he carried the county. You'll see he will, after another session or two, cut out, and retire without a pension, and settle down into a mere honest country gentleman. He would be no connexion to increase the consequence of your family. Lady Sarah Lidhurst would be quite lost with such a nobody! Her ladyship, I am convinced, has too much discrimination, and values herself too highly, to make such a missy match."

Lord Glistonbury coughed, and cleared his throat, and blew his nose, and seemed to suffer extremely, but chiefly under the repression of his usual loquacity. Nothing could be at once a greater proof of his respect for his nephew's abilities, and of his lordship's dislike to him, than this unnatural silence. Mr. Lidhurst's compliments on Lady Sarah's discrimination seemed, however, to be premature, and unmerited; for, during the course of this day, she treated all the vast efforts of her cousin Marmaduke's gallantry with haughty neglect, and showed, what she had never before suffered to be visible in her manner, a marked preference for Mr. Vivian's conversation. The sort of emulation which Mr. Lidhurst's rivalship produced increased the value of the object; she, for whom there was a contention, immediately became a prize. Vivian was both provoked and amused by the alternate contempt and jealousy which Mr. Lidhurst betrayed; this gentleman's desire to keep him out of the Glistonbury family, and to supplant him in Lady Sarah's favour, piqued him to prove his influence, and determined him to maintain his ground. Insensibly, Vivian's attentions to the lady became more vivacious; and he was vain of showing the ease, taste, and elegance of his gallantry; and he was flattered by the idea, that all the spectators perceived both its superiority and its success. Lady Sarah, whose manners had much improved since the departure of Miss Strictland, was so much embellished by our hero's attentions, that he thought her quite charming. He had been prepared to expect fire under the ice, but he was agreeably surprised by this sudden spring of flowers from beneath the snow. The carriage was at the door in the evening, and had waited half an hour, before he was aware that it was time to depart.

"You are right, my dear son!" Lady Mary began, the r moment they were seated in the carriage; "you are quite right, and I was quite wrong, about Lady Sarah Lidhurst: she has feeling, indeed—strong, generous feeling—and she shows it at the proper time: a fine, decided character! Her manners, to-day, so easy, and her countenance so animated, really she looked quite handsome, and I think her a charming woman.—What changes love can make!—Well, now I am satisfied: this is what I always wished—connexion, family, fortune, every thing; and the very sort of character you require in a wife,—the very person, of all others, that is suited to you!"

"If she were but a little more like her sister—or Selina Sidney even!" said Vivian, with a sigh.

"That very word even—your saying like Selina Sidney even—shows that you have not much cause for sighing: for you see how quickly the mere fancy in these matters changes—and you may love Lady Sarah presently, as much as you loved even Lady Julia."

"Impossible! ma'am."

"Impossible! Why, my dear Charles, you astonish me! for you cannot but see the views and expectations of all the family, and of the young lady herself; and your attentions to-day were such as could bear but one construction."

"Were they, ma'am? I was not aware of that at the time—that is, I did not mean to engage myself—Good Heavens! surely I am not engaged?—You know a man is not bound, like a woman, by a few foolish words; compliments and gallantry are not such serious things with us men. Men never consider themselves engaged to a woman till they make an absolute proposal."

"I know that is a common maxim with young men of the present day, but I consider it as dishonourable and base; and very sorry should I be to see it adopted by my son!" cried Lady Mary indignantly. "Ask your friend Mr. Russell's opinion on this point: he long ago told you—I know he did—that if you had not serious thoughts of Lady Sarah Lidhurst, you would do very wrong, after all the reports that have gone abroad, to continue your intimacy with the Glistonburys, and thus to deceive her and her whole family—I only appeal to Mr. Russell;—will you ask your friend Russell's opinion?"

Vivian sighed again deeply for the loss of his friend Russell; but as he could not, without touching upon Lady Julia's affairs, explain the cause of the coolness between him and his friend, he answered only, "that an appeal to Mr. Russell was unnecessary when he had his mother's opinion." Lady Mary's wish for the Glistonbury connexion fortified her morality at this moment, and she replied, "Then my decided opinion is, that it would be an immoral and dishonourable action to break such a tacit engagement as this, which you have voluntarily contracted, and which you absolutely could not break without destroying the peace and happiness of a whole family. Even that cold Lady Glistonbury grew quite warm to-day; and you must see the cause.—And in Lady Glistonbury's state of health, who could answer for the consequences of any disappointment about her favourite daughter, just after the loss of her son, too?"

"No more, mother, for Heaven's sake! I see it all—I feel it all—I must marry Lady Sarah, then.—By what fatality am I doomed, am I forced to marry a woman whom I cannot love, whose person and manners are peculiarly disagreeable to me, and when I'm half in love with another woman!"

"That would be a shocking thing, indeed," said Lady Mary, retracting, and alarmed; for now another train of associations was wakened, and she judged not by her worldly, but by her romantic system.—"I am sure I would not, upon any account, urge you to act against your feelings. I would not be responsible for such a marriage, if you are really in love with her sister, and if Lady Sarah's person and manners are peculiarly and absolutely disagreeable to you. I should do a very wicked action—should destroy my son's happiness and morals, perhaps, by insisting on such a marriage—Heaven forbid!" (A silence of a mile and a half long ensued.) "But, Charles, after all I saw to-day, how can I believe that Lady Sarah is so disagreeable to you?"

"Ma'am, she happened not to be absolutely disagreeable to me to-day."

"Oh! well! then she may not happen to be disagreeable to you to-morrow, or the next day, or ever again!—And, as to the fancy for her sister, when all hope is over, you know love soon dies of itself."

So ended the conversation.—The next morning, at an unusual hour, Lord Glistonbury made his appearance at Castle Vivian, with an air of great vexation and embarrassment: he endeavoured to speak of trivial topics; but, one after another, these subjects dropped. Then Lady Mary, who saw that he was anxious to speak to her son, soon took occasion to withdraw, not without feeling some curiosity, and forming many conjectures, as to the object his lordship might have in view in this conference.

Lord Glistonbury's countenance exhibited, in quick alternation, a look of absolute determination and of utter indecision. At length, with abrupt effort, he said, "Vivian, have you seen the papers to-day?"

"The newspapers?—yes!—no!—They are on the table—I did not look at them—Is there any thing extraordinary?"

"Yes, faith!—extraordinary, very extraordinary!—But it is not here—it is not there—this is not the right paper—it is not in your paper. That's extraordinary, too"—(then feeling in both pockets)—"I was a fool not to bring it with me—May be I have it—Yes, here it is!—Not public news, but private."

Vivian was all expectation, for he imagined that something about Lady Julia was coming. Lord Glistonbury, who, in his commerce with public men, had learned the art of paying in words, to gain time when in danger of a bankruptcy of ideas, went on, stringing sentences together, without much meaning, whilst he was collecting his thoughts and studying the countenance of his auditor.

"You recollect my suggestions the last time I had the honour of speaking to you on a particular subject. I confess, Mr. Lidhurst's conduct does not meet my ideas of propriety; but other persons are free to form what judgment they think fit upon the occasion. I shall submit the matter to you, Mr. Vivian, feeling myself called upon to come forward immediately to explain it to your satisfaction; and I do not fear to commit myself, by stating at once my sentiments, and the light in which it strikes me; for there must be some decision shown, somehow or other, and on some side or other.——Decision is all in all in public business, as the great Bacon or somebody says—and nobody knows that better than Marmaduke."

Here his lordship grew warm, and quitting his parliamentary cant, assumed his familiar style.

"Gad! he has stolen a march upon us—out-generalled us—but, in my private opinion, not in the handsomest style possible—Hey, Vivian?—Hey?"

