Vivian assured his friend at parting, that his reason was convinced: that he would not yield to the whims of taste, and that he would prudently give up his folly. So he determined; and he abided by his determination till he heard numbers speak on the other side of the question. With Vivian, those who spoke last frequently seemed to speak best; and, in general, the number of voices overpowered the weight of argument. By the persuasions of his mother, the example of his neighbours, and the urgency of architects and men of taste who got about him soon afterwards, he was convinced that there was no living without a castle, and that the expense would be next to nothing at all. Convinced, we should not say; for he yielded, against his conviction, from mere want of power to resist reiterated solicitations. He had no other motive; for the enthusiasm raised by the view of Glistonbury Castle had passed away: he plainly saw, what Russell had pointed out to him, that he should spoil the inside of his house for the sake of the outside; and, for his own part, he preferred comfort to show. It was not, therefore, to please his own taste that he ran into this imprudent expense, but merely to gratify the taste of others.

Now the bustle of building began, and workmen swarmed round his house; the foundations sank, the scaffolds rose; and many times did Vivian sigh and repent, when he saw how much was to be undone before any thing could be done; when he found his house dismantled, saw the good ceilings and elegant cornices knocked to pieces, saw the light domes and modern sashes give way; all taken out to be replaced, at profuse expense, by a clumsy imitation of Gothic; how often did be sigh and calculate, when he saw the tribes of workmen file off as their dinner bell rang! how often did he bless himself, when he beheld the huge beams of timber dragged into his yards, and the solid masses of stone brought from a quarry at an enormous distance!—Vivian perceived that the expense would be treble the estimate; and said, that if the thing were to be done again, he would never consent to it; but now, as Lady Mary observed, it was too late to repent; and it was, at any rate, best to go on and finish it with spirit—since it was impossible (nobody knew why) to stop. He hurried on the workmen with impatience; for he was anxious to have the roof and some apartments in his castle finished before his marriage. The dilatoriness of the lawyers, and the want of the trustee, who had not yet arrived in England, were no longer complained of so grievously by the lover. Russell, one day, as he saw Vivian overlooking his workmen, and urging them to expedition, smiled, and asked whether the impatience of an architect or of a lover was now predominant in his mind. Vivian, rather offended by the question, replied, that his eagerness to finish this part of his castle arose from his desire to give an agreeable surprise to his bride; and he declared that his passion for Selina was as ardent, at this moment, as it had ever been; but that it was impossible to make lawyers move faster than their accustomed pace; and that Miss Sidney was too secure of his affection, and he too well convinced of hers, to feel that sort of anxiety, which persons who had less confidence in each other might experience in similar circumstances. This was all very true, and very reasonable; but Russell could not help perceiving that Vivian's language and tone were somewhat altered since the time when he was ready to brave heaven and earth to marry his mistress, without license or consent of friends, without the possibility of waiting a few months till he was of age. In fact, though Vivian would not allow it, this consent of friends, this ceasing of opposition, this security and tranquillity of happiness, had considerably changed the appearance, at least, of his love. Lady Mary perceived it, with a resolution to say nothing, and see how it would end. Selina did not perceive it for some time; for she was of a most unsuspicious temper; and her confidence in Vivian was equal to the fondness of her love. She began to think, indeed, that the lawyers were provokingly slow; and when Vivian did not blame them as much as he used to do, she only thought that he understood business better than she did—besides, the necessary trustee was not come—and, in short, the last thing that occurred to her mind was to blame Vivian.

