"I am sure I never suspected the marquis's attachment to Lady Gabriella," said Miss Turnbull: "on the contrary—"

"On the contrary," pursued Lady Pierrepoint, "he paid her always, as I remember, less attention than to twenty others, who were indifferent to him."

The struggle was still violent in our heroine's mind between rage and the dread of exposing herself to ridicule. Lady Pierrepoint saw this, and coolly held her in this dilemma.

"Now," continued her ladyship, "men are such unaccountable creatures, one never can understand them. Do you know, my dear Miss Turnbull, I had, till his lordship explained himself unequivocally to me, a notion that he was in love with you."

"Really!" said our heroine, forcing a laugh.

"Did your friend Mrs. Vickars never tell you so?"

"Yes, she did—frequently."

"Both of us mistaken, you see, my dear. Mortifying! to find one's judgment so fallible. I tell the marquis, he might absolutely have been privately married to Gabriella without my finding him out—it is so easy now, the easiest thing in the world, to impose upon me. Well, I must bid you adieu for the present, my dear Miss Turnbull—you may imagine I have a world of business on my hands."

With the utmost appearance of cordiality Lady Pierrepoint shook our heroine's receding hand; and, without seeming to notice the painful emotions visible in Almeria's countenance, departed smiling, and perfectly composed.

The moment that her ladyship had left the room, our heroine retired to her own apartment, and hastily bolted the door to prevent the intrusion of Mrs. Vickars, whose curiosity and condolence, whether real or affected, she was not in a humour to endure. She walked up and down the room in great agitation, by turns angry with Lady Pierrepoint, with the marquis, with Lady Gabriella, with Mrs. Vickars, and with herself. After her anger had spent itself, the sorrowful certainty that it was unavailing remained; the disappointment was irremediable, and her mortification was the more poignant, because she had no human being to sympathize in her feelings, no one to whom she could complain.

"So this is fashionable friendship!" said she to herself. "This is the end of all Lady Pierrepoint's and Lady Gabriella's professions of regard for me!—Fool that I have been, to become their dupe!—With my eyes open I saw nothing that was going forward, though now I can recollect a thousand and a thousand circumstances, by which I might have been undeceived. But I trusted implicitly—idiot that I was!—to the friendship of this treacherous, unfeeling courtier. Once I had a friend, to whom I might trust implicitly—I never, never, shall find her equal."

A transient recollection of former times crossed her mind—but those times could not be recalled; and the present pressed upon her most forcibly. Frustrated in all her ambitious schemes, she was sensible that all that now remained for her was to conceal her disappointment, and to avoid the contempt to which she would be exposed in the world, if it were whispered that Miss Turnbull had fancied that the Marquis of —— was in love with her, whilst he was all the while paying his addresses to Lady Gabriella Bradstone. This powerful fear of ridicule conquered, or suppressed, all other feelings. With all the resolution she could assume, Almeria went to Mrs. Vickars, and congratulated her upon the happy event which was soon likely to take place in her family: she even constrained herself so far, as, without expressing either suspicion or resentment, to hear her companion disclaim all knowledge of the affair, and declare that she had, that morning, for the first time, heard of it from Lady Pierrepoint, with a degree of astonishment from which she had not yet recovered.

In a few weeks afterwards Lady Gabriella's marriage took place. Our heroine's mortification was much increased by the splendour in which the bride appeared, and by the great share of the public attention which the fair marchioness seemed for some days to engross. Miss Turnbull was weary of hearing the praises of her equipages and dress; and the dissimulation she was continually obliged to practise towards Mrs. Vickars became intolerable. Nothing but a pretext for quarrelling with this lady was wanting to Almeria, and nothing but an excuse for leaving Almeria was now desired by Mrs. Vickars, who had received an invitation from the marchioness, which she was impatient to accept. The ladies one morning after breakfast fell into a dispute upon the comparative merits of blue and green. It was not to all appearance a very dangerous subject, but in certain situations every subject becomes dangerous.

"This riband is a beautiful blue," said Miss Turnbull.

"I confess I do not think so," said Mrs. Vickars; "it is a very unbecoming shade of blue."

"Unbecoming!—I have been told by twenty people, that it is remarkably becoming to me. Mrs. Ingoldsby told me yesterday, that she never saw so beautiful a blue."

"Mrs. Ingoldsby's taste is not infallible, I imagine," said Mrs. Vickars, with a contemptuous smile.

"It may not be infallible," replied our heroine, "but it is at least as much to be relied upon as other people's."

"I am sure I do not pretend to compare my taste to Mrs. Ingoldsby's; but I may be permitted to have an opinion of my own, I hope: and in my opinion it is a frightful blue, and shockingly unbecoming. And at all events I like green infinitely better than blue; and I beseech you, Miss Turnbull, not to wear this hideous riband."

"I am sure I don't pretend to set my taste in competition with Mrs. Vickars's, but I must confess I cannot think this a frightful blue, or shockingly unbecoming; nor can I agree with any body in preferring green to blue; and for once I shall take the liberty of following my own fancy."

"For once!—I am sorry I ever presumed to offer an opinion upon this or any other subject to Miss Turnbull—I shall be more cautious in future; but I candidly own I did think I might prefer green to blue without giving offence."

"It gives me no offence, I assure you, Mrs. Vickars, that you should prefer green to blue; I am not so ridiculous. But people who cannot bear to be contradicted themselves are always apt to fancy that others have the same strange sort of domineering temper."

"People who can bear nothing but flattery, Miss Turnbull, should have such a friend as Mrs. Ingoldsby, who would swear that blue is green, and black white, I make no doubt," said Mrs. Vickars; "for my part, I am sorry I cannot get rid of my troublesome sincerity."

"Sincerity! Sincerity!—To do you justice, Mrs. Vickars, whatever I may have felt about trifles, in affairs of importance I have never found your sincerity troublesome."

The ironical accent upon the word sincerity sufficiently marked Miss Turnbull's meaning.

The irritable temper of Mrs. Vickars put it out of her power to act a part with that "exquisite dissimulation," for which some of her sex have been celebrated by the judicious Davila. Thrown off her guard by the last sarcastic insinuation, Mrs. Vickars burst into an angry defence of her own sincerity with respect to the affair of the marquis and Lady Gabriella. Almeria observed, that this "defence was quite unnecessary, as she had not made any accusation; and these apologies could be prompted only by Mrs. Vickars's own tenderness of conscience." Mrs. Vickars replied with increasing acrimony. She said, that her "conduct needed no apologies, and that she should not stoop to make any, to soothe the disappointed ambition of any person whatever." Reproach succeeded reproach—sarcasm produced sarcasm—till at last Mrs. Vickars declared, that after what had passed it was impossible she should remain another day in Miss Turnbull's house. This declaration was heard by Almeria with undisguised satisfaction. The next day Mrs. Vickars accepted of an invitation from the marchioness; and our heroine afterwards protested that she was as much rejoiced to be freed from the encumbrance of such a companion as Sinbad the sailor was to get rid of the old man of the sea, who fastened himself upon his shoulders with such remorseless tenacity.

She resolved to be more cautious in choice of her next companion. There were many candidates for the honour of supplying the place of Mrs. Vickars; amongst these was Mrs. Ingoldsby, a lady who was perfect mistress of the whole art of flattery, by means of which she had so far ingratiated herself with Miss Turnbull, that she felt secure of a preference over all competitors. Almeria had indeed almost decided in her favour, when she received a note from a Mrs. Wynne, an old lady with whom she had formerly been acquainted in Yorkshire, and who, being just come to town, was eager to renew her intimacy with Miss Turnbull. She was a woman of an excellent heart, and absolutely incapable of suspecting that others could be less frank or friendly than herself. She was sometimes led into mistakes by this undistinguishing benevolence; for she imagined that all which appeared wrong would prove right, if properly understood; that there must be some good reason for every thing that seemed to be bad; that every instance of unkindness or insolence was undesigned; and that every quarrel was only a misunderstanding. Possessed by this good-natured kind of wrong-headedness, she frequently did the most provoking, by way of doing the most obliging things imaginable.

Upon this principle she would place contending parties by surprise in the very situation which of all others they most wished to avoid, and then give the signal for a pitched battle, by begging the enemies would shake hands with one another. Now she had heard it reported in Yorkshire that there was some coolness between the Elmours and Miss Turnbull; but she was morally certain there could be no truth in this report, for a variety of the very best reasons in the world.

