Long before these points were settled, the challenge was given and accepted. Colonel S——, who followed Vivian and Wharton, endeavoured to set things to rights, by explaining that Vivian had been deceived by Lord Glistonbury, and kept totally in the dark respecting the negotiation for the marquisate. But Wharton, aware that by taking up the matter immediately in such a spirited way he should do himself infinite honour with his party, and with that majority of the world who think that the greatest merit of a man is to stand to be shot at, was not at all willing to listen to these representations. Colonel S—— declared that, were he in Mr. Wharton's place, he should, without hesitation, make an apology to Mr. Vivian, and publicly acknowledge that what he said in the coffee-room was spoken under a false impression, which a plain statement of facts had totally removed: but Wharton disdained all terms of accommodation; his policy, pride, and desire of revenge, all conspired to produce that air of insolent determination to fight, which, with some people, would obtain the glorious name of COURAGE. By this sort of courage can men of the most base and profligate characters often put themselves in a moment upon an equal footing with men of principle and virtue!

It was settled that Mr. Wharton and Vivian should meet, at eight o'clock the next morning, in a field near town. Colonel S—— consented to be Vivian's second. Russell was not yet returned—not expected till ten the next day.

Left to his cool reflection, Vivian thought with horror of the misery into which the event of this duel might involve all with whom he was connected, and all who were attached to him. The affair was of course to be kept a secret from all at Glistonbury House, where Vivian was engaged to dine with a large ministerial party. He went home to dress, hoping to have a quarter of an hour to himself; but, on entering his own dressing-room, he, to his surprise and mortification, found his wife seated there, waiting for him with a face of anxious expectation; a case of newly-set diamonds on a table beside her. "I thought you were at your father's, my dear: are you not to be at Glistonbury House to-day?" said Vivian.

"No," replied Lady Sarah. "Surely, Mr. Vivian, you know that my father gives a political dinner, and I suppose you are to be there?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Vivian; "I did not know what I was saying—I am to be there, and must dress (looking at his watch), for I have no time to spare."

"Be that as it may, I must intrude upon your time for a few minutes," said Lady Sarah.

Vivian stood impatiently attentive, whilst Lady Sarah seemed to find it difficult to begin some speech which she had prepared.

"Women, I know, have nothing to do with politics," she began in a constrained voice; but, suddenly quitting her air and tone of constraint, she started up and exclaimed, "Oh, my dear, dear husband! what have you done?—No, no, I cannot, will not believe it, till I hear it from your OWN lips!"

"What is the matter, my dear Lady Sarah?—You astonish and almost alarm me!" said Vivian, endeavouring to preserve composure of countenance.

"I will not—Heaven forbid that I should alarm you as I have been alarmed!" said Lady Sarah, commanding her voice again to a tone of tranquillity. "I ought, and, if I were not weak, should be convinced that there is no reason for alarm. There has been some mistake, no doubt; and I have been to blame for listening to idle reports. Let me, however, state the facts. Half an hour ago, I was at Gray's the jeweller's, to call for my poor mother's diamonds, which, you know, he has reset——"

"Yes—Well!"

"And whilst I was in the shop, a party of gentlemen came in, all of them unknown to me, and, of course, I was equally unknown to them; for they began to speak of you in a manner in which none knowing me could venture in my presence. They said—I cannot bear to repeat or to think of what they said—you cannot have bartered your public reputation for a marquisate for my father!—You cannot have done that which is dishonourable—you cannot have deserted your party for a paltry place for yourself!—You turn pale.—I wish, if it pleased God, that I was this moment in my grave!"

"Heaven forbid, my dear Lady Sarah!" cried Vivian, forcing a smile, and endeavouring to speak in a tone of raillery. "Why should you wish to be in your grave, because your husband has just got a good warm place? Live! live!" said he, raising her powerless hand; "for consider—as I did—and this consideration was of no small weight with me—consider, my dear Sarah, how much better you will live for it!"

"And you did consider me? And that did weigh with you?"