The trustee at length arrived, and the castle was almost in the wished-for state of forwardness, when a new cause of delay arose—a county election: but how this election was brought on, and how it was conducted, it is necessary to record. It happened that a relation of Vivian's was appointed to a new seventy-four gun ship, of which he came to take the command at Yarmouth, which was within a few miles of him. Vivian recollected that Russell had often expressed a desire to go on board a man-of-war. Vivian, therefore, after having appointed a day for their going, went to Glistonbury to invite Russell: his pupil, Lord Lidhurst, begged to be permitted to accompany them: and Lady Julia, the moment she heard of this new seventy-four gun ship, was, as her governess expressed it, wild to be of the party. Indeed, any thing that had the name of a party of pleasure, and that promised a transient relief from the tedious monotony in which her days passed; any thing that gave a chance of even a few hours' release from the bondage in which she was held between the restraints of the most rigid of governesses and the proudest of mothers, appeared delightful to this lively and childish girl. She persecuted her governess with entreaties, till at last she made Miss Strictland go with her petition to Lady Glistonbury; whilst, in the mean time, Lady Julia overwhelmed her father with caresses, till he consented; and with much difficulty, prevailed upon Lady Glistonbury to give her permission for the young ladies to go with their governess, their brother, their father, and Lady Mary Vivian, on this excursion. The invitation was now extended to all the company then at the castle; including the representative of the county, who, being just threatened with a fit of the gout, brought on by hard drinking at the last election, expressed some reluctance to going with this party on the water. But this gentleman was now paying his humble devoirs to the Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and it was represented to him, by all who understood the ground, that he would give mortal offence if he did not go; so it was ruled, that, hot or cold, gout or no gout, he must appear in the Lady Sarah's train: he submitted to this perilous necessity in the most gallant manner. The day proved tolerably fine—Vivian had an elegant entertainment provided for the company, under a marquee pitched on the shore—they embarked in a pleasure-boat—Lady Sarah was very sick, and her admirer very cold; but Lady Julia was in extasies at every thing she saw and felt—she feared nothing, found nothing inconvenient—was charmed to be drawn so easily from the boat up the high side of the ship—charmed to find herself on deck—charmed to see the sails, the ropes, the rigging, the waves, the sea, the sun, the clouds, the sailors, the cook dressing dinner—all, all indiscriminately charmed her; and, like a school-girl broke loose, she ran about, wild with spirits, asking questions, some sensible, some silly; laughing at her own folly, flying from this side to that, from one end of the ship to the other, down the ladders and up again; whilst Mr. Russell, who was deputed to take care of her, could scarcely keep up with her: Lord Glistonbury stood by, holding his sides and laughing aloud: Miss Strictland, quite disabled by the smell of the ship, was lying on a bed in the state cabin; and Lady Sarah, all the time shaded by an umbrella held by her shivering admirer, sat, as if chained upright in her chair of state, upon deck, scorning her sister's childish levity, and proving herself, with all due propriety, incapable of being moved to surprise or admiration by any object on land or sea.

Lady Mary Vivian, while she observed with a quick eye all that passed, and read her son's thoughts, was fully persuaded that neither of the Lady Lidhursts would be likely to suit his taste, even if his affections were disengaged: the one was too childish, the other too stiff. "Yet their birth and connexions, and their consequence in the county," thought Lady Mary, "would have made their alliance highly desirable." Every body seemed weary at the close of this day's entertainment, except Lady Julia, who kept it up with indefatigable gaiety, and could hardly believe that it was time to go home, when the boat was announced to row them to shore: heedless, and absolutely dizzy with talking and laughing, her ladyship, escaping from the assistance of sailors and gentlemen, made a false step in getting into the boat, and, falling over, would have sunk for ever, but for Mr. Russell's presence of mind. He seized her with a strong grasp, and saved her. The fright sobered her completely; and she sat wrapped in great-coats, as silent, as tractable, and as wet as possible, during the remainder of the way to shore. The screams, the ejaculations, the reprimands from Miss Strictland; the questions, the reflections, to which this incident led, may possibly be conceived, but cannot be enumerated.

This event, however alarming at the moment, had no serious consequence; for Lady Julia caught neither fever nor cold, though Miss Strictland was morally certain her ladyship would have one or the other; indeed she insinuated, that her ladyship deserved to have both. Lady Sarah's poor shivering knight of the shire, however, did not escape so well. Obliged to row home, in a damp evening, without his great-coat, which he had been forced to offer to Lady Julia, in a pleasure-boat, when he should have been in flannels or in bed, he had "cause to rue the boating of that day." His usual panacea of the gout did not come as expected, to set him up again. The cold he caught this day killed him. Lady Sarah Lidhurst was precisely as sorry as decorum required. But the bustle of a new election was soon to obliterate the memory of the old member, in the minds of his numerous friends. Lord Glistonbury, and several other voices in the county, called upon Vivian to stand on the independent interest. There was to be a contest: for a government candidate declared himself at the same moment that application was made to Vivian. The expense of a contested election alarmed both Vivian and his mother. Gratified as she was by the honour of this offer, yet she had the prudence to advise her son rather to go into parliament as representative for a borough than to hazard the expense of a contest for the county. Miss Sidney, also, whom he consulted upon this occasion, supported his mother's prudent advice, in the most earnest manner; and Vivian was inclined to follow this counsel, till Lord Glistonbury came one morning to plead the contrary side of the question: he assured Vivian, that from his experience of the county, he was morally certain they should carry it without trouble, and with no expense worth mentioning. These were only general phrases, to be sure, not arguments; but these, joined to her ambition to see her son member for the county, at length overpowered Lady Mary's better judgment: her urgent entreaties were now joined to those of Lord Glistonbury, and of many loud-tongued electioneerers, who proved to Vivian, by every thing but calculation, that he must be returned if he would but stand—if he would only declare himself. Russell and his own prudence strongly counselled him to resist these clamorous importunities; the two preceding candidates, whose fortunes had been nearly as good as his, had been ruined by the contests. Vivian was very young, but just of age; and Russell observed, "that it would be better for him to see something more of the world, before he should embark in politics, and plunge into public business." "True," said Vivian; "but Mr. Pitt was only three-and-twenty when he was minister of England. I am not ambitious; but I should certainly like to distinguish myself, if I could; and whilst I feel in youth the glow of patriotism, why should I not serve my country?"