"In the first place," argued Mrs. Wynne, "to my certain knowledge, Miss Turnbull was, from her infancy, always the greatest favourite at Elmour Grove, the pupil of the good old gentleman, and the intimate friend of the daughter. During that odd Hodgkinson's lifetime, Almeria was always with Miss Ellen Elmour, who treated her quite like a sister. I am sure I remember, as if it was yesterday, her introducing Miss Turnbull to me, and the affectionate way in which she spoke of her—and I particularly recollect hearing Almeria Turnbull, amongst other grateful things, say, that she should wish to live and die with her friends at Elmour Grove. Then she had stronger reasons afterwards for being attached to them—you know it was Mr. Frederick Elmour who gained her large fortune for her. I was in the court-house in York the very day the cause was decided, and I never heard a man speak with more energy and eloquence than Frederick Elmour did in her defence. It was plain, indeed, that the eloquence came from his heart—as to the law part of the business, I know my nephew, who understands those things, said it was a very nice question, and that if her cause had not been managed as ably as it was, she would not have gained her fortune. Now of course this was a thing that never could be forgotten. I own, I expected that there would have been a match between Miss Turnbull and Mr. Elmour; but Sir Thomas Stock, her guardian, took her away from us, and Mr. Elmour fell in love with another lady. But all this time Miss Turnbull has never married, though she has been so much in the great world, and from her large fortune must have had so many offers. I heard it said yesterday, that she had refused Sir Thomas Stock's eldest son, and my Lord Bradstone, and some others; now it is plain she would not marry merely for money or title. My nephew, who is so amiable and sensible, is just the man for her, and he had used to admire her very much in former times, when he met her at Elmour Grove." Mrs. Wynne hinted her wishes to her nephew, but he seemed not much inclined towards Miss Turnbull, "because," said he, "though Frederick and his sister never uttered a syllable to her disadvantage, I cannot, from circumstances, help imagining, that she has not behaved well to them; and besides, after five or six years spent in the great world, and in all the dissipation in which she has lived, her disposition cannot probably be the same as it was when I knew her in the country."

Mrs. Wynne could not, with her good-natured eyes, see the force of any of these objections, and she was determined to convince her nephew of their futility. With this view she formed a scheme which was to be kept a profound secret from the parties concerned, till the moment when it should be ripe for execution. She heard that Miss Turnbull was in want of a companion; and she knew that Mrs. Henry Elmour, a very amiable young widow, distantly related to the Elmour family, and who had formerly been a friend of Almeria's, was at this moment in great distress. She had no doubt that Miss Turnbull would be delighted with an opportunity of serving any one connected with a family to whom she owed such obligations. Mrs. Wynne fancied that this would be the finest occasion imaginable to prove to her nephew, that, notwithstanding Almeria had lately lived so much in the fashionable world, she had the same grateful heart as formerly.

Eager to come to this demonstration, Mrs. Wynne wrote immediately to the distressed widow, begging her to come to town with all possible expedition; "for I have found, or at least I am morally sure of finding, the most charming situation your heart can desire. I say no more, that I may not deprive you of the pleasure of the surprise."

The same day that she sent this letter to the post, she despatched the following note to Almeria:

'MY DEAR MISS TURNBULL,

"I am too well persuaded of the goodness of your heart to fear that you should think my present interference impertinent. We used to be very good friends in Yorkshire, and I am sure shall be just the same in London; therefore I write without ceremony, as friends should. I called upon you twice, but found you were, unluckily, not at home. Now I have a matter very near my heart to speak to you about, that perhaps will turn out as much to your satisfaction as to mine. I cannot express myself so well as I could wish in writing, but am sure you will not repent your kindness, if you will do us the honour of dining with us in a family way on Friday next; and in the mean time, let me beg you will not decide your choice of a companion. I cannot be more explicit, lest (as I have said once before to-day) I should deprive you of the pleasure of the surprise. Dear madam, forgive this freedom in one who most sincerely wishes you well (as Friday will prove). My nephew, Henry Wynne (whom you may remember a great admirer of yours), desires his best respects; and with every good wish I remain, Dear Miss Turnbull's

"Affectionate humble servant, "M. WYNNE."

This letter at first surprised our heroine, and afterwards afforded subject for much ridicule to Mrs. Ingoldsby, to whom Almeria showed it. She laughed at the odd freedom of the Yorkshire dame, at the old-fashioned plainness of the style—parenthesis within parenthesis—at last concluding with respects and best wishes, and remaining dear Miss Turnbull's humble servant. She opined, however, upon the third perusal of the letter, that Mrs. Wynne was anxious to present her nephew to Miss Turnbull, and that this was the real meaning of her curious note—that probably she wished to surprise her with the sight of some Yorkshire damsel, who had formed the reasonable expectation, that because Miss Turnbull had done her the honour to notice her ages ago in the country, she was to be her companion in town. Mrs. Ingoldsby further observed, that Mrs. Wynne, though she had not practised at court, was no bad politician in thus attempting to recommend a companion to Miss Turnbull, who would, of course, be entirely in her nephew's interests. Almeria's vanity was indirectly flattered by these insinuations, which tended to prove her vast consequence, in being thus the object of plots and counterplots; and she the more readily believed this, from the experience she had had of Lady Pierrepoint's manoeuvres. "It is really a dreadful thing," said she, "to be a great heiress. One must be so circumspect—so much upon one's guard with all the world. But poor Mrs. Wynne shows her cards so plainly, one must be an idiot not to guess her whole play."

To "mistake reverse of wrong for right" is one of the most common errors in the conduct of life. Our heroine being sensible that she had been ridiculously credulous in her dealings with Lady Pierrepoint, was now inclined to be preposterously suspicious. She determined with her next admirer to pursue a system diametrically opposite to that which she had followed with the marquis; she had shown him attractive complaisance; she was now prepared to display the repulsive haughtiness becoming the representative of two hundred thousand pounds: she had completely adopted Lady Pierrepoint's maxim. That a lady should marry to increase her consequence and strengthen her connexions. Her former ideas, that love and esteem were necessary to happiness in a union for life, seemed obsolete and romantic; and the good qualities of her admirers, though they were always to be mentioned as the ostensible reasons for her choice, were never in reality to influence her decision.

To stoop at once from a marquis to a private gentleman would be terrible; yet that private gentleman was worthy of some little consideration, not because he was, as Almeria remembered, a man of excellent sense, temper, and character, but because he had a clear estate of eight thousand pounds a-year, and was next heir to an earldom.

Miss Turnbull cannot properly be called a female fortune-hunter; but, to coin a new name for our heroine, which may be useful to designate a numerous class of her contemporaries, she was decidedly a female title-hunter.

She accepted of the invitation to dinner, and, accompanied by a proper supporter in Mrs. Ingoldsby, went to Mrs. Wynne's, dressed in the utmost extravagance of the mode, blazing in all the glory of diamonds, in hopes of striking admiration even unto awe upon the hearts of all beholders. Though she had been expressly invited to a family party, she considered that only as an humble country phrase to excuse, beforehand, any deficiency of magnificence. She had no doubt that the finest entertainment, and the finest company, Mrs. Wynne could procure or collect, would be prepared for her reception. She was somewhat surprised, especially as she came fashionably late, to find in the drawing-room only old Mrs. Wynne, her nephew, and a lady, who, from her dress and modest appearance, was evidently nobody. Miss Turnbull swept by her, though she had a disagreeable recollection of having somewhere seen this figure in a former state of existence. Mrs. Wynne, good soul! did not believe in wilful blindness, and she therefore said, with provoking simplicity, "Miss Turnbull, this is your good friend, Mrs. Henry Elmour—poor thing! she is sadly altered in her looks since you saw her, a gay rosy lass at Elmour Grove! But though her looks are changed, her heart, I can answer for it, is just the same as ever; and she remembers you with all the affection you could desire. She would not be like any other of her name, indeed, if she did otherwise. The Elmours were all so fond of you!"

The name of Elmour, instead of having that irresistible charm, which Mrs. Wynne expected, over Almeria's heart, produced a directly contrary effect. It recalled many associations that were painful to her pride; she was vexed to perceive that obligations and intimacies which she had forgotten, or which she wished to forget, were remembered so obstinately by others. All this passed in her mind whilst Mrs. Wynne was speaking. With a look of ill-humoured surprise, Almeria half rose from her seat, and, as Mrs. Henry Elmour was presented to her, uttered some phrases in an unintelligible voice, and then sunk back again on the sofa. Mrs. Wynne made room for the widow between her and Miss Turnbull—Mr. Wynne kept aloof—a dead silence ensued—and Miss Turnbull, seeing that in her present position there was nothing else to be done, condescended to hope that all Mrs. Henry Elmour's friends in Yorkshire were well when she left them. Mrs. Wynne's countenance brightened up, and she now addressed her conversation to Mrs. Ingoldsby, in order to leave the pair, whom she had destined to be friends, at perfect liberty to talk over "old times."

Mrs. Henry Elmour naturally spoke of the happy days which they had spent together at Elmour Grove; but Miss Turnbull was so much occupied in clasping one of her diamond bracelets, that half of what was said to her seemed not to be heard, and the other half to create no interest. She looked up, when she had at length adjusted her bracelet, and with an insipid smile (learnt from Lady Pierrepoint) seemed to beg pardon for her fit of absence. The unfortunate Mrs. Elmour recommenced all she had said; but though Miss Turnbull's eyes were at this time directed towards the widow's face, they wandered over her features with such insolent examination, that she was totally abashed. Having gained her point, our heroine now looked round as the door opened, in expectation of the entrance of some persons who might be worthy of her attention; but, lo! it was only a servant, who announced that dinner was served. Miss Turnbull's surprise could be equalled only by her indignation, when she found that it was literally to a family party she was invited. "Miss Turnbull," said Mrs. Wynne, as they were sitting down to dinner, "I have been much disappointed in not having the company of some friends of yours, who I expected would dine with us to-day; but they will be with us, I hope, to-night—they were unluckily engaged to dine with the Duchess of A——."