"—Oh, this is what I dreaded most!" cried Lady Sarah.—"When will you know my real character? When will you have confidence in your wife, sir? When will you know the power, the unconquered, unconquerable power of her affection for you?"

Vivian, much struck by the strength of her expression as she uttered these words, was a moment silent in astonishment; and then could only, in an incoherent manner, protest, that he did know—that he had always done justice to her character—that he believed in her affection—and had the greatest confidence in its power.

"No, sir, no!—Do not say that which I cannot credit!—You have not confidence in the power of my affection, or you would never have done this thing to save me pain. What pain can be so great to me as the thought of my husband's reputation suffering abasement?—Do you think that, in comparison with this, I, your wife, could put the loss of a service of plate, or house in town, or equipage, or servants, or such baubles as these?" added she, her eyes glancing upon the diamonds; then, snatching them up, "Take them, take them!" cried she; "they were my mother's; and if her spirit could look down from heaven upon us she would approve my offer—she would command your acceptance. Then here on my knees I conjure you, my beloved husband, take them—sell them—sell plate, furniture, house, equipage, sell every thing rather than your honour!"

"It is sold," said Vivian, in a voice of despair.

"Redeem it, redeem it at any price!" cried Lady Sarah. "No! I will kneel here at your feet—you shall not raise me—till I have obtained this promise, this justice to me, to yourself!"

"It is too late," said Vivian, writhing in agony.

"Never too late," cried Lady Sarah. "Give up the place.—Never too late!—Give up the place—write this moment, and all will be well; for your honour will be saved, and the rest is as nothing in my eyes!"

"High-minded woman!" cried Vivian: "why did not I hear you sooner? Why did not I avail myself of your strength of soul?"

"Use it now—hear me now—let us waste no time in words—here is a pen and ink—write, my dearest husband! and be yourself again."

"You waste the energy of your mind on me," cried Vivian, breaking from Lady Sarah, and striking his forehead violently; "I am not worthy of such attachment! It is done—it cannot be undone: I am a weak, ruined, dishonoured wretch!—I tell you, it CANNOT be undone!"

Lady Sarah rose, and stood in despair. Then, looking up to heaven, she was silent for some moments. After which, approaching her husband, she said, in an altered, calm voice, "Since it cannot be undone, I will urge you no more. But, whether in glory or in shame, you are secure that your wife will abide by you."

Vivian embraced her with a tenderness which he had never before felt. "Excellent woman! in justice to myself, I must tell you," cried he, "that I was deceived into this situation. I CAN say no more!"

At this moment a servant knocked at the door, bringing a message from Lord Glistonbury, to say that all the company were assembled, and that dinner waited for Mr. Vivian.

"You are not in a fit state to go. Shall I send an apology to my father?"

"Oh, no! I must go," cried Vivian, starting up, "I must go, or it will be thought—or it will be suspected—I can't explain it to you, my dear; but I must go—I must appear to-day, and in spirits too, if possible."

He hurried away. A servant delivered to Lady Sarah a number of notes and cards. The notes were notes of congratulation, from many of her acquaintance, upon the report in circulation, that her father was immediately to be a marquis. The cards were from people who were to be at her assembly that night. This was one of her nights, which were usually crowded. Lady Sarah's first wish was to write apologies, and to say that she was not well enough to see company; but, recollecting that her husband had said, "he must appear, and in spirits, too, if possible," she thought that it might be more for their interest, and according to his wishes, that she should see company, and that no appearance of dejection should be discerned in his wife. She prepared herself accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, walked through her splendid apartments, to see whether the decorations had been properly executed.

In the mean time Vivian dined at Lord Glistonbury's, with a large ministerial party. As soon as he could, after dinner, Vivian got away; and Lord Glistonbury attributed his retiring early to the awkwardness he might feel in the company of men whom he had, till now, so violently opposed. This his lordship thought a foolish young man's feeling, which would soon wear away. Vivian returned home, anxious to escape from crowds, and to have some hours of leisure to pass alone; but, the moment he entered his own house, he saw the great staircase lined with roses and orange-trees; he found the rooms lighted up and prepared for company; and Lady Sarah dressed, for the first time, in all her mother's diamonds.