"Serve it and welcome," said Russell: "but don't begin by ruining yourself by a contested election; or else, whatever glow of patriotism you may feel, it will be out of your power to be an honest member of parliament. If you must go into parliament immediately for the good of your country, go in as member for some borough, which will not ruin you."

"But the committee of our friends will be so disappointed if I decline; and my mother, who has now set her heart upon it, and Lord Glistonbury, and Mr. C——, and Mr. G——, and Mr. D——, who are such zealous friends, and who urge me so much——"

"Judge for yourself," said Russell, "and don't let any persons who happen to be near you persuade you to see with their eyes, and decide with their wishes. Zealous friends, indeed!—because they love to make themselves of consequence, by bawling and scampering about at an election!—And you would let such people draw you on, to ruin yourself."

"I will show you that they shall not," cried Vivian, seizing a sheet of paper, and sitting down immediately to write the copy of a circular letter to his friends, informing them, with many thanks, that he declined to stand for the county. Russell eagerly wrote copies of this letter, which Vivian declared should be sent early the next morning. But no sooner was Russell out of sight than Lady Mary Vivian resumed her arguments in favour of commencing his canvass immediately, and before his friends should cool. When she saw the letters that he had been writing, she was excessively indignant; and, by a torrent of female and maternal eloquence, he was absolutely overwhelmed. Auxiliaries poured in to her ladyship on all sides; horsemen after horsemen, freeholders of all degrees, now flocked to the house, hearing that Mr. Vivian had thoughts of standing for the county. They were unanimously loud in their assurances of success. Old and new copies of poll books were produced, and the different interests of the county counted and recounted, balanced and counterbalanced, again and again, by each person, after his own fashion: and it was proved to Mr. Vivian, in black and white, and as plain as figures could make it, that he had the game in his own hands; and that, if he would but declare himself, the other candidate would, the very next day, they would be bound for it, decline the contest. Vivian had a clear head, and a competent knowledge of arithmetic; he saw the fallacies and inaccuracies in their modes of computation; he saw, upon examining the books, that the state of the county interests was very different from what they pretended or believed; and he was convinced that the opposite candidate would not decline: but after Vivian had stated these reasons ten times, and his mother and his electioneering partisans had reiterated their assertions twenty times, he yielded, merely because they had said twice as much as he had, and because, poor easy man! he had not power to resist continuity of solicitation.

He declared himself candidate for the county; and was soon immersed in all the toil, trouble, vexation, and expense, of a contested election. Of course, his marriage was now to be postponed till the election should be over. Love and county politics have little affinity. What the evils of a contested election are can be fully known only to those by whom they have been personally experienced. The contest was bitter. The Glistonbury interest was the strongest which supported Vivian: Lord Glistonbury and his lordship's friends were warm in his cause. Not that they had any particular regard for Vivian; but he was to be their member, opposed to the court candidate, whom his lordship was anxious to keep out of the county. Lord Glistonbury had once been a strong friend to government, and was thought a confirmed courtier, especially as he had been brought up in high aristocratic notions; but he had made it his great object to turn his earldom into a marquisate; and government having delayed or refused to gratify him in this point, he quitted them with disgust, and set up his standard amongst the opposition. He was now loud and zealous on every occasion that could, as he said, annoy government; and merely because he could not be a marquis, he became a patriot. Mistaken, abused name! how glorious in its original, how despicable in its debased signification!—Lord Glistonbury's exertions were indefatigable.