Miss Turnbull vouchsafed to appear interested, when the name of a duchess was mentioned; but her countenance again changed to an expression of almost angry vexation, when Mrs. Wynne explained, that these friends were Mr. and Mrs. Elmour, and Mr. Charles Wynne and his lady. "Miss Ellen Elmour, you know: she was——"—"Very true, I saw her marriage in the papers, I remember, some time ago," replied Miss Turnbull; "a year, if I'm not mistaken."

"Two years ago, madam," said Mrs. Wynne.

"Was it two?—I dare say it might—you know it is so impossible to keep a register of deaths and marriages in one's head. Pray, are you at all acquainted, Mrs. Wynne, with the Duchess of A——? She was always a prodigious friend of the Elmours, as I remember. How is that?—Are they any way related, I wonder?"

"Yes; they are now related by marriage," said Mr. Wynne; "Mrs. Elmour is a niece of the duchess."

"Indeed!"

"She is a charming woman," said Mr. Wynne; "so beautiful and yet so unaffected—so sensible, yet so unassuming."

"Pray," interrupted Mrs. Ingoldsby, "has not her grace conversaziones, or reading parties, or something in that style every week?—She is quite a learned lady, I understand. There was always something odd about her, and I cannot help being afraid of her."

"I assure you," said Mrs. Wynne, "that there is nothing odd or strange about the Duchess of A——. She has always the most agreeable society that London can afford."

Miss Turnbull and Mrs. Ingoldsby interchanged looks of affected contempt: but Mr. Wynne added, "Her grace has, you know, a taste for literature and for the arts; and the most celebrated literary characters, as well as those who have distinguished themselves in active life, assemble at her house, where they can enjoy the most agreeable conversation—that in which a knowledge of books and of the world is happily blended."

"And as to being afraid of her grace," resumed Mrs. Wynne, "that is quite impossible; she has such affable, engaging manners. I am sure, even I am not in the least afraid of her."

"But you know," said Miss Turnbull, with a malicious look of mock humility, "there is a difference between you and me.—I would not meet her grace for the world, for I am persuaded I should not be able to articulate a syllable in her classical presence—I have not been used to that style of company, by any means. I assure you I should be, as Mrs. Ingoldsby says, horribly afraid of your witty duchess."

"She has none of the airs of a wit, believe me," said Mrs. Wynne, growing more and more earnest; "and if you will not believe me, ask your friend Ellen."

"Oh, excuse me, I beseech; I shall ask no questions—I only beg leave to keep myself well when I am well. The Elmours who are so clever, and have such merit and so on, are all vastly better suited to her grace than I am."

No contradiction ensued—our heroine was mortified beyond the power of concealment.

After dinner, when the ladies retired, Mrs. Wynne, though somewhat alarmed and puzzled by Miss Turnbull's behaviour, summoned all the resolution which benevolence could inspire, and resolved at once to come to the point with our heroine. She flattered herself that all in Miss Turnbull that appeared inauspicious to her hopes was only her manner, that sort of manner which people, who live much in high life, catch and practise, without meaning to give themselves airs, or to humble their neighbours.

Many persons will perhaps think good Mrs. Wynne almost an idiot: but she was a woman of abilities; and if she did not exert them in discovering with promptitude the follies of others, she enjoyed much happiness in her benevolent scepticism. This evening, however, she was doomed to be absolutely convinced, against her will, that she had formed too favourable an opinion of one of her fellow-creatures.

She was eager to explain herself to Almeria before Ellen and Mr. Frederick Elmour should arrive; she therefore took her aside, and began without any preface:—"My dear Miss Turnbull, here is a charming opportunity for you to do a kind, and generous, and grateful action. This poor Mrs. Henry Elmour!—She has told you how she has been reduced to distress without any imprudence of hers. Now you could not, I am sure, prove the goodness of your own heart better to your friends (who will be here in half an hour) than by showing kindness to this unfortunate widow. I cannot presume to say more than that I think she would make a most agreeable companion to an amiable, sensible young lady—and you have not decided your choice, have you?"

"Pardon me, I have decided, beyond a possibility of retracting," replied Miss Turnbull, haughtily.

"I am very sorry," said Mrs. Wynne, with an expression of real concern in her countenance. "I have been very imprudent."

"Really I am infinitely distressed that it is out of my power to oblige her; but the lady who is with me now, Mrs. Ingoldsby, has a prior claim."

Prior claim!—prior to that of the Elmour family! thought Mrs. Wynne.

The decisive manner in which Miss Turnbull spoke precluded all further hope.

"Well, I did think it would have been such a pleasure to Miss Turnbull to meet Mrs. Henry Elmour, and all her old friends the Elmours here to-day; and I fancied, that if there had been any little coolness or misunderstanding, it would quite have passed off, and that I should have had the joy of seeing you all shake hands—I thought it would have been such an agreeable surprise to you to see all the Elmour family, and Ellen's charming little girl, and Mr. Frederick Elmour's boy!"

A more disagreeable surprise could scarcely have been imagined for our heroine. She informed Mrs. Wynne, coldly, that there was not the slightest quarrel between her and any of the Elmours; and that therefore there was no necessity, or possible occasion, for any shaking of hands or reconciliation scenes: that undoubtedly the style of life she had been thrown into had entirely separated her from her Yorkshire acquaintance; and time had dissolved the sort of intimacy that neighbourhood had created: that she should always, notwithstanding, be most particularly happy to meet any of the Elmour family; though, from her situation, it was a good fortune she had not often enjoyed, nor indeed could in future expect: but that she wished it to be understood, and repeated, that she always in all companies properly acknowledged the obligations she had to Mr. Frederick Elmour as a lawyer. Her cause, she believed, was the first in which he had distinguished himself; and she was rejoiced to find that he had since risen so rapidly in his profession.—As to Miss Ellen Elmour, she was a very charming, sensible young woman, no doubt; and Miss Turnbull assured Mrs. Wynne she was delighted to hear she was so suitably married in point of understanding and temper, and all that sort of thing—and besides, to a gentleman of a reasonable fortune, which she was happy to hear Mr. Charles Wynne possessed.

Here she was interrupted in her speech—the door opened, and the Duchess of A——, Mr. and Mrs. Elmour, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wynne, were announced. Our heroine was not prepared for the sight of the duchess; and her grace's appearance made her receive her old friends in a manner very different from that in which she had determined to meet them. Practised as she was, she stood irresolute and awkward, whilst Ellen, with easy, graceful kindness, accosted her, and immediately introduced her to the Duchess of A——. As Mr. Frederick Elmour approached, and as his beautiful wife was presented to Miss Turnbull, not all her efforts could conceal the mortification she endured, whilst she pronounced that she was vastly happy—quite delighted—that all this was really such an agreeable and unexpected surprise to her—for she did not even know any of her Yorkshire friends were in town.

Mrs. Ingoldsby came up to her assistance. Miss Turnbull rallied her spirits, and determined to make her stand upon the exclusive ground of fashion. Those who comprehend the rights of the privileged orders of fashion are aware that even a commoner, who is in a certain set, is far superior to a duchess who is not supposed to move in that magic circle, Almeria, upon this principle, began to talk to the duchess of some of her acquaintance, who were of the highest ton; and then affectedly checked herself, and begged pardon, and looked surprised at Mrs. Ingoldsby, when she found that her grace was not acquainted with them. Much as Miss Turnbull had reason to complain of Lady Pierrepoint and the young bride the marchioness, she now thought that their names would do her honour; and she scrupled not to speak of them as her best friends, and as the most amiable creatures existing.—Such is the meanness and insufficiency of vanity!

"Poor Lady Pierrepoint," said the Duchess of A——: "with her independent fortune, what could tempt her to enslave herself, as she has done, to a court life?"

"Her ladyship finds herself suited to her situation, I believe," said Miss Turnbull. "Lady Pierrepoint is certainly formed, more than most people I know, to succeed and shine in a court; and she is in favour, and in power, and in fashion."

"Does it follow of course that she is happy?" said Ellen.

"Oh! happy—of course; I suppose so."

"No doubt," said Mrs. Ingoldsby; "she has every reason to be happy: has not she just made her niece marchioness?"

Miss Turnbull repeated "Happy! to be sure Lady Pierrepoint is happy, if any body in the world is happy."—A short sigh escaped from our heroine.

Ellen heard the sigh, and attended to it more than to her words; she looked upon her with compassion, and endeavoured to change the conversation.

"We spend this winter in town; and as I think I know your real tastes, Almeria," said she, taking Almeria's hand, "we must have the pleasure of introducing you to some of her grace's literary friends, who will, I am sure, please and suit you particularly."

Mr. Frederick Elmour, who now really pitied Almeria, though in his pity there was a strong mixture of contempt, joined his sister in her kindness, and named and described some of the people whom he thought she would be most desirous of knowing. The names struck Miss Turnbull's ears, for they were the names of persons distinguished in the fashionable as well as in the literary world; and she was dismayed and mortified by the discovery that her country friends had by some means, incomprehensible to her, gained distinction and intimacy in society where she had merely admission; she was vexed beyond expression when she found that the Elmours were superior to her even on her own ground. At this instant Mrs. Wynne, with her usual simplicity, asked Mrs. Elmour and Ellen why they had not brought their charming children with them; adding, "You are, my dears, without exception, the two happiest mothers and wives I am acquainted with. And after all, what happiness is there equal to domestic happiness?—Oh! my dear Miss Turnbull, trust me, though I am a silly old woman, there's nothing like it—and friends at court are not like friends at home—and all the Lady Pierrepoints that ever were or ever will be born, are not, as you'll find when you come to try them, like one of these plain good Ellens and Elmours."