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

"Oh! the fact is simply—Look here, he has without my encouragement or concurrence—and, indeed, as he very well knew, contrary to my approbation and wishes—gone, and declared himself candidate for this county; and here's his fine flourishing, patriotic, damned advertisement in the paper—'To the gentlemen, clergy, and freeholders of the county.'——Gad! how it startled me this morning! When I first saw it I rubbed my eyes, and could hardly believe it was Marmaduke. Though I pique myself on knowing a man's style at the first line, yet I could not have believed it was his, unless I had seen his name at full length in these great abominable characters—'John Marmaduke Lidhurst.'— 'Glastonbury Castle!' too—as if I had countenanced the thing, or had promised my support; when he knew, that but yesterday I was arguing the point with him in my study, and told him I was engaged to you. Such an ungentlemanlike trick!—for you know it reduces me to the dilemma of supporting a man who is only my friend, against my nearest relation by blood, which, of course, would have an odd and awkward appearance in the eyes of the world!"

Vivian expressed much concern for his lordship's difficulties; but observed that the world would be very unjust if it blamed him, and he was sure his lordship had too much decision of character.

"But, independently of the world," interrupted his lordship, "even in our own family, amongst all the Lidhursts and their remotest connexions, there would be quite a league formed against me; and these family quarrels are ugly affairs; for though our feudal times are done away, party clanships have succeeded to feudal clanships; and we chiefs of parties must keep our followers in good humour, or we are nothing _in the _field_—I should say _in the house_—Ha! ha! ha!——I laugh, but it is a very serious business; for Marmaduke Lidhurst would be, in private or public, an impracticable enemy. Marmaduke's a fellow capable of inextinguishable hatred; and he is everywhere, and knows every body, of all the clubs, a rising young man, who is listened to, and who would make his story credited. And then, with one's nephew, one can't settle these things in _an honourable way_—these family quarrels must be arranged amicably, not honourably; and that's the difficulty: the laws of honour are dead letters in these cases, and the laws of the land do not reach these niceties of feeling.——But of the most important fact you are still to be apprised."

"Indeed!" cried Vivian.

"Yes, you have not yet heard Marmaduke's master-stroke of policy!"

"No!—What is it, my lord?—I am all attention—pray explain it to me."

"But there's the delicacy—there's the difficulty!—No, no, no.—Upon my soul, I cannot name it!" cried Lord Glistonbury. "It revolts my feelings—all my feelings—as a man, as a gentleman, as a father. Upon my honour, as a peer, I would speak if I could; but, for the soul of me, I cannot."

"You know, my dear lord," said Vivian, "there can be no delicacies or difficulties with me; your lordship has done me the honour to live always on such a footing of intimacy with me, that surely there is not any thing you cannot say to me!"

"Why, that's true," said Lord Glistonbury, quitting his affected air of distress, and endeavouring to throw off his real feeling of embarrassment: "you are right, my dear Vivian! we are certainly upon terms of such intimacy, that I ought not to be so scrupulous. But there are certain things, a well-born, well-bred man—in short, it would look so like—But, in fact, I am driven to the wall, and I must defend myself as well as I can against this nephew of mine—I know it will look like the most horrible thing upon earth, like what I would rather be decapitated than do—I know it will look, absolutely, as if I came here to ask you to marry my daughter,—which, you know, is a thing no gentleman could have the most remotely in his contemplation; but, since I am so pressed, I must tell you the exact truth, and explain to you, however difficult, Marmaduke's master-stroke——he has proposed for Lady Sarah; and has had the assurance to ask me whether there is or is not any truth in certain reports which he is pleased to affirm have gone abroad—Heaven knows how or why!——And he urges me—the deep dog! for his cousin's sake, to contradict those reports, in the only effectual manner, by a temporary cessation of the intimate intercourse between Castle Vivian and Glistonbury Castle, whilst Lady Sarah remains unmarried; or, if our master politician would speak plainly, till he has married her himself.——At any rate, I have spoken frankly, Vivian, hey? you'll allow; and I am entitled both to a candid interpretation of my motives, and to equal frankness of reply."

Whilst his lordship had been speaking, compassion, gratitude, vanity, rivalship, honour, Lady Mary Vivian's conversation, Lady Julia's letter, then again the connexion, the earldom in future, the present triumph or disappointment about the election, the insolent intrusion of Mr. Lidhurst, the cruelty of abandoning a lady who was in love with him, the dishonour, the impossibility of receding after certain reports; all these ideas, in rapid succession, pressed on Vivian's mind: and his decision was in consequence of the feelings and of the embarrassment of the moment. His reply to Lord Glistonbury was a proposal for Lady Sarah, followed by as many gallant protestations as his presence of mind could furnish. He did not very well know what he said, nor did Lord Glistonbury scrupulously examine whether he had the air and accent of a true lover, nor did his lordship inquire what had become of Vivian's late love for Lady Julia; but, quite content that the object should be altered, the desire the same, he relieved Vivian by exclaiming, "Come, come, all this sort of thing Lady Sarah herself must hear; and I've a notion—but I can keep a secret. You'll return with me directly to Glistonbury. Lady Glistonbury will be delighted to see you; and I shall be delighted to see Marmaduke's face, when I tell him you have actually proposed for Sarah—for now I must tell you all. Our politician calculated upon the probability that you would not decide, you see, to make a proposal at once, that would justify me to the world in supporting my son-in-law against my nephew. As to the choice of the son-in-law, Sarah settles that part of the business herself, you know; for, when two proposals are made, both almost equally advantageous, in the common acceptation of the word, I am too good a father not to leave the decision to my daughter. So you see we understand one another perfectly, and will make Marmaduke, too, understand us perfectly, contrary to his calculations, hey, hey?——Mr. Politician, your advertisement must be withdrawn, I opine, in the next paper—hey, Vivian? my dear Vivian!"

With similar loquacity, Lord Glistonbury continued, in the fulness of his heart, all the way they went together to Glistonbury Castle; which was agreeable to Vivian, at least by saving him from all necessity of speaking.

"So!" said Vivian to himself, "the die is cast, and I have actually proposed for Lady Sarah Lidhurst!—Who would have expected this two years ago?—I would not have believed it, if it had been foretold to me even two months ago. But it is a very—a very suitable match, and it will please the friends of both parties; and Lady Sarah is certainly very estimable, and capable of very strong attachment; and I like her, that is, I liked her yesterday very much—I really like her."

Upon those mixed motives, between convenience and affection, from which, Dr. Johnson says, most people marry, our hero commenced his courtship of the Lady Sarah Lidhurst. As the minds of both parties on the subject are pretty well known to our readers, it would be cruel to fatigue them with a protracted description of the formalities of courtship. It is sufficient to say, that my Lord Glistonbury had the satisfaction of seeing his nephew disappointed.



CHAPTER XIV.

"And the marriage was solemnized with much pomp and magnificence, and every demonstration of joy."

Novelists and novel readers are usually satisfied when they arrive at this happy catastrophe; their interest and curiosity seldom go any farther: but, in real life, marriage is but the beginning of domestic happiness or misery.