Vivian felt much gratitude for this apparently disinterested friendship; and, during a few weeks, whilst this canvass was going on, he formed a degree of intimacy with the Glistonbury family, which, in any other circumstances, could scarcely have been brought about during months or years. An election, in England, seems, for the time, to level all distinctions, not only of rank, but even of pride: Lady Glistonbury herself, at this season, found it necessary to relax from her usual rigidity.—There was an extraordinary freedom of egress and regress; and the haughty code of Glistonbury lay dormant. Vivian, of course, was the centre of all interest; and, whenever he appeared, every individual of the family was eager to inquire, "What news?—What news?—How do things go on to-day?—How will the election turn out?—Have you written to Mr. Such-a-one?—Have you been to Mr. Such-a-one's?—I'll write a note for you—I'll copy a letter."—There was one common cause—Miss Strictland even deigned to assist Mr. Vivian, and to try her awkward hand to forward his canvass, for it was to support the Glistonbury interest; and "there was no impropriety could attach to the thing." Russell's extreme anxiety made Vivian call more frequently even than it was necessary at the castle, to quiet his apprehensions, and to assure him that things were going on well. Young Lord Lidhurst, who was really good-natured, and over whose mind Russell began to gain some ascendancy, used to stand upon the watch for Vivian's appearance, and would run up the back stairs to Russell's apartment, to give him notice of it, and to be the first to tell the news. Lady Sarah—the icy lady Sarah herself—began to thaw; and every day, in the same phrase, she condescended to say to Mr. Vivian, that she "hoped the poll was going on as well as could be expected." It was, of course, reported, that Vivian was to succeed the late representative of the county in all its honours. In eight days he was confidently given to Lady Sarah by the generous public; and the day of their nuptials was positively fixed. As the lady was, even by the account of her friends, two or three years older than Mr. Vivian, and four or five years older by her looks, and as she was peculiarly unsuited to his taste, he heard the report without the slightest apprehension for his own constancy to Selina. He laughed at the idea, as an excellent joke, when it was first mentioned to him by Russell. Lord Glistonbury's manners, however, and the cordial familiarity with which he treated Vivian, gave every day increasing credit to the report. "If he were his son, my lord could not be more anxious about Mr. Vivian," said one of the plain-spoken freeholders, in the presence of the Lady Lidhursts.—Lady Sarah pursed up her mouth, and threw back her head; but Lady Julia, archly looking at her sister, smiled. The vivacity of Lady Julia's manner did not appear excessive during this election time, when all the world seemed mad; on the contrary, there was, in her utmost freedom and raillery, that air of good-breeding and politeness, in which vulgar mirth and liberty are always deficient. Vivian began to think that she was become less childish, and that there was something of a mixture of womanish timidity in her appearance, which rendered her infinitely more attractive. One evening, in particular, when her father having sent her for her morning's work, she returned with a basket full of the Vivian cockade, which she had made with her own delicate hands, Vivian thought she looked "very pretty:" her father desired her to give them to the person for whom they were intended, and she presented them to Mr. Russell, saying, "They are for your friend, sir."—Vivian thought she looked "very graceful."—Lady Mary Vivian suppressed half a sigh, and thought she kept the whole of her mind to herself. These happy days of canvassing, and this freedom of election, could not last for ever. After polling the county to the last freeholder, the contest was at length decided, and Vivian was declared duly elected. He was chaired, and he scattered money with a lavish hand, as he passed over the heads of the huzzaing populace; and he had all the honours of an election: the horses were taken from his carriage, and he was drawn by men, who were soon afterwards so much intoxicated, that they retained no vestige of rationality. Not only the inferior, but the superior rank of electors, as usual upon such occasions, thought proper to do honour to their choice, and to their powers of judgment, by drinking their member's health at the expense of their own, till they could neither see, hear, nor understand. Our hero was not by any means fond of drinking, but he could not refuse to do as others did; and Lord Glistonbury swore, that now he had found out that Vivian could be such a pleasant companion over a bottle, he should never listen to his excuses in future.