The address, simple as it was, came so home to Almeria's experience, and so many recollections rushed at once upon her memory, that all her factitious character of a fine lady gave way to natural feeling, and suddenly she burst into tears.

"Good heavens! my dear Miss Turnbull," cried Mrs. Ingoldsby, "what is the matter?—Are not you well?—Salts! salts!—the heat of the room!—Poor thing!—she has such weak nerves.—Mr. Elmour, may I trouble you to ring the bell for our carriage? Miss Turnbull has such sensibility! This meeting, so unexpected, with so many old friends, has quite overcome her."

Miss Turnbull, recalled to herself by Mrs. Ingoldsby's voice, repeated the request to have her carriage immediately, and departed with Mrs. Ingoldsby as soon as she possibly could, utterly abashed and mortified; mortified most at not having been able to conceal her mortification. Incapable absolutely of articulating, she left Mrs. Ingoldsby to cover her retreat, as well as she could, with weak nerves and sensibility.

Even the charitable Mrs. Wynne was now heard to acknowledge that she could neither approve of Miss Turnbull's conduct, nor frame any apology for it. She confessed that it looked very like what she of all things detested most—ingratitude. Her nephew, who had been a cool observant spectator of this evening's performance, was glad that his aunt's mind was now decided by Almeria's conduct. He exclaimed that he would not marry such a woman, if her portion were to be the mines of Peru.

Thus Miss Turnbull lost all chance of the esteem and affection of another man of sense and temper, who might even at this late period of her life have recalled her from the follies of dissipation, and rendered her permanently happy.

And now that our heroine must have lost all power of interesting the reader, now that the pity even of the most indulgent must be utterly sunk in contempt, we shall take our leave of her, resigning her to that misery which she had been long preparing for herself. It is sufficient to say, that after this period she had some offers from men of fashion of ruined fortunes; but these she rejected, still fancying that with her wealth she could not fail to make a splendid match. So she went on coquetting; and coquetting, rejecting and rejecting, till at length she arrived at an age when she could reject no longer. She ceased to be an object to matrimonial adventurers, but to these succeeded a swarm of female legacy-hunters. Among the most distinguished was her companion, Mrs. Ingoldsby, whose character she soon discovered to be artful and selfish in the extreme. This lady's flattery, therefore, lost all its power to charm, but yet it became necessary to Almeria; and even when she knew that she was duped, she could not part with Mrs. Ingoldsby, because it was not in her power to supply the place of a flatterer with a friend.—A friend! that first blessing of life, cannot be bought—it must be deserved.

Miss, or as she must now he called, Mrs. Almeria Turnbull, is still alive—probably at this moment haunting some place of public amusement, or stationary at the card-table. Wherever she may be, she is despised and discontented; one example more amongst thousands, that wealth cannot purchase, or fashion bestow, real happiness.

"See how the world its veterans rewards— youth of folly, an old age of cards!"

Edgeworth's-Town, 1802.



VIVIAN.



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

Miss Edgeworth's general views, in these stories, are explained in the preface to the first volume. I cannot, however, omit repeating, that public favour has not yet rendered her so presumptuous as to offer hasty effusions to her readers, but that she takes a longer time to revise what she writes than the severe ancients required for the highest species of moral fiction.

Vivian exposes one of the most common defects of mankind. To be "infirm of purpose" is to be at the mercy of the artful or at the disposal of accident. Look round, and count the numbers who have, within your own knowledge, failed from want of firmness.

An excellent and wise mother gave the following advice with her dying breath: "My son, learn early how to say, No!"—This precept gave the first idea of the story of Vivian.

THE ABSENTEE is not intended as a censure upon those whose duties, and employments, and superior talents, lead them to the capital; but to warn the thoughtless and the unoccupied from seeking distinction by frivolous imitation of fashion and ruinous waste of fortune.

A country gentleman, or even a nobleman, who does not sit in parliament, may be as usefully and as honourably employed in Yorkshire, Mid Lothian, or Ireland, as at a club-house or an assembly in London.

Irish agents are here described as of two different species. That there have been bad and oppressive Irish agents, many great landed English proprietors have felt; that there are well-informed, just, and honourable Irish agents, every-day experience can testify.

MADAME DE FLEURY points out some of the means which may be employed by the rich for the real advantage of the poor. This story shows that sowing gold does not always produce a golden harvest; but that knowledge and virtue, when early implanted in the human breast, seldom fail to make ample returns of prudence and felicity.

EMILIE DE COULANGES exposes a fault into which the good and generous are liable to fall.

Great sacrifices and great benefits cannot frequently be made or conferred by private individuals; but, every day, kindness and attention to the common feelings of others is within the power, and may be the practice, of every age, and sex, and station. Common faults are reproved by all writers on morality; but there are errors and defects that require to be treated in a lighter manner, and that come, with propriety, within the province of essayists and of writers for the stage.

R. L. EDGEWORTH. May, 1812.



CHAPTER I.

"To see the best, and yet the worse pursue."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Vivian, "that you, Russell, my friend, my best friend, can tell me that this line is the motto of my character!—' To see the best, and yet the worse pursue.—Then you must think me either a villain or a madman."

"No," replied Russell, calmly; "I think you only weak."

"Weak—but you must think me an absolute fool."

"No, not a fool; the weakness of which I accuse you is not a weakness of the understanding. I find no fault either with the logical or the mathematical part of your understanding. It is not erroneous in either of the two great points in which Bacon says that most men's minds be deficient in—the power of judging of consequences, or in the power of estimating the comparative value of objects."

"Well," cried Vivian, impatiently, "but I don't want to hear just now what Bacon says—but what you think. Tell me all the faults of my character."

"All!—unconscionable!—after the fatigue of this long day's journey," said Russell, laughing.

These two friends were, at this time, travelling from Oxford to Vivian Hall (in ——shire), the superb seat of the Vivian family, to which Vivian was heir. Mr. Russell, though he was but a few years older than Vivian, had been his tutor at college; and by an uncommon transition, had, from his tutor, become his intimate friend.

After a pause, Vivian resumed, "Now I think of it, Russell, you are to blame, if I have any faults. Don't you say, that every thing is to be done by education? And are not you—though by much too young, and infinitely too handsome, for a philosopher—are not you my guide, philosopher, and friend?"

"But I have had the honour to be your guide, philosopher, and friend, only for these three years," said Russell. "I believe in the rational, but not in the magical, power of education. How could I do, or undo, in three years, the work of the preceding seventeen?"

"Then, if you won't let me blame you, I must blame my mother."

"Your mother!—I had always understood that she had paid particular attention to your early education, and all the world says that Lady Mary Vivian, though a woman of fashion, is remarkably well-informed and domestic; and, judging from those of her letters which you have shown me, I should think that, for once, what all the world says is right."

"What all the world says is right, and yet I am not wrong:—my mother is a very clever woman, and most affectionate, and she certainly paid particular attention to my early education; but her attention was too particular, her care was too great. You know I was an only son—then I lost my father when I was an infant; and a woman, let her be ever so sensible, cannot well educate an only son, without some manly assistance; the fonder she is of the son the worse, even if her fondness is not foolish fondness—it makes her over-anxious—it makes her do too much. My mother took too much, a great deal too much, care of me; she over-educated, over-instructed, over-dosed me with premature lessons of prudence: she was so afraid that I should ever do a foolish thing, or not say a wise one, that she prompted my every word, and guided my every action. So I grew up, seeing with her eyes, hearing with her ears, and judging with her understanding, till, at length, it was found out that I had not eyes, ears, or understanding of my own. When I was between twelve and thirteen, my mother began to think that I was not sufficiently manly for my age, and that there was something too yielding and undecided in my character. Seized with a panic, my mother, to make a man of me at once, sent me to —— school. There I was, with all convenient expedition, made ashamed of every thing good I had learned at home; and there I learned every thing bad, and nothing good, that could be learned at school. I was inferior in Latin and Greek; and this was a deficiency I could not make up without more labour than I had courage to undertake. I was superior in general literature, but this was of little value amongst my competitors, and therefore I despised it; and, overpowered by numbers and by ridicule, I was, of course, led into all sorts of folly, by mere mauvaise honte. Had I been in the habit of exercising my own judgment, or had my resolution been strengthened by degrees; had I, in short, been prepared for a school, I might, perhaps, have acquired, by a public education, a manly, independent spirit. If I had even been wholly bred up in a public school, I might have been forced, as others were, by early and fair competition, to exercise my own powers, and by my own experience in that microcosm, as it has been called, I might have formed some rules of conduct, some manliness of character, and might have made, at least, a good schoolboy. Half home-bred, and half school-bred, from want of proper preparation, one half of my education totally destroyed the other. From school, of course, I went to college, and at college, of course, I should have become one of the worst species of college lads, and should have had no chance, in my whole future life, of being any thing but a dissipated fool of fashion, one of the Four-in-Hand Club, or the Barouche Club, or the Tandem Club, or the Defiance Club, had not I, by the greatest good fortune, met with such a friend as you, and, by still greater good fortune, found you out for myself; for if my mother had recommended you to me, I should have considered you only as a college tutor; I should never have discovered half your real merit; I doubt whether I should have even seen that you are young and handsome: so prejudiced should I have been with the preconceived notion of a college tutor, that I am not certain whether I should have found out that you are a gentleman as well born and well bred as myself; but, be that as it may, I am positive that I never should have made you my companion and friend; I should never have thrown open my whole soul to you, as I have done; nor could you ever have obtained such wondrous power as you possess over my mind, if you had been recommended to me by my mother."