Soon after the celebration of Vivian's nuptials, an event happened which interrupted all the festivities at Glistonbury, and which changed the bridal pomp to mourning. Lady Glistonbury, who had been much fatigued by the multitude of wedding-visits she was obliged to receive and return, had another stroke of the palsy, which, in a few hours, terminated fatally. Thus, the very event which Vivian had dreaded, as the probable consequence of his refusal to marry her daughter, was, in fact, accelerated by the full accomplishment of her wishes. After the loss of her mother, Lady Sarah Vivian's whole soul seemed to be engrossed by fondness for her husband. In public, and to all eyes but Vivian's, her ladyship seemed much the same person as formerly: but, in private, the affection she expressed for him was so great, that he frequently asked himself whether this could be the same woman, who, to the rest of the world, and in every other part of her life, appeared so cold and inanimate. On a very few occasions her character, before her marriage, had, "when much enforced, given out a hasty spark, and straight was cold again;" but now she permitted the steady flame to burn without restraint. Duty and passion had now the same object. Before marriage, her attachment had been suppressed, even at the hazard of her life; she had no idea that the private demonstrations of unbounded love from a married woman to her husband could be either blameable or dangerous: she believed it to be her duty to love her husband as much as she possibly could.—Was not he her husband? She had been taught that she should neither read, speak, nor think of love; and she had been so far too much restricted on this subject, that, absolutely ignorant and unconscious even of her danger, she now pursued her own course without chart or compass. Her injudicious tenderness soon imposed such restraint upon her husband, as scarcely any lover, much less any husband, could have patiently endured. She would hardly ever suffer him to leave her. Whenever he went out of the house, she exacted from him a promise that he would be back again at a certain hour; and if he were even a few minutes later than his appointment, he had to sustain her fond reproaches. Even though he stayed at home all day, she was uneasy if he quitted the room where she sat; and he, who by this time understood, through all her exterior calmness, the symptoms of her internal agitation, saw by her countenance that she was wretched if he seemed interested in the conversation of any other person, especially of any other woman.

One day when Vivian, after spending the morning tete-a-tete with Lady Sarah, signified to her his intention of dining abroad, she repeated her fond request that he would be sure to come home early, and that he would tell her at what o'clock exactly she might expect to see him again. He named an hour at hazard, to free himself from her importunate anxiety; but he could not help saying, "Pshaw!" as he ran down stairs; an exclamation which fortunately reached only the ears of a groom, who was thinking of nothing but the tops of his own boots. Vivian happened to meet some agreeable people where he dined: he was much pressed to stay to supper; he yielded to entreaty, but he had the good-natured attention to send home his servant, to beg that Lady Sarah and his mother would not sit up for him. When he returned, he found all the family in bed except Lady Sarah, who was sitting up waiting for him, with her watch in her hand. The moment he appeared, she assailed him with tender reproaches, to which he answered, "But why would you sit up when I begged you would not, my dear Lady Sarah?"

She replied by a continuity of fond reproach; and among other things she said, but without believing it to be true, "Ah! I am sure you would have been happier if you had married my sister Julia, or that Miss Sidney!"

Vivian sighed deeply; but the next instant, conscious that he had sighed, and afraid of giving his wife pain, he endeavoured to turn the course of her thoughts to some other subject. In vain. Poor Lady Sarah said no more, but felt this exquisitely, and with permanent anguish. Thus her imprudence reverted upon herself, and she suffered in proportion to her pride and to her fondness. By such slight circumstances is the human heart alienated from love! Struggling to be free, the restive little deity ruffles and impairs his plumage, and seldom recovers a disposition to tranquillity. Vivian's good-nature had induced him for some time to submit to restraint; but if, instead of weakly yielding to the fond importunity of his wife—if, instead of tolerating the insipidity of her conversation and the narrowness of her views, he had with real energy employed her capacity upon suitable objects, he might have made her attachment the solace of his life. Whoever possesses the heart of a woman, who has common powers of intellect, may improve her understanding in twelve months more than could all the masters, and lectures, and courses of philosophy, and abridgments, and documenting in the universe. But Vivian had not sufficient resolution for such an undertaking: he thought only of avoiding to give or to feel present pain; and the consequences were, that the evils he dreaded every day increased.

Vivian's mother saw the progress of conjugal discontent with anguish and remorse.

"Alas!" said she to herself, "I was much to blame for pressing this match. My son told me he could never love Lady Sarah Lidhurst. It would have been better far to have broken off a marriage at the church-door than to have forced the completion of such an ill-assorted union. My poor son married chiefly from a principle of honour; his duty and respect for my opinion had also great weight in his decision; and I have sacrificed his happiness to my desire that he should make what the world calls a splendid alliance. I am the cause of all his misery; and Heaven only knows where all this will end!"

In her paroxysm of self-reproach, and her eagerness to set things to rights between her daughter-in-law and her son, she only made matters worse. She spoke with all the warmth and frankness of her own character to Lady Sarah, beseeching her to speak with equal openness, and to explain the cause of the alteration in Vivian.

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

"Is not there some disagreement between you, my dear?"

"There is no disagreement whatever, madam, as far as I know, between Mr. Vivian and me—we agree perfectly," said Lady Sarah.

"Well, the misunderstanding!"

"I do not know of any misunderstanding, madam. Mr. Vivian and I understand one another perfectly."

"The coolness, then—Oh! what word shall I use!—Surely, my dear Lady Sarah, there is some coolness—something wrong?"

"I am sure, madam, I do not complain of any coolness on Mr. Vivian's part. Am I to understand that he complains to your ladyship of any thing wrong on mine? If he does, I shall think it my duty, when he points out the particulars, to make any alteration he may desire in my conduct and manners."

"Complain!—My son!—He makes no complaints, my dear. You misunderstand me. My son does not complain that any thing is wrong on your part."

"Then, madam, if no complaints are made on either side, all is as it should be, I presume, at present; and if in future I should fail in any point of duty, I shall hold myself obliged to your ladyship if you will then act as my monitor."

Hopeless of penetrating Lady Sarah's sevenfold fence of pride, the mother flew to her son, to try what could be done with his open and generous mind. He expressed a most earnest and sincere wish to make his wife happy. Conscious that he had given her exquisite pain, he endeavoured to make atonement by the sacrifices which he thought would be most grateful to her. He refrained often from company and conversation that was agreeable to him, and would resign himself for hours to her society. It was fortunate for Lady Julia Lidhurst that, by continuing with her good uncle the bishop, she did not see the consequences of the union which she had so strenuously advised. The advice of friends is often highly useful to prevent an imprudent match; but it seldom happens that marriages turn out happily which have been made from the opinion of others rather than from the judgment and inclinations of the parties concerned; for, let the general reasons on which the advice is grounded be ever so sensible, it is scarcely possible that the adviser can take in all the little circumstances of taste and temper, upon which so much of the happiness or misery of domestic life depends. Besides, people are much more apt to repent of having been guided by the judgment of another than of having followed their own; and this is most likely to be the case with the weakest minds. Strong minds can decide for themselves, not by the opinions but by the reasons that are laid before them: weak minds are influenced merely by opinions; and never, either before or after their decision, are firm in abiding by the preponderating reasons.

No letters, no intelligence from home, except a malicious hint now and then from her cousin Marmaduke, which she did not credit, gave her reason to suspect that the pair whom she had contributed to unite were not perfectly happy. So Lady Julia exulted in the success of her past counsels, and indulged her generous romantic disposition in schemes for forwarding a union between Russell and Selina, determining to divide her fortune amongst the children of her friends. She concluded one of her letters to Lady Sarah Vivian about this time with these words:—

"Could I but see one other person,—whom I must not name, rewarded for his virtues, as you are, by happy love, I should die content, and would write on my tomb:—

'Je ne fus point heureux, mais j'ai fait leur bonheur." [10]

Far removed from all romance and all generosity of sentiment, Lord Glistonbury, in the mean time, went on very comfortably, without observing any thing that passed in his family. Whatever uneasiness obtruded upon his attention he attributed to one cause, anxiety relative to the question on which his present thoughts were exclusively fixed, viz. whether Lady Sarah's first child would be a boy or a girl. "Heaven grant a boy!" said his lordship; "for then, you know, there's an end of Marmaduke as heir-at-law!" Whenever his lordship saw a cloud on the brows of Lady Mary, of Lady Sarah, or of Vivian, he had one infallible charm for dispelling melancholy;—he stepped up close to the patient, and whispered, "It will be a boy!—My life upon it, it will be a boy!" Sometimes it happened that this universal remedy, applied at random, made the patient start or smile; and then his lordship never failed to add, with a nod of great sagacity, "Ah! you didn't know I knew what you were thinking of!—Well! well! you'll see we shall cut out Marmaduke yet."