A few days after this election, parliament met for the dispatch of business; and as some important question was to come on, all the members were summoned, by a peremptory call of the house. Vivian was obliged to go to town immediately, and compelled to defer his marriage. He regretted being thus hurried away from Selina; and with a thousand tender and passionate expressions, assured her, that the moment his attendance on public business could be spared, he should hasten to the country to claim his promised happiness. The castle would be finished by the time the session was over; the lawyers would also have completed their settlements; and Vivian said he should make every other necessary preparation whilst he was in town: therefore he urged Selina now to fix the time for their marriage, and to let it be the first week of the recess of parliament. But Miss Sidney, who had great delicacy of feeling and dignity of character, thought that Vivian had of late shown some symptoms of decreased affection, and that he had betrayed signs of unsteadiness of character. In the whole affair of the castle-building and of the election, he had evidently been led by others instead of following his own conviction:—she wisely dreaded that he might, in more important actions, yield his judgment to others; and then what security could she have for his principles? He might, perhaps, be led into all sorts of fashionable dissipation and vice. Besides these fears, she considered that Vivian was the possessor of a large fortune; that his mother had with difficulty consented to this match; that he was very young, had seen but little of the world, and might, perhaps, in future, repent of having made, thus early in life, a love match. She therefore absolutely refused to let him now bind himself to her by any fresh promises. She desired that he should consider himself as perfectly at liberty, and released from all engagement to her. It was evident, however, from the manner in which she spoke that she wished to restore her lover's liberty for his sake only; and that her own feelings, however they might be suppressed, were unchanged. Vivian was touched and charmed by her delicacy and generosity: in the fervour of his feelings he swore that his affections could never change; and he believed what he swore. Lady Mary Vivian was struck, also, with Miss Sidney's conduct at parting; and she acknowledged that it was impossible to show at once more tenderness and dignity. No one, however, not even Vivian, knew how much pain this separation gave Selina. Her good sense and prudence told her indeed, that it was best, both for her happiness and Vivian's, that he should see something more of the world, and that she should have some farther proof of the steadiness of his attachment, before she should unite herself with him irrevocably: but whilst she endeavoured to fortify her mind with these reflections, love inspired many painful fears; and, though she never repented having set him free from his promises and engagements, she trembled for the consequences of his being thus at liberty, in such scenes of temptation as a London life would present.



CHAPTER III.

When our hero arrived in London, and when he was first introduced into fashionable society, his thoughts were so intent upon Selina Sidney, that he was in no danger of plunging into dissipation. He was surprised at the eagerness with which some young men pursued frivolous pleasures: he was still more astonished at seeing the apathy in which others of his own age were sunk, and the listless insignificance in which they lounged away their lives.

The call of the house, which brought Vivian to town, brought Lord Glistonbury also to attend his duty in the house of peers: with his lordship's family came Mr. Russell, whom Vivian went to see, as soon and as often as he could. Russell heard, with satisfaction, the indignant eloquence with which his friend spoke; and only wished that these sentiments might last, and that fashion might never lead him to imitate or to tolerate fools, whom he now despised.

"In the mean time, tell me how you go on yourself," said Vivian; "how do you like your situation here, and your pupil, and all the Glistonbury family? Let me behind the scenes at once; for, you know, I see them only on the stage."