"I am sorry," said Russell, smiling, "that, after so many wise reflections, and so many fine compliments, you end by proving to me that my wondrous power is founded on your wondrous weakness. I am mortified to find that your esteem and friendship for me depended so much upon my not having had the honour of your mother's recommendation; and have not I reason to fear, that now, when I have a chance of becoming acquainted with Lady Mary Vivian, and, perhaps, a chance of her thinking me a fit companion and friend for her son, I must lose his regard and confidence, because I shall labour under the insuperable objection of an affectionate mother's approbation?"

"No, no," said Vivian; "my wilful folly does not go quite so far as that. So that I maintain the privilege of choosing my friends for myself, I shall always be pleased and proud to find my mother approve my choice."

After a few moments' pause, Vivian added, "You misunderstand, quite misunderstand me, if you think that I am not fond of my mother. I respect and love her with all my soul:—I should be a most ungrateful wretch if I did not. I did very wrong to speak as I did just now, of any little errors she may have made in my education; but, believe me, I would not have said so much to any one living but yourself, nor to you, but in strict confidence; and, after all, I don't know whether I ought not to lay the blame of my faults on my masters more than on my poor mother."

"Lay the blame where we will," said Russell, "remember, that the punishment will rest on ourselves. We may, with as much philosophic justice as possible, throw the blame of our faults on our parents and preceptors, and on the early mismanagement of our minds; yet, after we have made out our case in the abstract, to the perfect satisfaction of a jury of metaphysicians, when we come to overt actions, all our judges, learned and unlearned, are so awed, by the ancient precedents and practice of society, and by the obsolete law of common sense, that they finish by pronouncing against us the barbarous sentence, that every man must suffer for his own faults."

"'I hope I shall be able to bear it, my lord,' as the English sailor said when the judge——But look out there! Let down that glass on your side of the carriage!" cried Vivian, starting forward. "There's Vivian Hall!"

"That fine old castle?" said Russell, looking out of the window.

"No; but farther off to the left, don't you see amongst the trees that house with wings?"

"Ha! quite a new, modern house: I had always fancied that Vivian Hall was an old pile of building."

"So it was, till my father threw down the old hall, and built this new house."

"And a very handsome one it is.—Is it as good within as without?"

"Quite, I think; but I'll leave you to judge for yourself.—Are not those fine old trees in the park?"

From this time till the travellers arrived at Vivian Hall, their conversation turned upon trees, and avenues, and serpentine approaches, and alterations that Vivian intended to make, when he should be of age, and master of this fine place; and he now wanted but a twelvemonth of being at legal years of discretion. When they arrived at the hall, Lady Mary Vivian showed much affectionate joy at the sight of her son, and received Mr. Russell with such easy politeness that he was prepossessed at first in her favour. To this charm of well-bred manners was united the appearance of sincerity and warmth of feeling. In her conversation there was a mixture of excellent sense and general literature with the frivolities of the fashionable world, and the anecdotes of the day in certain high circles, of which she seemed to talk more from habit than taste, and to annex importance more from the compulsion of external circumstances than from choice. But her son,—her son was the great object of all her thoughts, serious or frivolous. She was delighted by the improvements she saw in his understanding and character; by the taste and talents he displayed, both for fine literature and for solid information: this flattered her hope that he would both shine as a polished gentleman and make a figure in public life. To his friend Russell she attributed these happy improvements; and, though he was not a tutor of her own original selection, yet her pride, on this occasion, yielded to gratitude, and she graciously declared, that she could not feel jealous of the pre-eminent power he had obtained over her son, when she saw the admirable use he made of this influence. Vivian, like all candid and generous persons, being peculiarly touched by candour and generosity in others, felt his affection for his mother rapidly increased by this conduct; nor did his enthusiasm for his friend in the least abate, in consequence of the high approbation with which she honoured him, nor even in consequence of her ladyship's frequent and rather injudicious expressions of her hopes, that her son would always preserve and show himself worthy of such a friend.

He joined in his mother's entreaties to Russell to prolong his visit; and as her ladyship declared she thought it of essential consequence to her son's interest and future happiness, that he should, at this turn of his life, have such a companion, Russell consented to remain with him some time longer. All parties were thus pleased with each other, and remained united by one common interest about the same objects, during several weeks of a delightful summer. But, alas! this family harmony, and this accord of reason and will, between the mother and son, were not of longer duration. As usual, there were faults on both sides.

Lady Mary Vivian, whose hopes of her son's distinguishing himself by his abilities had been much exalted since his last return from Oxford, had indulged herself in pleasing anticipations of the time when he should make his appearance in the fashionable and in the political world. She foresaw the respect that would be paid to her, on his account, both by senators and by matrons; by ministers, who might want to gain a rising orator's vote, and by mothers, who might wish to make an excellent match for their daughters: not only by all mothers who had daughters to marry, but by all daughters who had hearts or hands to dispose of, Lady Mary felt secure of having her society courted. Now, she had rather extravagant expectations for her son: she expected him to marry, so as to secure domestic happiness, and, at the same time, to have fashion, and beauty, and rank, and high connexions, and every amiable quality in a wife. This vision of a future daughter-in-law continually occupied her ladyship's imagination. Already, with maternal Alnascharism, she had, in her reveries, thrown back her head with disdain, as she repulsed the family advances of some wealthy but low-born heiress, or as she rejected the alliance of some of the new nobility. Already she had arranged the very words of her answers to these, and determined the degrees and shades of her intimacies with those; already had she settled

"To whom to nod, whom take into her coach, Whom honour with her hand;"

when one morning, as she sat at work, absorbed in one of these reveries, she was so far "rapt into future times," that, without perceiving that any body was present, she began to speak her thoughts, and said aloud to herself, "As if my son could possibly think of her!"

Her son, who was opposite to her, lying on a sofa, reading, or seeming to read, started up, and putting down his book, exclaimed, in a voice which showed at once that he was conscious of thinking of some particular person, and determined to persist in the thought, "As if your son could possibly think of her!——Of whom, ma'am?"

"What's the matter, child? Are you mad?"

"Not in the least, ma'am; but you said——"

"What!" cried Lady Mary, looking round; "What did I say, that has occasioned so much disturbance?—I was not conscious of saying any thing. My dear Selina," continued her ladyship, appealing to a young lady, who sat very intent upon some drawing beside her, "my dear Selina, you must have heard; what did I say?"

The young lady looked embarrassed; and the colour which spread over her face, brought a sudden suspicion into Lady Mary's mind: her eye darted back upon her son—the suspicion, the fear was confirmed; and she grew instantly pale, silent, and breathless, in the attitude in which she was struck with this panic. The young lady's blush and embarrassment had a very different effect on Vivian; joy suddenly sparkled in his eyes, and illumined his whole countenance, for this was the first instant he had ever felt any hope of having obtained an interest in her heart. He was too much transported at this moment to think either of prudence or of his mother; and, when he recollected himself, he was too little practised in dissimulation to repair his indiscretion. Something he did attempt to say, and blundered, and laughed at his blunder; and when his mother looked up at him, in serious silence, he only begged pardon for his folly, confessed he believed he was mad, and, turning away abruptly, left the room, exclaiming that he wondered where Russell had been all the morning, and that he must go and look for him. A long silence ensued between Vivian's mother and the young lady, who were left alone together. Lady Mary first broke the silence, and, in a constrained tone, asked, as she took up the newspaper, "Whether Miss Sidney had found any news?"

"I don't know, ma'am," answered Miss Sidney, in a voice scarcely articulate.

"I should have imagined there must be some news from the continent: but you did not find any, I think you say, Miss Sidney;" continued Lady Mary, with haughty, averted eyes. After turning over the pages of the paper, without knowing one word it contained, she laid it down, and rose to leave the room. Miss Sidney rose at the same time.

"Lady Mary, one instant; my dear Lady Mary."

Lady Mary turned, and saw Selina's supplicating eyes full of tears; but her ladyship, still retaining her severity of manner, coldly said, "Does Miss Sidney desire that I should stay?—Does Miss Sidney wish to speak to me?"

"I do—as soon as I can," said Selina in a faltering voice; but, raising her eyes, and perceiving the contemptuous expression of Lady Mary's countenance, her own instantly changed. With the firm tone of conscious innocence, she repeated, "I do wish to speak to your ladyship, if you will hear me with your usual candour; I do not expect or solicit your usual indulgence."

"Miss Sidney," replied Lady Mary, "before you say more, it becomes me to point out to you, that the moment is past for confidence between us two; and that in no moment could I wish to hear from any person, much less from one whom I had considered as my friend, confessions, extorted by circumstances, degrading and unavailing."

"Your ladyship need not be apprehensive of hearing from me any degrading confessions," said Miss Sidney; "I have none to make: and since, without any just cause, without any cause for suspicion, but what a blush, perhaps, or a moment's embarrassment of manner may have created, you think it becomes you to point out to me that the moment for confidence between us is past, I can only lament my mistake in having believed that it ever existed."