"Good Heavens!—Do you see company to-night?" cried he.

"Yes; for I thought, my dear, that you would wish it."

"I wish it!—Oh! if you knew how I wish to be alone!"

"Then, as no one is yet come, I can still shut my doors, and order them to say that I am not well enough to see company—I am sure it is true. Shall I?"

"No, my dear, it is too late," said Vivian: "I am afraid it is impossible for you to do that."

"Not impossible, if you wish it."

"Well, do as you please."

"Which is most for your interest? I have no other pleasure."

"You are too good to me, and I fear I shall never have it in my power to show you any gratitude——"

"But decide which is best to be done, my dear," said Lady Sarah.

"Why, my dear, I believe you judged rightly—see your friends, and make the best of it: but I can appear only for a moment; I have business of consequence—letters—papers—that must be finished to-night; and I must go now to my study."

"You shall not be interrupted," said Lady Sarah: "I will exert myself as much as possible."

A tremendous knock at the door.—Vivian passed through the saloon, and gained his study, where, after remaining for some time in painful reflection, he was roused by hearing the clock strike twelve. He recollected that he had several arrangements to make in his affairs this night; and that it was incumbent on him to sign and execute a will, which had been for some time in his possession, with certain blanks not yet filled up. His wife was, by his marriage settlements, amply provided for; but he inserted in his will some clauses which he thought would add to her peculiar comfort, and took care to word them so that his respect and esteem should be known hereafter to all the world; and that, if he died, he should leave her the consolation of knowing that his last feelings for her were those of gratitude and affection. To his mother he left all that was in his power to contribute to the ease of her declining years—often obliged to pause whilst he wrote, overcome by the thoughts of what her grief would be if he died. He left his friend Russell in remainder, to a considerable part of his estate; and he was just adding the bequest of certain books, which they had read together in his better days, when the door of the study suddenly opened, and his mother entered.

"What is all this?" cried she: "immersed in papers at such a time as this!"

"I so hate crowded assemblies," said Vivian, huddling his papers together, and advancing to meet his mother.

"So do I," said Lady Mary; "but I have been waiting with exemplary patience where I was stationed by Lady Sarah, at the card-table, every instant expecting your arrival, that I might have a few minutes' conversation with you, and inquire how matters went on at the house, and congratulate——"

Before she had finished the word congratulate, she stopped short; for she had, by this time, a full view of her son's countenance: and she knew that countenance so well, that it was impossible to disguise it so as to deceive her maternal penetration.

"My dear son!" said she, "something is going wrong: I conjure you, tell me what is the matter!"—Her eye glanced upon the parchments, and she saw that it was a will. Vivian forced a laugh; and asked her if she had the weakness some people felt, of disliking to see a will, or of fancying that a man was going to die if he made his will. Then, to quiet her apprehensions, and to put a stop to her farther inquiries, he threw aside his papers, and returned with her to the company, where he exerted himself to appear as gay as the occasion required. Lord Glistonbury, who had called in for a few moments, was now playing the great man, as well as his total want of dignity of mind and manners would permit; he was answering, in whispers, questions about his marquisate, and sustaining with all his might his new part of the friend of government. Every thing conspired to strike Vivian with melancholy—yet he constrained himself so far, that his charming spirits delighted all who were uninterested in observing any but the external signs of gaiety; but his mother saw that his vivacity was forced. She made inquiries from all the gentlemen of her acquaintance about what had passed the preceding day both at the House of Commons, and to-day at the dinner at Lord Glistonbury's: but those who had been at Lord Glistonbury's dinner assured her that every thing had been as amicable as could be; and his ministerial friends said that every thing had gone on as smoothly as possible at the house: of what had passed between Mr. Wharton and Vivian in the coffee-room nobody could give her an account. Baffled, but not satisfied, the anxious mother sent to the hotel where Mr. Russell lodged, to inquire whether he was returned to town, and to beg to see him immediately. From him, she thought, she should learn the truth; or, by his influence over her son, she hoped that, if there was any danger of a quarrel, it might be in time prevented. Her servant, however, brought word that Mr. Russell was not expected from the country till ten o'clock the next morning; but that her note would be given to him directly on his arrival. She applied herself next to the study of her daughter's countenance, whilst she asked two or three questions, calculated to discover whether Lady Sarah was under any anxiety about Vivian. But though Lady Sarah's countenance exhibited not the slightest variation under this trial, yet this tranquillity was by no means decisively satisfactory; because, whatever might be her internal agitation, she knew that Lady Sarah could maintain the same countenance. Lady Sarah, who plainly discerned her mother's anxious curiosity, thought it her duty to keep her husband's secrets; and, imagining that she knew the whole truth, was not farther alarmed by these hints, nor did they lead her to suspect the real state of the case.