With this hope of cutting out Marmaduke, Lord Glistonbury went on very happily, and every day grew fonder of the son-in-law, who was the enemy of his heir-at-law, or whom he considered as such. The easiness of Vivian's temper was peculiarly agreeable to his lordship, who enjoyed the daily pleasure of governing a man of talents which were far superior to his own. This easiness of temper in our hero was much increased by the want of motive and stimulus. He thought that he had now lost his chance of happiness; he cared little for the more or less pain of each succeeding day; and so passive was his listlessness, that to a superficial observer, like Lord Glistonbury, it looked like the good-nature of perfect content.—Poor Vivian!—In this wreck of his happiness, one saving chance, however, yet remained. He had still a public character; he was conscious of, having preserved unblemished integrity as a member of the senate; and this integrity, still more than his oratorical talents, raised him far above most of his competitors, and preserved him not only in the opinion of others, but in his own. When parliament met, he went to town, took a very handsome house for Lady Sarah, determining to do all he could to oblige and please the wife whom he could not love. Lady Sarah had complete power, at home and abroad, of her time and her expenses: her dress, her equipages, her servants, her whole establishment, were above Vivian's fortune, and equal to her ladyship's birth and rank. She was mistress of every thing but of his heart. The less he liked her, the more he endeavoured to compensate for this involuntary fault, by allowing her that absolute dominion, and that external splendour, which he thought would gratify, and perhaps fill her mind. As for himself, he took refuge in the House of Commons. There he forgot for a time domestic uneasiness, and was truly animated by what so many affect—zeal for the good of his country. He was proud to recollect, that the profligate Wharton had failed in the attempt to laugh him out of his public virtue; he was proud that Wharton's prophecies of his apostasy had never been accomplished; that, as a public! character at least, he had fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and was still worthy of himself, and of that friend whom he had lost. He clung to this idea, as to the only hope left him in life.

One night, in a debate on some question of importance, he made an excellent speech, which was particularly well received by the house, because it came from one who had an unblemished character. When Vivian went into the coffee-room to refresh himself, after he had done speaking, several of his acquaintance crowded round him, complimenting him upon his success—he broke from them all! for he saw, advancing towards him with a smile of approbation, the friend on whose approbation he set a higher value than he did even on the applauses of the house—the friend whose lost affection he had so long and so bitterly regretted. Russell stretched out his hand—Vivian eagerly seized it; and, before they had either of them spoken one word, they both understood each other perfectly, and their reconciliation was completely effected.

"Yes," said Russell, as they walked out arm in arm together, "yes, it is fit that I should forget all private resentment, in the pride and pleasure I feel, not merely in your public success, but in your public virtue. Talents, even the rare talent of oratory, you know, I hold cheap in comparison with that which is so far more rare, as well as more valuable—political integrity. The abhorrence and contempt of political profligacy, which you have just expressed, as a member of the senate, and the consistent conduct by which you have supported your principles, are worthy of you; and, allow me to say, of your education."

Vivian felt exalted in his own opinion by such praise, and by these the warmest expressions he had ever received of Russell's regard. He forgot even his domestic uneasiness; and this day, the first for many months he had spent happily, he passed with his friend. They supped together, and related mutually all that happened since their parting. Russell told Vivian that he had lately been agreeably surprised by the gift of a valuable living from the Bishop of ——, Lady Julia Lidhurst's uncle; that the bishop, whom he had till then never seen, had written to him in the handsomest manner, saying that he knew the obligations his family owed to Mr. Russell; that it had been the dying request of his nephew, Lord Lidhurst, that some token of the family esteem and gratitude should be offered to him, to whom they owed so much; but the bishop added, that neither family gratitude nor private friendship could have induced him to bestow church preferments upon any but the person whose character best entitled him to such a distinction and such a trust.

This letter, as Vivian observed, was well calculated to satisfy Russell's conscience and his delicacy. The conversation next turned upon Lady Julia Lidhurst. Russell was not aware that Vivian knew more of her attachment to him than what had been discovered the day before he left Glistonbury; and Vivian could not help admiring the honourable and delicate manner in which his friend spoke of her, without any air of mystery, and with the greatest respect. He told Vivian he had heard that proposals had been lately made to her ladyship by a gentleman of great talents and of high character; but that she had positively declined his addresses, and had repeated her declaration that she would never marry. Her good uncle left her, on this point, entirely at liberty, and did not mention the proposal to Lord Glistonbury, lest she should be exposed to any fresh difficulties. Russell expressed much satisfaction at this part of the bishop's conduct, as being not only the most kind, but the most judicious, and the most likely to dispose his niece to change her determination. He repeated his opinion that, united to a man of sense and strength of mind, she would make a charming and excellent wife. Vivian agreed with him; yet observed, that he was convinced she would never marry—There he paused.—Could Lady Julia herself have overheard the conversation which afterwards passed between these two gentlemen, one of whom she had loved and the other of whom she had refused, not a word would have hurt her feelings: on the contrary, she would have been raised in her own opinion, and gratified by the strong interest they both showed for her happiness. They regretted only that a young woman of such talents, and of such a fine, generous disposition, had been so injudiciously educated.

"And now, my dear Russell," cried Vivian, "that we have finished the chapter of Lady Julia, let us talk of Miss Sidney."—Russell's change of countenance showed that it was not quite so easy for him to talk upon this subject.—To spare him the effort, Vivian resumed, "As you are a rich man now, my dear Russell, you will certainly marry; and I know," added he, smiling, "that Miss Sidney will be your wife. If ever man deserved such a prize, you do; and I shall be the first to wish you joy."

"Stay, my good friend," interrupted Russell; "your kindness for me, and your imagination, are too quick in this anticipation of my happiness."—Russell then told him, that he never had declared his attachment to Selina till Vivian's marriage had put an end to all probability of rivalship with his friend. She had expressed high esteem for Russell, but had told him, that she had suffered so much from a first unfortunate attachment, that she felt averse from any new engagements.

"Shall I assure you, as you assured me just now with regard to Lady Julia," said Vivian, "that Miss Sidney will he prevailed upon to alter her determination; and shall I add, that, though I should like Lady Julia the less, I should like Selina the better, for changing her mind?"—He went on, generously expressing sincere hopes, that his friend might obtain Selina Sidney's affections, and might enjoy that domestic happiness, which—Vivian was going to say, which he had himself forfeited; but checking this regret, he only said—"that domestic happiness, which I consider as the summit of human felicity, and which no man can deserve better than you do, my dear Russell."

Russell easily guessed that poor Vivian had not attained this summit of human felicity by his own marriage, but never adverted to any of the conversations they had held about Lady Sarah Lidhurst; never recalled any of Vivian's vehement declarations concerning the absolute impossibility of his making such a match; never evinced the least surprise at his marriage; nor inquired how he had conquered his passion for Lady Julia. With friendly forgetfulness, he seemed to have totally obliterated from his mind all that it could do no good to remember. Vivian was sensible of this delicacy, and grateful for it; but to imitate Russell's reserve and silence upon certain subjects required a force, a forbearance of which he was not capable. At first he had determined not to say one word to Russell of domestic uneasiness; but they had not been many hours together before Vivian poured forth all his complaints, and confessed how bitterly he repented his marriage: be declared that he had been persuaded, by the united efforts of her family and of his mother, against his own judgment, or, at least, against his taste and inclinations, to marry Lady Sarah.