Lady Mary's countenance and manner totally changed. The pride of rank yielded before the pride of virtue; and perhaps the hope that she had really no cause for suspicion at once restored her affection for her young friend. "Let us understand one another, my dear Selina," said she; "if I said a hasty or a harsh word, forgive it. You know my affection for you, and my real confidence; in actions, not in words, I have shown it.—In thought, as well as in actions, my confidence in you has been entire; for, upon my word, and you know this is not an asseveration I lightly use, upon my word, till that unfortunate moment, a suspicion of you never crossed my imagination. The proof—if there could need any proof to you of what I assert—the proof is, the delight I take in your society, the urgent manner in which I have so frequently, this summer, begged your company from your mother. You know this would have not only been the height of insincerity, but of folly and madness, if I had not felt a reliance upon you that made me consider it as an absolute impossibility that you could ever disappoint my friendship."

"I thank your ladyship," said Selina, softened by the kind tone in which Lady Mary now spoke, yet still retaining some reserve of manner; "I thank your ladyship for all your kindness—it has flattered me much—touched me deeply—commanded my gratitude, and influenced my conduct uniformly—I can and do entirely forgive the injustice of a moment; and I now bid you adieu, my dear Lady Mary, with the conviction that, if we were never to meet again, I should always hold that place in your esteem and affection with which you have honoured me, and which, if it be not too proud an expression, I hope I have deserved——Won't you bid me farewell?"

The tears gushed from Lady Mary's eyes. "My dear, charming, and prudent Selina, I understand you perfectly—and I thank you: it grieves me to part with you—but I believe you are right—I believe there is no other safety—no other remedy. How, indeed, could I expect that my son could see and hear you—live in the house with you, and become intimately acquainted with such a character as yours, without danger! I have been very imprudent, unaccountably imprudent, to expose him to such a temptation; but I hope, I trust, that your prudence will repair, in time, the effects of my rashness—and again and again I thank you, my dear young friend—but, perhaps it might be still better that you should not leave us abruptly. Still better than your absence, I think, would be the conviction you might impress on his mind of the impossibility of his hopes: if you were to stay a day or two, and convince him by your indifference that——" "Excuse me, that is what I cannot undertake," said Selina, blushing, and conscious of blushing. Lady Mary was too polite and too delicate to seem to observe her confusion, but, embracing her, said—"If we must part, then take with you my highest esteem, affection, and gratitude; and this much let me add, that my most sanguine expectations for my son's happiness would be realized, if amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice, he could meet with one of half your merit, and half your attractions."

"Amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice," repeated Selina to herself many times, as she journeyed homewards; and she pondered much upon the meaning of this phrase. Vivian was sole heir to a very large property, without encumbrances of any kind; what, therefore, was the necessity that restricted his choice? The imaginary necessity of ambition, which confined him to a certain circle of fashionable, or highly connected people. Selina Sidney, though she was not rich, was of a very good gentleman's family; her father had been a colonel in the British army: during his life, Mrs. Sidney had been in the habit of living a great deal in what is called the world, and in the best company; and though, since his death, she had lived in retirement, Miss Sidney had received an education which put her upon a footing with young ladies of the highest accomplishments and refinement in the kingdom. With every solid and amiable quality, she had all those external advantages of appearance and manner which Lady Mary Vivian valued most highly. Selina, who was convinced that Lady Mary appreciated her character, and was peculiarly fond of her company and conversation, could not but feel surprise, mixed with some indignation, perhaps with a little resentment, when she perceived that her ladyship's prejudices and ambition made her act so completely in contradiction to her better judgment, to her professions, and to her feelings of affection. Whatever Miss Sidney thought upon this subject, however, she determined to continue to avoid seeing Vivian any more—an excellent resolution, in which we leave her, and return to her lover.

A walk with Russell had brought him back in the full determination of avowing his attachment sincerely to his mother, and of speaking to her ladyship in the most respectful manner; but, when he found that Miss Sidney was gone, anger and disappointment made him at once forget his prudence, and his intended respect; he declared, in the most passionate terms, his love for Selina Sidney, and his irrevocable determination to pursue her, to the end of time and space, in spite of all opposition whatsoever from any person whatever. His mother, who was prepared for a scene of this sort, though not for one of this violence, had sufficient command of temper to sustain it properly; her command of temper was, indeed, a little assisted by the hope that this passion would be transitory in proportion to its vehemence, much by the confidence she had in Miss Sidney's honour, and in her absence: Lady Mary, therefore, calmly disclaimed having had any part in persuading Miss Sidney to that measure which had so much enraged her lover; but her ladyship avowed, that though it had not been necessary for her to suggest the measure, she highly approved of it, and admired now, as she had ever admired, that young lady's prudent and noble conduct.

Softened by the only thing that could, at this moment, soften him—praise of his mistress—Vivian, in a most affectionate manner, assured his mother that it was her warm eulogiums of Miss Sidney which had first turned his attention to the perfections of her character; and he now inquired what possible objections she could make to his choice. With the generous enthusiasm of his disposition, heightened by all the eloquence of love, he pleaded, that his fortune was surely sufficient to put him above mercenary considerations in the choice of a wife; that in every point, except this one of money, Selina Sidney was, in his own mother's opinion, superior to every other woman she could name, or wish for, as a daughter-in-law.

"But my tastes are not to blind me to your interests," said Lady Mary; "you are entitled to look for rank and high connexion. You are the representative of an ancient family, have talents to make a figure in public; and, in short, prejudice or not, I confess it is one of the first wishes of my heart that you should marry into a noble family, or at least into one that shall strengthen your political interest, as well as secure your domestic happiness."

Vivian, of course, cursed ambition, as all men do whilst they are in love. His arguments and his eloquence in favour of a private station, and of the joys of learned leisure, a competence, and domestic bliss, were worthy of the most renowned of ancient or modern philosophers. Russell was appealed to with much eagerness, both by mother and son, during their debates. He frankly declared to Lady Mary, that he thought her son perfectly right in all he now urged, and especially in his opinion of Miss Sidney; "but at the same time," added Russell, "I apprehend that he speaks, at this moment, more from passion than from reason; and I fear that, in the course of a few months, he might, perhaps, entirely change his mind: therefore, I think your ladyship is prudent in refusing, during the minority of your son, your consent to a hasty union, of which he might afterwards repent, and thus render both himself and a most amiable woman miserable."

Russell, after having given his opinion with the utmost freedom, when it was required by Lady Mary, assured her that he should no farther interfere; and he trusted his present sincerity would be the best pledge to her of his future discretion and honour. This equitable judgment and sincerity of Russell's at first displeased both parties, but in time operated upon the reason of both; not, however, before contests had gone on long and loud between the mother and son—not before a great deal of nonsense had been talked on both sides. People of the best abilities often talk the most nonsense where their passions are concerned, because then the whole of their ingenuity is exercised to find arguments in favour of their folly. They are not, like fools, content to say, This is my will; but they pique themselves on giving reasons for their will; and their reasons are the reasons of madmen, excellent upon false premises. It happened here, as in most family quarrels, that the disputants did not allow sufficiently for the prejudices and errors incident to their different ages. The mother would not allow for the romantic notions of the son, nor could the son endure the worldly views of the mother. The son, who had as yet no experience of the transitory nature of the passion of love, thought his mother unfeeling and barbarous, for opposing him on the point where the whole happiness of his life was concerned; the mother, who had seen the decline and fall of so many everlasting loves, considered him only as a person in a fever; and thought she prevented him, by her calmness, from doing that which he would repent when he should regain his sober senses. Without detailing the daily disputes which now arose, it will be sufficient to mark the result.

Vivian's love had been silent, tranquil, and not seemingly of any great consequence, till it was opposed; but, from the instant that an obstacle intervened, it gathered strength and force, and it presently rose rapidly, with prodigious uproar, threatening to burst all bounds, and to destroy every thing that stopped its course. Lady Mary was now inclined to try what effect lessening the opposition might produce. To do her justice, she was also moved to this by some nobler motives than fear; or, at least, her fears were not of a selfish kind: she dreaded that her son's health and permanent happiness might be injured by this violent passion; she was apprehensive of becoming an object of his aversion; of utterly losing his confidence, and all power over his mind; but, chiefly, her generous temper was moved and won by Selina Sidney's admirable conduct. During the whole time that Vivian used every means to see her, to write to her, and to convince her of the fervour of his love, though he won all her friends over to his interests, though she heard his praises from morning till night from all who surrounded her, and though her own heart, perhaps, pleaded more powerfully than all the rest in his favour; yet she never, for one instant, gave him the slightest encouragement. Lady Mary's esteem and affection were so much increased by these strong proofs of friendship and honour, that her prejudices yielded; and she at length declared, that if her son continued, till he was of age, to feel the same attachment for this amiable girl, she would give her consent to their union. But this, she added, she promised only on one condition—that her son should abstain from all attempts, in the interval, to see or correspond with Miss Sidney, and that he should set out immediately to travel with Mr. Russell. Transported with love, and joy, and victory, Vivian promised every thing that was required of him, embraced his mother, and set out upon his travels.

"Allow," said he triumphantly to Russell, as the chaise drove from the door, "allow, my good friend, that you were mistaken, in your fears of the weakness of my character, and of the yielding facility of my temper. You see how firm I have been—you see what battle I have made—you see how I have stood out."