Lady Mary was at length tolerably well satisfied, by a conversation with her son; during the course of which she settled in her imagination that he had only been inserting in his will a bequest to his friend Russell; and that the depression of his spirits arose from the struggle he had had in determining to vote against his patriotic ideas. She rose to depart; and Vivian, as he conducted her down stairs, and put her into her carriage, could scarcely repress his feelings; and he took so tender a leave of her, that all her apprehensions revived; but there was a cry of "Lady—somebody's carriage!" and Lady Mary's coachman drove on immediately, without giving her time for one word more. After his mother's departure, Vivian, instead of returning to the company, went to his study, and took this opportunity of finishing his will; but as the servants were all in attendance at supper he could not get any body to witness it; and for this he was obliged to wait till a very late hour, when all the company at last departed. The rattle of carriages at length died away; and when all was silence, just as he was about to ring for his witnesses, he heard Lady Sarah's step coming along the corridor towards the study: he went out immediately to meet her, drew her arm within his affectionately, and took two or three turns with her, up and down the empty saloon, whilst a servant was extinguishing the lights. Vivian's mind was so full that he could not speak; and he was scarcely conscious that he had not spoken, till Lady Sarah broke the silence by asking if he had finished his business.

"No, my dear, I have more to do yet; but you will oblige me if you will go to rest—you must be fatigued—mind and body."

"You seem fatigued almost to death," said Lady Sarah: "and cannot you finish the remainder of your business as well to-morrow?"

"No," replied Vivian; "it must be finished before to-morrow. I am bound in duty to finish it before to-morrow."

"If it is a point of duty, I have no more to say," replied Lady Sarah; "but," continued she, in a tone of proud humility, "but if I might so far intrude upon your confidence, as to inquire——"

"Make no inquiries, my dear; for I cannot answer any, even of yours," said Vivian. "And let me beg of you to go to rest; my mind will then be more at ease. I cannot command my thoughts whilst I am anxious about you; and I am anxious—more anxious than ever I was in my life—about you at this moment. You will oblige me if you will go to rest."

"I CANNOT rest, but I will leave you, since you desire it—I have no idle curiosity—Good night!"

"Good night! and thank you once more, my excellent wife, for all your kindness."

"There cannot be a better woman!" said Vivian to himself as she retired. "Why have I not loved her as she deserved to be loved? If I live, I will do my utmost to make her happy—if I live, I will yet repair all. And, if I die, she will have but little reason to deplore the loss of such a husband."