"By whatever persuasions, or by whatever motives, your choice was decided," interrupted Russell, "reflect that it is decided for life; therefore abide by it, and justify it. Above all, make yourself happy with the means which are yet in your power, instead of wasting your mind in unavailing regret. You are united to a woman who has every estimable quality, as you candidly acknowledge: there are some particulars in which she does not please your taste; but withdraw your attention from these, and you will be happy with a wife who is so firmly attached to you. Consider, besides, that—romance apart—love, though a delightful passion, is not the only resource which a man of sense, virtue, and activity may find for happiness. Your public duties, your success, and your reputation as a public character, will—"

Russell was interrupted in this consolatory and invigorating speech, by the entrance of a servant of Lord Glistonbury's, who brought a note from his lordship to Mr. Vivian, requesting to see him as soon as he could make it convenient to come to Glistonbury House, as his lordship wanted to speak to him on particular business of the greatest importance. Vivian was provoked by being thus summoned away from his friend, to attend to one of what he called Lord Glistonbury's important mysteries about nothing. Russell was engaged to go into the country the ensuing day, to take possession of his new living; but he promised that he would see him again soon; and, with this hope, the two friends parted.

Vivian went to Lord Glistonbury's: he found his lordship in his study. "Where have you been, Vivian?" exclaimed he: "I have sent messenger after messenger to look for you, half over the town: I thought you were to have dined with us, but you ran away, and nobody could tell where, or with whom; and we have been waiting for you at our cabinet council here with the utmost impatience."—Vivian answered, that he had unexpectedly met with his friend Russell; and was proceeding to tell his lordship how handsomely the Bishop of——had provided for his friend; but Lord Glistonbury, like many other great men, having the habit of forgetting all the services of those from whom they have nothing more to expect, cut short Vivian's narration, by exclaiming, "True, true! well, well! that's all over now—Certainly, that Russell did his duty by my poor son; and acted as he ought to do—in all things; and I'm glad to hear my brother has given him a good living; and I hope, as you say, he will soon be married—so best—so best, you know, Vivian, for reasons of our own—Well! well! I'm glad he is provided for—not but what that living would have been of essential service, if it had been reserved for a friend of mine—but my brother the bishop never can enter into any political views—might as well not have a brother a bishop—But, however, Mr. Russell's a friend of yours—I am not regretting—not so rude to you to regret——on the contrary, rejoice, particularly as Mr. Russell is a man of so much merit—But all that's over now; and I want to talk to you upon quite another matter. You know I have always said I should, sooner or later, succeed in my grand object, hey, Vivian?"

"Your lordship's grand object?—I am not sure that I know it."

"Oh, surely, you know my grand object. You my son-in-law, and forget my grand object?—The marquisate, you know; the marquisate, the marquisate! Did not I always tell you that I would make government, sooner or later, change my earldom into a marquisate? Well! the thing is done—that is, as good as done; they have sent to treat with me upon my own terms."

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

"Joy!—to be sure you do, my sober sir:—one would think you had no concern or interest in the business. Joy! to be sure you give me joy; but, I can tell you, you must give me something more than joy—you must give me support."

"How he looks!" continued Lord Glistonbury, "as if he did not know what is meant by support. Vivian, did you never hear of parliamentary support?"

"I hope, my dear lord," replied Vivian, gravely, "that you have not entered into any engagements, or made any promises for me, which I cannot have it in my power to perform."

Lord Glistonbury hesitated in some confusion; and then, forcing a look of effrontery, in an assured tone, replied, "No. I have not made any engagements or promises for you which you cannot perform, Vivian, I am clear; nor any which I have not a right to expect my son-in-law will confirm with alacrity."

"What have you engaged?—what have you promised for me, my lord?" said Vivian, earnestly.

"Only, my dear boy," said Lord Glistonbury, assuming a facetious tone, "only that you will be always one of us—And are not you one of us?—my son-in-law?—the deuce is in it if he is not one of us!—In short, you know, to be serious, a party must go together, that is, a family party must go together; and, if a ministry do my business, of course I do theirs. If I have my marquisate, they have my votes."

"But not my vote—pardon me, my lord—my vote cannot be bartered in this manner."

"But, you know, Mr. Vivian, you know it is for your interest as much as for mine; for, you know, the marquisate will probably descend, in due course of time, to your son. So your interest is full as much concerned as mine; and besides, let me tell you, I have not forgotten your immediate interest: I have stipulated that you should have the valuable place which Mr. C—— was to have had."

All that Russell had said of public virtue was fresh in our hero's mind. "I thank you, my dear lord," said he; "for I am sure this was kindly intended; but I am not one of those persons, who in public affairs think only of their private interest—I am not thinking of my interest. But if a man maintains certain public measures one day, and the next, for valuable consideration, supports diametrically opposite opinions and measures, he will lose, and deserve to lose, all reputation for integrity."

"Integrity! political integrity!" said Lord Glistonbury; "fine words, which mean nothing. Behind the scenes, as we are now, Vivian, what use can there be in talking in that strain?—Between you and me, you know this is all nonsense. For who, of any party, now thinks, really and truly, of any thing but getting power or keeping it? Power, you know, stands for the measure of talent; and every thing else worth having is included in that word power. I speak plainly. And as honour is merely an affair of opinion, and opinion, again, an affair of numbers, and as there are numbers enough to keep one in countenance in these things; really, my dear Vivian, it is quite childish, quite boyish, smells of the lamp. To declaim about political integrity, and all that, is not the language of a man who knows any thing of business—any thing of the world.—But why do I say all this?" cried Lord Glistonbury, checking himself and assuming an air of more reserved displeasure.—Mr. Vivian certainly knows all this as well as I do; I know how my nephew Marmaduke, who, with all his faults, is no fool, would interpret your present language: he would say, as I have often heard him say, that political integrity is only a civil put off."

"Political integrity only a civil put off!" repeated Vivian, with unfeigned astonishment. When he formerly heard similar sentiments from the avowed profligate and hackneyed politician Mr. Wharton, he was shocked; but to hear them repeated, as being coolly laid down by so young a man as Mr. Lidhurst, excited so much disgust and contempt in Vivian's mind, that he could hardly refrain from saying more than either prudence or politeness could justify.

"Now I am free to confess," pursued Lord Glistonbury, "that I should think it more candid and manly, and, I will add, more friendly, and more the natural, open conduct of a son-in-law to a father-in-law, instead of talking of political integrity, to have said, at once, I cannot oblige you in this instance."

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

"I tell you, sir, I am in earnest," cried his lordship, turning suddenly in a rage, as he walked up and down the room; "I say, it would have been more candid, more manly, more every thing,—and much more like a son-in-law—much!—much!——I am sure, if I had known as much as I do now, sir, you never should have been my son-in-law—never! never!—seen Lady Sarah in her grave first!—I would!—I would!—yes, sir—I would!——And you are the last person upon earth I should have expected it from. But I have a nephew—I have a nephew, and now I know the difference. No man can distinguish his friends till he tries them."

Vivian in vain endeavoured to appease Lord Glistonbury by assurances that he would do any thing in his power to oblige him, except what he himself considered as dishonourable: his lordship reiterated, with divers passionate ejaculations, that if Vivian would not oblige him in this point, on which he had set his heart—where the great object of his life was at stake—he could never believe he had any regard for him; and that in short, it must come to an open rupture between them, for that he should never consider him more as his son. Having uttered this denunciation as distinctly as passion would permit, Lord Glistonbury retired to rest.