"I never doubted," said Russell, "your love of your own free will—I never doubted your fear of being governed, especially by your mother; but you do not expect that I should allow this to be a proof of strength of character."

"What! do you suppose I act from love of my own free will merely?—Do you call my love for Selina Sidney weakness?—Oh! take care, Russell; for if once I find you pleading my mother's cause against your conscience——"

"You will never find me pleading any cause against my conscience. I have told your mother, as I have told you, my opinion of Miss Sidney—my firm opinion—that she is peculiarly calculated to make the happiness of your life, provided you continue to love her."

"Provided!—Oh!" cried Vivian, laughing, "spare your musty provisoes, my dear philosopher! Would not any one think, now, you were an old man of ninety? If this is all you have to fear, I am happy indeed."

"At present," said Russell, calmly, "I have no fear, as I have just told your mother, but that you should change your mind before you are of age."

Vivian grew quite indignant at this suggestion. "You are angry with me," said Russell, "and so was your mother: she was angry because I said, I feared, instead of I hoped, you would change your mind. Both parties are angry with me for my sincerity."

"Sincerity!—no; but I am angry with you for your absurd suspicions of my constancy."

"If they are absurd, you need not be angry," said Russell; "I shall be well pleased to see their absurdity demonstrated."

"Then I can demonstrate it this moment."

"Pardon me; not this moment; you must take time into the account. I make no doubt but that, at this moment, you are heartily in love with Miss Sidney; but the thing to be proved is, that your passion will not decline in force, in proportion as it meets with less resistance. If it does, you will acknowledge that it was more a love of your own free will than a love of your mistress that has actuated you, which was the thing to be proved."

"Hateful Q.E.D.!" cried Vivian; "you shall see the contrary, and, at least, I will triumph over you."

If Russell had ever used art in his management of Vivian's mind, he might have been suspected of using it in favour of Miss Sidney at this instant; for this prophecy of Vivian's inconstancy was the most likely means to prevent its accomplishment. Frequently, in the course of their tour, when Vivian was in any situation where his constancy was tempted, he recollected Russell's prediction, and was proud to remind him how much he had been mistaken. In short, the destined time for their return home arrived—Vivian presented himself before his mother, and claimed her promise. She was somewhat surprised, and a little disappointed, by our hero's constancy; but she could not retract her word; and, since her compliance was now unavoidable, she was determined that it should be gracious. She wrote to Selina, therefore, with great kindness, saying, that whatever views of other connexions she might formerly have had for her son, she had now relinquished them, convinced, by the constancy of her son's attachment, and by the merit of its object, that his own choice would most effectually ensure his happiness, and that of all his friends. Her ladyship added expressions of her regard and esteem, and of the pleasure she felt in the thoughts of finding in her daughter-in-law a friend and companion, whose society was peculiarly agreeable to her taste and suited to her character. This letter entirely dissipated Selina's scruples of conscience; Vivian's love and merit, all his good and all his agreeable qualities, had now full and unreproved power to work upon her tender heart. His generous, open temper, his candour, his warm attachment to his friends, his cultivated understanding, his brilliant talents, his easy, well-bred, agreeable manners, all heightened in their power to please by the charm of love, justified, even in the eyes of the aged and prudent, the passion he inspired. Selina became extremely attached to him; and she loved with the delightful belief that there was not, in the mind of her lover, the seed of a single vice which threatened danger to his virtues or to their mutual happiness. With his usual candour, he had laid open his whole character to her, as far as he knew it himself; and had warned her of that vacillation of temper, that easiness to be led, which Russell had pointed out as a dangerous fault in his disposition. But of this propensity Selina had seen no symptoms; on the contrary, the steadiness of her lover in his attachment to her—the only point on which she had yet seen him tried—decided her to trust to the persuasive voice of love and hope, and to believe that Russell's friendship had in this instance, been too harsh or too timorous in its forebodings.

Nothing now delayed the marriage of Vivian and Selina but certain legal rites, which were to be performed on his coming of age, and before marriage settlements could be drawn;—and the parties were doomed to wait for the arrival of some trustee who was with his regiment abroad. All these delays Vivian of course cursed: but, upon the whole, they were borne by him with heroic patience, and by Selina with all the tranquillity of confiding love, happy in the present, and not too anxious for the future.



CHAPTER II.

"My dear Russell," said Vivian, "love shall not make me forget friendship; before I marry, I must see you provided for. Believe me, this was the first—one of the first pleasures I promised myself, in becoming master of a good fortune. Other thoughts, I confess, have put it out of my head; so now let me tell you at once. I hate paltry surprises with my friends: I have, you know—or rather, probably, you do not know, for you are the most disinterested fellow upon earth—I have an excellent living in my gift; it shall be yours; consider it as such from this moment. If I knew a more deserving man, I would give it to him, upon my honour; so you can't refuse me. The incumbent can't live long; he is an old, very old, infirm man; you'll have the living in a year or two, and, in the mean time, stay with me. I ask it as a favour from a friend, and you see how much I want a friend of your firm character; and I hope you see, also, how much I can value, in others, the qualities in which I am myself deficient."

Russell was much pleased and touched by Vivian's generous gratitude, and by the delicacy, as well as kindness of the manner in which he made this offer; but Russell could not consistently with his feelings or his principles live in a state of dependent idleness, waiting for a rich living and the death of an old incumbent. He told Vivian that he had too much affection for him, and too much respect for himself, ever to run the hazard of sinking from the rank of an independent friend. After rallying him, without effect, on his pride, Vivian acknowledged that he was forced to admire him the more for his spirit. Lady Mary, too, who was a great and sincere admirer of independence of character, warmly applauded Mr. Russell, and recommended him, in the highest terms, to a nobleman in the neighbourhood, who happened to be in want of a preceptor for his only son. This nobleman was Lord Glistonbury: his lordship was eager to engage a person of Russell's reputation for talents; so the affair was quickly arranged, and Lady Mary Vivian and her son went to pay a morning visit at Glistonbury Castle, on purpose to accompany Russell on his first introduction to the family. As they approached the castle, Vivian was struck with its venerable Gothic appearance; he had not had a near view of it for some years, and he looked at it with new eyes. Formerly he had seen it only as a picturesque ornament to the country; but now that he was himself possessor of an estate in the vicinity, he considered Glistonbury Castle as a point of comparison which rendered him dissatisfied with his own mansion. As he drove up the avenue, and beheld the towers, turrets, battlements, and massive entrance, his mother, who was a woman of taste, strengthened, by her exclamations on the beauty of Gothic architecture, the wish that was rising in his mind to convert his modern house into an ancient castle: she could not help sighing whilst she reflected that, if her son's affections had not been engaged, he might perhaps have obtained the heart and hand of one of the fair daughters of this castle. Lady Mary went no farther, even in her inmost thoughts. Incapable of double-dealing, she resolved never even to let her son know what her wishes had been with respect to a connexion with the Glistonbury family. But the very reserve and discretion with which her ladyship spoke—a reserve unusual with her, and unsuited to the natural warmth of her manner and temper—might have betrayed her to an acute and cool observer. Vivian, however, at this instant, was too much intent upon castle-building to admit any other ideas.

When the carriage drove under the great gateway and stopped, Vivian exclaimed, "What a fine old castle! how surprised Selina Sidney would be, how delighted, to see my house metamorphosed into such a castle!"

"It is a magnificent castle, indeed!" said Lady Mary, with a sigh: "I think there are the Lady Lidhursts on the terrace; and here comes my Lord Glistonbury with his son."

"My pupil?" said Russell; "I hope the youth is such as I can become attached to. Life would be wretched indeed without attachment—of some sort or other. But I must not expect," added he, "to find a second time a friend in a pupil; and such a friend!"

Sentiment, or the expression of the tenderness he felt for his friends, was so unusual from Russell, that it had double effect; and Vivian was so much struck by it, that he could scarcely collect his thoughts in time to speak to Lord Glistonbury, who came to receive his guests, attended by three hangers on of the family—a chaplain, a captain, and a young lawyer. His lordship was scarcely past the meridian of life; yet, in spite of his gay and debonair manner, he looked old, as if he were paying for the libertinism of his youth by premature decrepitude. His countenance announced pretensions to ability; his easy and affable address, and the facility with which he expressed himself, gained him credit at first for much more understanding than he really possessed. There was a plausibility in all he said; but, if it were examined, there was nothing in it but nonsense. Some of his expressions appeared brilliant; some of his sentiments just; but there was a want of consistency, a want of a pervading mind in his conversation, which to good judges betrayed the truth, that all his opinions were adopted, not formed; all his maxims commonplace; his wit mere repetition; his sense merely tact. After proper thanks and compliments to Lady Mary and Mr. Vivian, for securing for him such a treasure as Mr. Russell, he introduced Lord Lidhurst, a sickly, bashful boy of fourteen, to his new governor, with polite expressions of unbounded confidence, and a rapid enunciation of undefined and contradictory expectations.