Russell replied, in general terms, that he had hopes Lord Lidhurst would turn out well, and that therefore he was satisfied with his situation; but avoided entering into particulars, because he was a confidential person in the family. He thought that a preceptor and a physician were, in some respects, bound, by a similar species of honour, to speak cautiously of the maladies of their patients, or the faults of their pupils. Admitted into the secrets of families, they should never make use of the confidence reposed in them, to the disadvantage of any by whom they are trusted. Russell's strictly honourable reserve upon this occasion was rather provoking to Vivian, who, to all his questions, could obtain only the dry answer of—"Judge for yourself."—The nature of a town life, and the sort of intercourse which capital cities afford, put this very little in Vivian's power. The obligations he was under to Lord Glistonbury for assistance at the election made him anxious to show his lordship respect and attention; and the sort of intimacy which that election had brought on was, to a certain degree, kept up in town. Lady Mary Vivian was constantly one at Lady Glistonbury's card parties; and Vivian was frequently at his lordship's dinners. Considering the coldness and formality of Lady Glistonbury's manners, she was particularly attentive to Lady Mary Vivian; and our hero was continually an attendant upon the ladies of the Glistonbury family to all public places. This was by no means disagreeable to him, as they were persons of high consideration; and they were sure of drawing into their circle the very best company. Lady Mary Vivian observed that it was a great advantage to her son to have such a house as Lord Glistonbury's open to him, to go to whenever he pleased. Besides the advantage to his morals, her ladyship was by no means insensible to the gratification her pride received from her son's living in such high company. The report which had been raised in the country during the election, that Mr. Vivian was going to be married to Lady Sarah Lidhurst, now began to circulate in town. This was not surprising, since a young man in London, of any fortune or notoriety, can hardly dance three or four times successively with the same young lady, cannot even sit beside her, and converse with her in public half a dozen times, without its being reported that he is going to be married to her. Of this, Vivian, during his noviciate in town, was not perhaps sufficiently aware: he was soon surprised at being asked, by almost every one he met, when his marriage with Lady Sarah Lidhurst was to take place. At first he contented himself with laughing at these questions, and declaring that there was no truth in the report: but his asseverations were not to be believed; they were attributed to motives of discretion: he was told by his companions, that he kept his own counsel very well; but they all knew the thing was to be: he was congratulated upon his good fortune in making such an excellent match; for though, as they said, he would have but little money with Lady Sarah, yet the connexion was so great, that he was the luckiest fellow upon earth. The degree of importance which the report gave him among the young men of his acquaintance, and the envy he excited, amused and gratified his vanity. The sort of conversation he was now in the constant habit of hearing, both from young and old, in all companies, about the marriages of people in the fashionable world, where fortune, and rank, and connexion, were always the first things spoken of or considered, began insensibly to influence Vivian's mode of speaking, if not of judging. Before he mixed in this society, he knew perfectly well that these were the principles by which people of the world are guided; but whilst he had believed this only on hearsay, it had not appeared to him so entirely true and so important as when he saw and heard it himself. The effect of the opinions of a set of fine people, now he was actually in their society, and whilst all other society was excluded from his perception, was very different from what he had imagined it might be, when he was in the country or at college. To do our hero justice, however, he was sensible of this aberration in his own mind, he had sense enough to perceive from what causes it arose, and steadiness sufficient to adhere to the judgements he had previously and deliberately formed. He did not in material points change his opinion of his mistress; he thought her far, far superior to all he saw and heard amongst the belles who were most admired in the fashionable world; but, at the same time, he began to agree with his mother's former wish, that Selina, added to all other merits, had the advantage of high birth and connexions, or at least, of belonging to a certain class of high company. He determined that, as soon as she should be his wife, he would have her introduced to the very first society in town: he pleased his imagination with anticipating the change that would be made in her appearance, by the addition of certain elegancies of the mode: he delighted in thinking of the sensation she would produce, and the respect that would be paid to her as Mrs. Vivian, surrounded as he would take care that she should be, with all those external signs of wealth and fashion, which command immediate and universal homage from the great and little world.

One day, when Vivian was absorbed in these pleasing reveries, Russell startled him with this question: "When are you to be married to Lady Sarah Lidhurst?"

"From you such a question!" said Vivian.

"Why not from me? It is a question that every body asks of me, because I am your intimate friend; and I should really be obliged to you, if you would furnish me with an answer, that may give me an air of a little more consequence than that which I have at present, being forced to answer, 'I don't know.'"

"You don't know! but why do not you answer, 'Never!' as I do," said Vivian, "to all the fools who ask me the same question?"

"Because they say that is your answer, and only a come off."

"I can't help it—Is it my fault if they won't believe the truth?"

"Why, people are apt to trust to appearances in these cases; and if appearances are contrary to your assertions, you should not wonder that you are not believed."

"Well, time will show them their mistake!" said Vivian.—But I don't know what appearances you mean.—What appearances are against me?—I never in my life saw a woman I was less disposed to like—whom it would be more impossible for me to love—than Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and I am sure I never gave her, or any of her family, the least reason to imagine I had a thought of her."

"Very likely; yet you are at Lord Glistonbury's continually, and you attend her ladyship to all public places. Is this the way, do you think, to put a stop to the report that has been raised?"

"I care not whether it stops or goes on," said Vivian.—"How!—Don't I know it is false?—That's enough for me."

"It may embarrass you yet," said Russell.

"Good Heavens!—Can you, who know me so well, Russell, fancy me so weak as to be embarrassed by such a report? Look—I would rather put this hand into that fire and let it be burned off, than offer it to Lady Sarah Lidhurst."