Vivian went immediately to his mother, to tell her what had passed, and he felt almost secure of her approbation; but though she praised him for his generous spirit of independence, yet it was evident the hopes that the title of marquis might descend to a grandson of her own weighed more with her than any patriotic considerations. She declared, that indeed she would not, for any title, or any thing upon earth, have her son act dishonourably; but what was asked of him, as far as she could understand, was only such a change of party, such compliances, as every public man in his place would make: and though she would not have him, like some she could name, a corrupt tool of government, yet, on the other hand, it was folly to expect that he alone could do any thing against the general tide of corruption—that it would be madness in him to sacrifice himself entirely, without the slightest possibility of doing any good to his country.

Vivian interrupted her, to represent that, if each public man argued in this manner, nothing could ever be accomplished for the public good: that, on the contrary, if every man hoped that something might be done, even by his individual exertion, and if he determined to sacrifice a portion of his private interest in the attempt, perhaps much might be effected.

"Very likely!" Lady Mary said. She confessed she knew little of politics: so from argument she went to persuasion and entreaties. She conjured him not to quarrel with the Glistonburys, and not to provoke Lord Glistonbury's displeasure. "I see all that artful Marmaduke's schemes," said she: "he knows his uncle's pertinacious temper; and he hopes that your notions of patriotism will prevent you from yielding on a point, on which his uncle has set his heart. Marmaduke will know how to take advantage of all this, believe me!"

Vivian was shaken in his resolution by his mother's entreaties—by the idea of all the family quarrels that would ensue, and of all the difficulties in which he might be involved, if he persisted in his generous determination.

"My dear son," resumed she, "it would be absolute madness to refuse the place that is now offered you: only consider the situation of your affairs—consider, I beseech you, the distress you will be in by and by, if you reject this offer—recollect the immense demands upon you; recollect that heap of bills for the election, and for the buildings, and all the poor workmen about the castle! and that coachmaker too! and remember, the purchase money of the house in town must be paid in three months. And the only possible means by which you can get out of debt, is by accepting this place, which would put you at ease at once, and enable you to continue in the style of life to which you have of late been accustomed."

"As to that, I could alter my style of life—I would do any thing," cried Vivian, "to pay my debts and preserve my independence. I will alter my mode of living, and retrench decidedly and vigorously."

"Well, my dear son, I admire your spirit, and, if you can do this, it will certainly be best; but I fear that when it comes to the trial, you will not be able to persevere."

"I shall—I shall! Believe me, mother, I have resolution enough for this—you do me injustice," said Vivian.

"No, my dear Charles, I do you justice; for I do not doubt your resolution, as far as your own privations are concerned; but, consider your wife—consider Lady Sarah—consider the luxury in which she has always been accustomed to live, and the high sphere in which her relations move! How her pride would be hurt by their looking down upon her! I have no doubt Lady Sarah would do her duty, and make any sacrifices for her husband; and if you were—I must now speak plainly—if you were passionately fond of her—an all-for-love husband—you could, with honour and propriety, accept of such sacrifices; but what would retirement be to poor Lady Sarah, and with Lady Sarah?"

Vivian told his mother that he would take a night to reconsider the matter coolly; and, satisfied with having gained so much, she suffered him to go home. As he was quitting his own dressing-room, he paused, to consider whether he should consult his wife, who was, as yet, in ignorance of the whole transaction, and who knew nothing of the deranged state of his affairs. He did her the justice to believe that she would be willing to live with him in retirement, and to forego all the luxuries and pride of her rank, for the sake of her duty and of her love. He was convinced that, in any opposition between her father's interests and her husband's honour, she would strongly abide by her husband. He recollected all Lady Julia had said of the advantage that her sister's firmness of mind might be in steadying his vacillating temper in any moment of trial. Here was the first great occasion, since his marriage, where his wife's strength of mind could be of essential service to him: yet he hesitated whether he should avail himself of this advantage; and every moment, as he approached nearer to her apartment, he hesitated more and more; He did not, in the first place, like to humble himself so far as to ask her counsel; then he had not courage to confess those debts and embarrassments which he had hitherto concealed. All that his mother had suggested about the indelicacy of requiring or accepting great sacrifices from a woman whom, though he esteemed, he could not love—the horror of retirement with such a companion—the long years tete-a-tete—all these ideas combined, but chiefly the apprehension of the immediate present pain of speaking to her on a disagreeable subject, and of being obliged to hear her speak with that formal deliberation which he detested; added to this, the dread of her surprise, if not of her reproaches, when all his affairs should be revealed, operated so irresistibly upon his weakness, that he decided on the common resource—concealment. His hand was upon the lock of his chamber-door, and he turned it cautiously and softly, lest, in entering his apartment, he should waken Lady Sarah: but she was not asleep.

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

"Business, my dear," answered he, with some embarrassment.

"May I ask what sort of business?"

"Oh!—only—political business."

"Political business!" She looked earnestly at her husband; but, as if repressing her curiosity, she afterwards added, "our sex have nothing to do with politics," and, turning away from the light, she composed herself to sleep.

"Very true, my dear," replied Vivian—not a word more did he say: content with this evasion of the difficulty, he thus, by his weakness, deprived himself of the real advantage of his wife's strength of mind. Whilst Lady Sarah, in total ignorance of the distress of her husband, slept in peace, he lay awake, revolving painful thoughts in the silence of the night. All that his mother had said about the pecuniary difficulties to which they must soon be reduced recurred with fresh force; the ideas of the unpaid election bills, all the masons', carpenters', painters', glaziers', and upholsterers' bills, with "thousands yet unnamed behind," rose, in dreadful array, before him, and the enthusiasm of his patriotism was appalled. With feverish reiteration, he ran over and over, in his mind, the same circle of difficulties, continually returning to the question, "Then what can be done?" Bitterly did he this night regret the foolish expenses into which he had early in life been led. If it were to do over again, he certainly would not turn his house into a castle; if he had foreseen how much the expense would surpass the estimates, assuredly nothing could have tempted him to such extravagance. The architect, the masons, the workmen, one and all, were knaves; but, one and all, they must be paid. Then what could he do?—And the debts incurred by the contested elections!—contested elections are cursed things, when the bills come to be paid; but, cursed or not, they must be paid. Then what could he do?—The distress in which he should involve his generous mother—the sacrifices he should require from his wife—the family quarrels—all that Lady Sarah would suffer from them—the situation of his wife. Then what could he do?—He MUST submit to Lord Glistonbury, and take the place that was offered to him.

Vivian sighed—and turned in his bed—and sighed—and thought—and turned—and sighed again—and the last sigh of expiring patriotism escaped him!——To this end, to this miserable end, must all patriotism come, which is not supported by the seemingly inferior virtues of prudence and economy.

Poor Vivian endeavoured to comfort himself by the reflection that he should not act from merely mercenary considerations, but that he was compelled to yield to the solicitations of his mother and of his father-in-law; that he was forced to sacrifice his own public opinions to secure domestic peace, and to prevent the distress of his mother, the misery, and perhaps danger, of his wife and child. Dereliction of principle, in these circumstances, was something like an amiable, a pardonable weakness. And then, see it in what light you will, as Lord Glistonbury observed, "there are so many who will keep a patriot in countenance now-a-days, for merely changing sides in politics. A man is not even thought to be a man of talents till he gets something by his talents. The bargain he makes—the price he gains—is, in most people's estimation, the value of the public man."