Vivian now executed his will—wrote several letters of business—burnt letters and arranged papers—regretted that Russell, who was to be his executor, was not near him—made many bitter reflections on the past, many good resolutions for the future, in case he should survive; then, overpowered with fatigue of mind, slept for some time, and was awakened by the clock striking seven. By eight o'clock he was at the place appointed—Mr. Wharton appeared a few minutes afterwards. Their seconds having measured out the distance, they took their ground. As Vivian had given the challenge, Wharton had the first fire. He fired—Vivian staggered some paces back, fired his pistol into the air, and fell. The seconds ran to his assistance, and raised him from the ground. The bullet had entered his chest. He stretched out his hand to Mr. Wharton in token of forgiveness, and, as soon as he could speak, desired the seconds to remember that it was he who gave the challenge, and that he thought he deserved to bear the blame of the quarrel. Wharton, callous as he was, seemed struck with pity and remorse: he asked what friends Vivian would wish to have apprised of his situation. A surgeon was in attendance. Vivian, faint from loss of blood, just pronounced Russell's name, and the name of the hotel where he was to be found, adding "nobody else." Wharton rode off, undertaking to find Mr. Russell; and Vivian was carried into a little public-house, by the orders of the surgeon, who thought that he could not bear the motion of a carriage. Wharton met Mr. Russell, who was coming from town. He had come to London earlier than he had intended, and, in consequence of Lady Mary Vivian's note, which he had received immediately on his arrival, had made such inquiries as convinced him that her apprehensions were just; and having discovered the place where the parties were to meet, he had hastened thither, in hopes of preventing the fatal event. The moment he saw Mr. Wharton he knew that he was too late. Without asking any other question than, "Is Vivian alive?" he pressed forwards. The surgeon, who was the next person he saw, gave him no hopes of his friend's recovery, but said he might last till night, or linger perhaps for a day or two. Vivian had by this time recovered his senses and his speech; but when Russell entered the room where he lay, he was so much struck by the grief in his countenance that he could not recollect any one of the many things he had to say. Russell, the firm Russell, was now quite overcome.

"Yes, my dear friend," said Vivian; "this is the end of all your care—of all your hopes of me!—Oh, my poor, poor mother! What will become of her! Where can we find consolation for her!—You and Selina Sidney! You know how fond my mother was of her—how fond she was of my mother—till I, the cause of evil to all my friends, separated them. You must reunite them. You must repair all. This hope—this hope of your happiness, my beloved friend, will soothe my last moments!——How much happier Selina will be with you than——"

Russell sobbed aloud.—"Yes, yield to your feelings, for I know how strong they are," said Vivian: "you, that have always felt more for me than I have ever felt for myself! But it is well for you that my life ends; for I have never been any thing but a torment and a disgrace to you!—And yet I had good dispositions!—but there is no time for regret about myself; I have others to think of, better worth thinking of."

Vivian called for pen, ink, and paper, had himself raised in his bed, and supported, whilst he wrote to Selina, and to his mother.

"Do not stop me," cried he to Russell; "it is the only act of friendship—the only thing I can do in this world now with pleasure, and let me do it."

His notes contained nearly what he had just said to Russell—he put them open into his friend's hand; then, good-natured to the last, Vivian took up his pen again, with no small difficulty, and wrote a few affectionate words to his wife. "She well deserves this from me," said he. "Be a friend to her, Russell—when I am gone, she will, I know, want consolation," After Russell had assured him that he would do all he desired, Vivian said, "I believe there is no one else in the world who will regret my death, except, perhaps, Lady Julia Lidhurst. How generous she was to forgive me!—Tell her, I remembered it when I was dying!—Weakness, weakness of mind!—the cause of all my errors!——Oh, Russell! how well you knew me from the first!—But all is over now!—My experience can be of no use to me—Every thing swims before my eyes.——One comfort is, I have not the blood of a fellow-creature to answer for. My greatest error was making that profligate man my friend—he was my ruin. I little thought, a few years ago, that I should die by his hand—but I forgive him, as I hope to be forgiven myself! Is the clergyman who was sent for come?—My dear Russell, this would be too severe a task for you.—He is come? Then let me see him."

Vivian was left for some time to his private devotions. The clergyman afterwards summoned Russell to return:—he found his friend calmed and resigned. Vivian stretched out his hand—thanked him once more—and expired!

"Oh! worthy of a better fate!" thought Russell.—"With such a heart!—With such talents!—And so young!—With only one fault of character!—Oh, my friend! is it all over?—and all in vain?"