"Mr. Russell will, I am perfectly persuaded, make Lidhurst every thing we can desire," said his lordship; "an honour to his country, an ornament to his family. It is my decided opinion that man is but a bundle of habits; and it's my maxim, that education is second nature—first, indeed, in many cases. For, except that I am staggered about original genius, I own I conceive with Hartley, that early impressions and associations are all in all: his vibrations and vibratiuncles are quite satisfactory. But what I particularly wish for Lidhurst, sir, is, that he should be trained as soon as possible into a statesman. Mr. Vivian, I presume you mean to follow up public business, and no doubt will make a figure. So I prophesy; and I am used to these things. And from Lidhurst, too, under similar tuition, I may with reason expect miracles—'hope to hear him thundering in the house of commons in a few years—'confess 'am not quite so impatient to have the young dog in the house of incurables; for you know he could not be there without being in my shoes, which I have not done with yet—ha! ha! ha!——Each in his turn, my boy! In the mean time, Lady Mary, shall we join the ladies yonder, on the terrace? Lady Glistonbury walks so slow, that she will be seven hours in coming to us; so we had best go to her ladyship: if the mountain won't go to Mahomet—you know, of course, what follows."

On their way to the terrace, Lord Glistonbury, who always heard himself speak with singular complacency, continued to give his ideas on education; sometimes appealing to Mr. Russell, sometimes happy to catch the eye of Lady Mary.

"Now, my idea for Lidhurst is simply this:—that he should know every thing that is in all the best books in the library, but yet that he should be the farthest possible from a book-worm—that he should never, except in a set speech in the house, have the air of having opened a book in his life—mother-wit for me!—in most cases—and that easy style of originality, which shows the true gentleman. As to morals—Lidhurst, walk on, my boy—as to morals, I confess I couldn't bear to see any thing of the Joseph Surface about him. A youth of spirit must, you know, Mr. Vivian—excuse me, Lady Mary, this is—an aside— be something of a latitudinarian to keep in the fashion: not that I mean to say so exactly to Lidhurst—no, no—on the contrary, Mr. Russell, it is our cue, as well as this reverend gentleman's," looking back at the chaplain, who bowed assent before he knew to what, "it is our cue, as well as this reverend gentleman's, to preach prudence, and temperance, and all the cardinal virtues."

"Cardinal virtues! very good, faith! my lord," said the lawyer, looking at the clergyman.

"Temperance!" repeated the chaplain, winking at the officer; "upon my soul, my lord, that's too bad."

"Prudence!" repeated the captain; "that's too clean a cut at poor Wicksted, my lord."

Before his lordship had time to preach any more prudence, they arrived within bowing distance of the ladies, who had, indeed, advanced at a very slow rate. Vivian was not acquainted with any of the ladies of the Glistonbury family; for they had, till this summer, resided at another of their country seats, in a distant county. His mother had often met them at parties in town.

Lady Glistonbury was a thin, stiffened, flattened figure—she was accompanied by two other female forms, one old, the other young; not each a different grace, but alike all three in angularity, and in a cold haughtiness of mien. After reconnoitring with their glasses the party of gentlemen, these ladies quickened their step; and Lady Glistonbury, making her countenance as affable as it was in its nature to be, exclaimed, "My dear Lady Mary Vivian! have I the pleasure to see your ladyship?—They told me it was only visitors to my lord."

Mr. Vivian had then the honour of being introduced to her ladyship, to her eldest daughter, Lady Sarah Lidhurst, and to Miss Strictland, the governess. By all of these ladies he was most graciously received; but poor Russell was not so fortunate; nothing could be more cold and repulsive than their reception of him. This did not make Lady Sarah appear very agreeable to Vivian; he thought her, at this first view, one of the least attractive young women he had ever beheld.

"Where is my Julia?" inquired Lord Glistonbury. "Ah! there she goes yonder, all life and spirits."

Vivian looked as his lordship directed his eye, and saw, at the farthest end of the terrace, a young girl of about fifteen, running very fast, with a hoop, which she was keeping up with great dexterity for the amusement of a little boy who was with her. The governess no sooner saw this than she went in pursuit of her young ladyship, calling after her, in various tones and phrases of reprehension, in French, Italian, and English; and asking whether this was a becoming employment for a young lady of her age and rank. Heedless of these reproaches, Lady Julia still ran on, away from her governess, "to chase the rolling circle's speed," down the slope of the terrace; thither Miss Strictland dared not pursue, but contented herself with standing on the brink, reiterating her remonstrances. At length the hoop fell, and the young lady returned, not to her governess, but, running lightly up the slope of the terrace, to her surprise, she came full in view of the company before she was aware that any strangers were there. Her straw hat being at the back of her head, Lady Glistonbury, with an indignant look, pulled it forwards.

"What a beautiful colour! what a sweet countenance Lady Julia has!" whispered Lady Mary Vivian to Lord Glistonbury: at the same time she could not refrain from glancing her eyes towards her son, to see what effect was produced upon him. Vivian's eyes met hers; and this single look of his mother's revealed to him all that she had, in her great prudence, resolved to conceal. He smiled at her, and then at Russell, as much as to say, "Surely there can be no comparison between such a child as this and Selina Sidney!"

A few minutes afterwards, in consequence of a sign from Lady Glistonbury, Julia disappeared with her governess; and the moment was unnoticed by Vivian, who was then, as his mother observed, looking up at one of the turrets of the old castle. All its inhabitants were at this time uninteresting to him, except so far as they regarded his friend Russell; but the castle itself absorbed his attention. Lord Glistonbury, charmed to see how he was struck by it, offered to show him over every part of the edifice; an offer which he and Lady Mary gladly accepted. Lady Glistonbury excused herself, professing to be unable to sustain the fatigue: she deputed her eldest daughter to attend Lady Mary in her stead; and this was the only circumstance which diminished the pleasure to Vivian, for he was obliged to show due courtesy to this stiff taciturn damsel at every turn, whilst he was intent upon seeing the architecture of the castle, and the views from the windows of the towers and loop-holes of the galleries; all which Lady Sarah pointed out with a cold, ceremonious civility, and a formal exactness of proceeding, which enraged Vivian's enthusiastic temper. The visit ended: he railed half the time he was going home against their fair, or, as he called her, their petrified guide; then, full of the Gothic beauties of Glistonbury, he determined, as soon as possible, to turn his own modern house into a castle. The very next morning he had an architect to view it, and to examine its capabilities. It happened that, about this time, several of the noblemen and gentry, in the county in which Vivian resided, had been seized with this rage for turning comfortable houses into uninhabitable castles. And, however perverse or impracticable this retrograde movement in architecture might seem, there were always at hand professional projectors, to convince gentlemen that nothing was so feasible. Provided always that gentlemen approve their estimates as well as their plans, they undertake to carry buildings back, in a trice, two, or three, or half a dozen centuries, as may be required, to make them Gothic or Saracenic, and to "add every grace that time alone can give." A few days after Vivian had been at Glistonbury Castle, when Lord Glistonbury came to return the visit, Russell, who accompanied his lordship, found his friend encompassed with plans and elevations.

"Surely, my dear Vivian," said he, seizing the first moment he could speak to him, "you are not going to spoil this excellent house? It is completely finished, in handsome modern architecture, perfectly comfortable and convenient, light, airy, large enough, warm rooms, well distributed, with ample means of getting at each apartment; and if you set about to new-model and transform it into a castle, you must, I see, by your plan, alter the proportions of almost every room, and spoil the comfort of the whole; turn square to round, and round again to square; and, worse than all, turn light to darkness—only for the sake of having what is called a castle, but what has not, in fact, any thing of the grandeur or solid magnificence of a real ancient edifice. These modern baby-house miniatures of castles, which gentlemen ruin themselves to build, are, after all, the most paltry, absurd things imaginable."

To this Vivian was, after some dispute, forced to agree; but he said, "that his should not be a baby-house; that he would go to any expense to make it really magnificent."

"As magnificent, I suppose, as Glistonbury Castle?"

"If possible:—that is, I confess, the object of my emulation."

"Ah!" said Russell, shaking his head, "these are the objects of emulation, for which country gentlemen often ruin themselves; barter their independence and real respectability; reduce themselves to distress and disgrace: these are the objects for which they sell either their estates or their country; become placemen or beggars; and end either in the liberties of the King's Bench, or the slaveries of St. James's."

"Impossible for me! you know my public principles," said Vivian: "and you know that I think the life of an independent country gentleman the most respectable of all others—you know my principles."

"I know your facility," said Russell: "if you begin by sacrificing thus to your taste, do you think you will not end by sacrificing to your interest?"

"Never! never!" cried Vivian.

"Then you imagine that a strong temptation will not act where a weak one has been found irresistible."

"Of this I am certain," said Vivian: "I could never be brought to sell my country, or to forfeit my honour."

"Perhaps not," said Russell: "you might, in your utmost need, have another alternative; you might forfeit your love; you might give up Selina Sidney, and marry for money—all for the sake of a castle!"

Struck by this speech, Vivian exclaimed, "I would give up a thousand castles rather than run such a hazard!"

"Let us then coolly calculate," said Russell. "What would the castle cost you?"

The expense, even by the estimates of the architects, which, in the execution, are usually doubled, was enormous, such as Vivian acknowledged was unsuited even to his ample fortune. His fortune, though considerable, was so entailed, that he would, if he exceeded his income, be soon reduced to difficulties for ready money. But then his mother had several thousands in the stocks, which she was ready to lend him to forward this castle-building. It was a project which pleased her taste, and gratified her aristocratic notions.