All this Vivian said to himself to quiet his conscience; and all this, he knew, would be abundantly satisfactory to the generality of people with whom he associated; therefore, from them he could fear neither reproach nor contempt: but he could not bear even to think of Russell—he felt all the pangs of remorse, and agony of shame, as the idea of such a friend came into his mind. Again he turned in his bed, and groaned aloud—so loud, that Lady Sarah wakened, and, starting up, asked what was the matter; but receiving no answer, she imagined that she had been in a dream, or that her husband had spoken in his sleep. He groaned no more, nor did he even sigh: but fatigued with thinking and with feeling, he at last fell into a sort of slumber, which lasted till it was time to rise. Before Vivian was dressed, Lord Glistonbury called upon him—he went into his dressing-room. His lordship came with his best address, and most courteous face of persuasion; he held out his hand, in a frank and cordial manner, as he entered, begging his dear son's pardon for the warmth and want of temper, he was free to confess, he had shown last night; but he was persuaded, he said, that Vivian knew his sincere regard for him, and convinced that, in short, they should never essentially differ: so that he was determined to come to talk the matter over with him when they were both cool; and that he felt assured that Vivian, after a night's reflection, would always act so as to justify his preference of his son-in-law to his nephew, hey, Vivian?—Lord Glistonbury paused for an answer—Vivian cut himself as he was shaving, and was glad of a moment's reprieve; instead of answering, he only exclaimed, "Cursed razor! cut myself!—My lord, won't you sit down? will you do me the honour to—"

Lord Glistonbury seated himself; and, in regular order, with his tiresome parade of expletives, went through all the arguments that could be adduced to prove the expediency of Vivian's taking this place, and assisting him, as he had taken it for granted his son-in-law would, on such an occasion. The letters of the great and little men who had negotiated the business of the marquisate were then produced, and an account given of all that had passed in confidence; and Lord Glistonbury finished by saying that the affair was absolutely concluded, he having passed his word and pledged his honour for Vivian; that he would not have spoken or acted for him if he had not felt that he was, when acting for his son-in-law, in fact acting for himself—his second self; that there had been no time to wait, no possibility of consulting Vivian; that the whole plan was suggested yesterday, in two hours after the house broke up, and was arranged in the evening; that search and inquiries had been made every where for Vivian; but, as he could not be found, Lord Glistonbury said he had ventured to decide for him, and, as he hoped, for his interest and for that of the family; and the thing, now done, could not be undone: his lordship's word was sacred, and could not be retracted.

Vivian, in a feeble, irresolute tone, asked if there was no possibility of his being allowed to decline the place that was offered him, and suggested that he could take a middle course; to avoid voting against his lordship's wishes, he could, and he believed that he would, accept of the Chiltern Hundreds, and go out of parliament for the session.

Lord Glistonbury remonstrated against what he termed the madness of the scheme.

"A man like you, my dear Vivian, who have distinguished yourself so much already in opposition, who will distinguish yourself so much more hereafter in place and in power——"

"No," said Vivian, rising as he finished shaving himself; "no, my lord, I shall never more distinguish myself, if I abandon the principles I believe to be just and true. What eloquence I have—if I have any—has arisen from my being in earnest: I shall speak ill—I shall not be able to speak at all—when I get up against my conscience."

"Oh!" said Lord Glistonbury, laughing, "your romantic patriotism may be very nice in its feelings; but, believe me, it will not deprive you of the use of your speech. Look at every one of the fine orators of our times, and name me one, if you can, who has not spoken, and spoken equally well, on both sides of the house; ay, and on both sides of most political questions. Come, come, you'll find you will get on quite as well as they got on before you, hey?"

"You will find that I shall he of no use to you—that I shall be a dead weight on your hands."

"You a dead weight! you, who are formed to be—now, really, without flattery—you know there's no occasion for flattery between you and me—to be the soul, and, in time, the head of a party——Stay!—I know all you are going to say, but give me leave to judge—You know there's my own nephew, a very clever young man, no doubt, he is allowed to be; and yet, you see, I make no comparison between you. I assure you I am a judge in these matters, and you see the house has confirmed my judgment; and, what is more—for I can keep nothing from you—if it won't make you too vain, and make you set too high a price upon yourself, which will be very troublesome in the present case; but, I say, be that as it may, I will frankly own to you, that I believe you have been of essential service in procuring me this great favourite object of my life, the marquisate."

"I, my lord! impossible!—for I never took the slightest step toward procuring it."

"Pardon me, you took the most effectual step, without knowing it, perhaps. You spoke so well in opposition, that you made it the interest of ministry to muzzle you; and there was no way so effectual of getting at you as through me, I being your father-in-law and you my heir. You don't see the secret concatenation of these things with a glance as I do, who have been used to them so long. And there was no way of coming to the point with me without the marquisate—that was my sine qua non; and you see I gained my point—by your means, chiefly, I am free to allow—though Marmaduke would gladly persuade me it was by his negotiating. But I do you justice; I did you justice, too, in more than words, when I stipulated for that place for you, which, in fact, I knew you could not go on much longer without. So, my dear Vivian, all this explained to our mutual satisfaction, we have nothing more to do but to shake hands upon it and go down stairs; for I have engaged myself and Secretary——to breakfast with you, and he has full powers, and is to carry back our capitulation—and," continued Lord Glistonbury, looking out of the window, "here's our friend's carriage."

"Oh, my lord, it is not yet too late!" cried Vivian; "it may yet be arranged otherwise. Is there no way—no possibility——"

A loud knock at the house door.

"I wish to Heaven, my lord!——"

"So do I wish to Heaven, with all my soul, that you would finish this nonsense, my dear Vivian, and come down to breakfast. Come, come, come!—Hey, hey, hey!—This is absolutely too ridiculous, and I must go, if you don't. Only consider a political breakfast of this nature!"

Lord Glistonbury hurried down stairs:—reluctantly, and with a heavy heart and repugnant conscience, Vivian followed. At this instant, he wished for Russell, to prevent what he knew would be the consequence of this interview. But Russell was absent—the keeper of his conscience, the supporter of his resolution, was not at hand. Woe to him who is not the keeper of his own conscience—the supporter of his own resolution! The result of this political breakfast was just what every reader, who knows the world but half as well as Lord Glistonbury knew it, has probably long since anticipated. The capitulation of the patriots of the Glistonbury band, with Vivian at their head, was settled. Lord Glistonbury lost no character by this transaction, for he had none to lose—he was quite at his ease, or quite callous. But Vivian bartered, for a paltry accommodation of his pecuniary difficulties, a reputation which stood high in the public opinion—which was invaluable in his own—which was his last stake of happiness. He knew this—he felt it with all the anguish of exquisite but USELESS sensibility.

Lord Glistonbury and his new friend, Secretary ——, who was a man of wit as well as a politician, rallied Vivian upon his gravity and upon his evident depression of spirits.

"Really, my dear Vivian," cried Lord Glistonbury, "my patience is now exhausted, and I must not let you expose yourself here, before our friend, as a novice—Hey! hey!—Why, will you never open your eyes, and see the world as it is! Why! what!—Did you never read the fable of the dog and his master's meat?—Well! it is come to that now in England; and he is a foolish dog, indeed, who, when he can't save the meat, won't secure his share—hey?"

His lordship and the secretary laughed in concert.

"Look, how Vivian preserves his solemnity!" continued Lord Glistonbury; "and he really looks as if he was surprised at us. My dear Vivian, it requires all my knowledge of your bonne foi to believe that you are in earnest, and not acting the part of a patriot of older times."

"Oh!" cried the secretary, with a facetious air, "Mr. Vivian assuredly knows, as well as we do, that—

'A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age, Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage.'

But off the stage we lay aside heroics, or how should we ever get on?—Did you hear, my lord," continued the secretary, turning to Lord Glistonbury, "that there is another blue riband fallen in to us by the death of Lord G——?"

"I had a great regard for poor Lord G——. Many applications, I suppose, for the vacant riband?"