Vivian's mother and widow arrived just at this moment; and Russell and Lord Glistonbury, who followed breathless, could not stop them from entering the apartment. The mother's grief bordered on distraction; but it found relief in tears and cries. Lady Sarah shed no tear, and uttered no exclamation; but advancing, insensible of all opposition, to the bed on which her dead husband lay, tried whether there was any pulse, any breath left; then knelt down beside him in silent devotion. Lord Glistonbury, striking his forehead continually, and striding up and down the room, repeated, "I killed him!—I killed him!—I was the cause of his death!—My victim!—My victim!—But take her away!—Take her away—I cannot.—For mercy's sake, force her away, Mr. Russell!"

"There is no need of force," said Lady Sarah, rising, as her father approached; "I am going to leave my husband for ever."——Then, turning to Mr. Russell, she inquired if his friend had left any message or letter for her—desired to see the letter—retired with it—still without shedding a tear—a few hours afterwards was taken ill, and, before night, was delivered of a dead son.

Lady Sarah survived, but has never since appeared in what is called the WORLD.



FOOTNOTES:

[1] It is to be regretted that a word, used in the days of Charles II. and still intelligible in our times, should have become obsolete; viz. the feminine for intriguer—an intriguess. See the Life of Lord Keeper North, whose biographer, in speaking of Lord Keeper Bridgeman, says, "And what was worst of all, his family was no way fit for that place (of Chancellor), his lady being a most violent INTRIGUESS in business."

Had Mr. Walsingham lived in Ireland, even there he might have found in the dialect of the lower Irish both a substantive and a verb, which would have expressed his idea. The editor once described an individual of the Beaumont species to an Irish labourer, and asked what he would call such a person—"I'd call her a policizer—I would say she was fond of policizing."

[2] Life of Admiral Roddam, Monthly Magazine.

[3] This reminds us of an expression of Charles the Second—"It is very strange, that every one of my friends keeps a tame knave"—Note by the Editor.

[4] Young wild ducks.

[5] Note by the Editor.—It is much to be regretted that the original papers belonging to this correspondence, including all the notes and letters, which Mrs. Beaumont either wrote herself, or those, still more important, which she caused to be written by her confidential amanuensis, which would doubtless form all together a body of domestic diplomacy equally curious and useful, are irrecoverably lost to the world. After the most diligent search, the Editor is compelled to rest under the persuasion that they must all have been collected and committed to the flames by the too great prudence of the principal party concerned. Had they been trusted to the discretion of a friend, the public would, doubtless, long since have been favoured with the whole.

[6] See Bacon on Cunning.

[7] See Annual Register, 1761, for an entertaining account of the trial of Mr. M'Naughton.

[8] Supposed to be from the pen of Mr. Twigg, who was presented with a living in the gift of Mrs. Beaumont.

[9] Literally copied from a family receipt-book in the author's possession.

[10] From some lines of Delille's, on Rousseau, concluding with the following:—

"Malheureux! le trepas est donc ton seule asile! Ah! dans la tombe, au moins, repose enfin tranquille! Ce beau lac, ces flots purs, ces fleurs, ces gazons frais, Ces pales peupliers, tout t'invite a la paix. Respire, donc, enfin, de tes tristes chimeres. Vois accourir vers toi les epoux, et les meres. Contemple les amans, qui viennent chaque jour, Verser sur ton tombeau les larmes de l'amour! Vois ce groupe d'enfans, se jouant sous l'ombrage, Qui de leur liberte viennent te rendre hommage; Et dis, en contemplant ce spectacle enchanteur, _Je ne fus point heureux, mais j'ai fait leur bonheur."

Ill-fated mortal! doom'd, alas! to find The grave sole refuge from thy restless mind. This turf, these flow'rs, this lake, this silent wave, These poplars pale, that murmur o'er your grave, Invite repose.—Enjoy the tranquil shore, Where vain chimeras shall torment no more. See to thy tomb the wife and mother fly, And pour their sorrows where thy ashes lie! Here the fond youth, and here the blushing maid, Whisper their loves to thy congenial shade; And grateful children smiling through their tears, Bless the loved champion of their youthful years: Then cry, triumphant, from thy honour'd grave— Joyless I lived, but joy to others gave. C.S.E.

THE END.