From the vacant riband they went on to talk over this man's pension and the other man's job; and considered who was to get such and such a place when such and such a person should resign or succeed to something better. Then all the miserable mysteries of ministerial craft were unveiled to Vivian's eyes. He had read, he had heard, he had believed, that public affairs were conducted in this manner; but he had never, till now, actually seen it: he was really novice enough still to feel surprise at finding that, after all the fine professions made on all sides, the main, the only object of these politicians, was to keep their own, or to get into the places of others. Vivian felt every moment his disgust and his melancholy increase. "And it is with these people I have consented to act! And am I to be hurried along by this stream of corruption to infamy and oblivion! Then Russell—"

Vivian resolved to retract the engagement he had just made with Lord Glistonbury and the secretary, and he waited only for a pause in their conversation to explain himself. But, before any pause occurred, more company came in,—the secretary hurried away, saying to Vivian, who would have stopped him at the door, "Oh, my dear sir, every thing is settled now, and you must be with us in the house to-night—and you will find the whole business will go on as smoothly as possible, if gentlemen will but act together, and strengthen the hands of government. I beg pardon for breaking away—but so many people are waiting for me—and any thing further we can settle when we meet in the house."

Lord Glistonbury also refused to listen to farther explanations—said that all was settled, and that it was impossible to make any recantations.



CHAPTER XV.

The hour of going to the House of Commons at length arrived; Lord Glistonbury saw that Vivian was so much out of spirits, and in such confusion of mind, that he began to fear that our hero's own account of himself was just, and that he would not be able to command ideas, or even words, when he was to speak in opposition to what he called his principles and his conscience. "This son of mine, instead of being our great Apollo, will be a dead weight on our hands, unless we can contrive to raise his spirits."

So, to raise his spirits, Lord Glistonbury accompanied him to the coffee-room of the house, and insisted upon his taking some refreshment before he should attempt to speak. His lordship fortified him with bumper after bumper, till at last Vivian came up to the speaking point. He took his seat in his new place in the house, and, endeavouring to brave away the sense of shame, rose to speak. Notwithstanding the assistance of the wine, and the example of Mr. Marmaduke Lidhurst, who spoke before him with undaunted assurance, Vivian could scarcely get on with a hesitating, confused, inconsistent speech, uttered in so low and indistinct a voice, that the reporters in the gallery complained that they could not catch this honourable member's meaning, or that his words did not reach them. Conscious of his failure, and still more conscious of its cause, he retired again to the coffee-room as soon as he had finished speaking, and again Lord Glistonbury plied him with wine, saying that he would find he would do very well in reply presently. It happened that Lord Glistonbury was called away—Vivian remained. Mr. Wharton, with a party of his friends, entered the coffee-room. Wharton seemed much heated both with wine and anger—he was talking eagerly to the gentlemen with him, and he pronounced the words, "Infamous conduct!—Shabby!—Paltry fellow!" so loud, that all the coffee-room turned to listen. Colonel S——, a gentleman who was one of Wharton's party, but who had a good opinion of Vivian, at this moment took him by the arm, and, drawing him aside, whispered, in confidence, that he was persuaded there had been some mistake in the arrangements, which, as it was reported, Lord Glistonbury had just made with the ministry, for that Mr. Wharton and many of his lordship's former party, complained of having been shamefully deserted. "And to break our word and honour to our party, is a thing no gentleman can do. Wharton had a direct promise from his lordship, that he never would come in till he should come in along with him. And now it is confidently said, that Lord Glistonbury has made his bargain for his own marquisate, and provided only for himself, his nephew, and his son-in-law."

Thrown into the utmost consternation by the idea of this double forfeiture of honour, this breach both of public and private faith, Vivian, after thanking Colonel S—— for his friendly manner of communicating this information, and declaring that the transaction was totally unknown to him, begged that the colonel would do him the favour and the justice to be present when he should require an explanation from Lord Glistonbury. To this Colonel S—— consented, and they hastened in search of his lordship: his lordship was not to be found; but Mr. Marmaduke Lidhurst was, however, in the coffee-room, and upon Vivian's referring to him, he could not deny the truth of the charge, though he used all his powers of circumlocution to evade giving a direct answer. The shame, the indignation, that rapidly succeeded to each other in Vivian's countenance, sufficiently convinced Colonel S—— that he had no share in the private part of this disgraceful transaction; and he very handsomely assured Vivian, that he would set the matter in its true point of view with his friends. Marmaduke soon found a pretence to withdraw—some member was speaking in the house, whom he must hear, he said, and away he went.

At this moment Mr. Wharton, who was walking down the room with his friends, passed by Vivian, and, as he passed, said,

"That private vices are public benefits, we all know; but that public vices are private benefits, some of us, alas! have yet to learn. But I'd have that little, whiffling, most noble and puissant prince expectant, his majesty's right trusty and entirely beloved cousin elect, know, that plain Bob Wharton is not a man to be duped and deserted with impunity."

"Whom does he mean?—What does he mean?" whispered some of the bystanders. "What prince is he talking of?—Which of the princes?"

"Oh! none of the princes," replied another. "You know most noble and puissant prince is the title of a marquis, and our right trusty and entirely beloved cousin, the style in which the king writes to him."

"But who is this marquis expectant?"

"Don't you know?—Lord Glistonbury."

"But some of his lordship's friends ought to take it up, surely."

"Hush!—his son-in-law will hear you."

"Where?"

"There—don't look!"

Vivian was, with reason, so much exasperated by the treacherous duplicity of Lord Glistonbury's conduct, that he was ill inclined to undertake his lordship's defence, and determined to leave it to himself, or to his nephew; yet the whispers operated not a little upon his weakness. Wharton, who was walking with his set up and down the room, again came within Vivian's hearing, and, as he passed, exclaimed, "Public vice! and public virtue! precious, well-matched pair!"

"Who is public vice, and who is public virtue?" said one of Wharton's companions.

"Don't you know?" replied Wharton: "the heir-at-law and the son-in-law."

On hearing this speech, Vivian, who knew that he was one of the persons to whom it alluded, started forward to demand an explanation from Wharton: but Colonel S—— held him back. "You are not called upon, by any means, to take notice of this," said the colonel: "Wharton did not address himself to you, and though he might mean what he said for you, yet he speaks under a false impression; and besides, he is not quite sober. Leave it to me, and I will settle it all to your satisfaction before to-morrow." Vivian listened unwillingly and uneasily to the friendly counsel: he was more hurt than he had ever before felt himself by any of Wharton's sarcasms, because there was now in them a mixture of truth; and a man seldom feels more irritable than when he is conscious that he is partly to blame, and apprehensive that others will think him more blameable than he really is. His irritability was increased by the whispers he had heard, and the looks he now perceived among the bystanders: the voice, the opinion of numbers, the fear of what others would think or say, operated against his better judgment.

"Come," said Colonel S——, "let us go and see what they are doing in the house."

Vivian refused to stir, saying that it would be leaving the field to Wharton. Wharton at this instant repassed; and still running the changes, with half-intoxicated wit, upon the same ideas, reiterated, "Public vice!—We all knew where that would end in these days—in public honours; but none of you would believe me, when I told you where public virtue would end—in private treachery!"

"That's neat!—that's strong!—faith, that's home!" whispered some one.

"Mr. Wharton!" cried Vivian, going up to him, "I could not help hearing what you said just now—did you intend it for me?"

"You heard it, it seems, sir, and that is sufficient," replied Wharton, in an insolent tone: "as to what I meant, I presume it is pretty evident; but, if you think it requires any explanation, I am as ready to give as you can be to ask it."

"The sooner the better, then, sir," said Vivian. The two gentlemen walked away together, whilst the spectators exclaimed, "Very spirited indeed!—very right!—very proper!—Vivian could do no less than call him out. But, after all, what was the quarrel about? Which of them was to blame?"