"Very likely.—I don't doubt you think so," said Russell.

"And I would do so," said Vivian.

"Possibly.—Yet you might be embarrassed nevertheless, if you found that you had raised expectations which you could not fulfil; and if you found yourself accused of having jilted this lady, if all her friends were to say you had used her very ill.—I know your nature, Vivian; these things would disquiet you very much: and is it not better to prevent them?"

"But neither Lady Sarah nor her friends blame me: I see no signs in the family of any of the thoughts or feelings you suppose."

"Ladies—especially young and fashionable ladies—do not always show their thoughts or feelings," said Russell.

"Lady Sarah Lidhurst has no thoughts or feelings," said Vivian, "any more than an automaton. I'll answer for her—I am sure I can do her the justice to proclaim, that she has always, from the first moment I saw her till this instant, conducted herself towards me with the same petrified and petrifying propriety."

"I do not know what petrified propriety exactly means," said Russell: "but let it mean what it may, it is nothing to the present purpose; for the question is not about the propriety of Lady Sarah Lidhurst's conduct, but of yours. Now, allowing you to call her ladyship a petrifaction, or an automaton, or by whatever other name you please, still, I apprehend, that she is in reality a human creature, and a woman; and I conceive it is the duty of a man of honour or honesty not to deceive her."

"I would not deceive her, or any woman living, upon any account," said Vivian. "But how is it possible I can deceive her, when I tell you I never said a word about love or gallantry, or any thing like it, to her in my life?"

"But you know language is conventional, especially in gallantry," said Russell.

"True; but I'll swear the language of my looks has been unequivocal, if that is what you mean."

"Not exactly: there are certain signs by which the world JUDGES in these cases—if a gentleman is seen often with the same lady in public."

"Absurd, troublesome, ridiculous signs, which would put a stop to all society; which would prevent a man from conversing with a woman, either in public or private; and must absolutely preclude one sex from obtaining any real knowledge of the characters and dispositions of the other."

"I admit all you say—I feel the truth of it—I wish this were changed in society; it is a great inconvenience, a real evil," said Russell: "but an individual cannot alter a custom; and, as you have not, by your own account, any particular interest in becoming more intimately acquainted with the character and disposition of Lady Sarah Lidhurst, you will do well not to expose yourself to any inconvenience on her account, by neglecting common received forms and opinions."

"Well! well!—say no more about it," said Vivian, impatiently; "spare me all farther logic and morality upon this subject, and I'll do what you please—only tell me what you would have me do."

"Gradually withdraw yourself for some time from this house, and the report will die away of itself."

"Withdraw myself!—that would be very hard upon me!" cried Vivian; "for this house is the most agreeable house in town to me;—because you live in it, in the first place; and then, though the women are as stiff as pokers, one is always sure of meeting all the pleasant and clever men at Glistonbury's good dinner. Let me tell you, good dinners, and good company, and good conversation, and good music, make altogether a very pleasant house, which I should be confoundedly sorry to be forced to give up."

"I don't doubt it," said Russell; "but we must often give up more even than this for the sake of acting with consistency and honour; we must sacrifice the less to the greater good; and it is on these occasions that people show strength or weakness of mind."

Vivian felt the justice of his friend's observations—resolved to follow his advice—and to withdraw himself gradually from the Glistonbury circle. He had not, however, steadiness enough to persist in this resolution; one engagement linked on another; and he would soon, probably, have relapsed into his habit of being continually of their parties, if accident had not for a time suspended this intimacy, by leading him into another, which seemed to him still more attractive.

Among the men of talents and political consequence whom he met at Lord Glistonbury's was Mr. Wharton, whose conversation particularly pleased Vivian, and who now courted his acquaintance with an eagerness which was peculiarly flattering. Vivian knew him only as a man of great abilities; with his real character he was not acquainted. Wharton had prepossessing manners, and wit sufficient whenever he pleased to make the worse appear the better reason. In private or in public debate he had at his command, and could condescend to employ, all sorts of arms, and every possible mode of annoyance, from the most powerful artillery of logic to the lowest squib of humour. He was as little nice in the company he kept as in the style of his conversation. Frequently associating with fools, and willing even to be thought one, he made alternately his sport and advantage of the weakness and follies of mankind. Wharton was philosophically, politically, and fashionably profligate. After having ruined his private fortune by unbounded extravagance, he lived on—nobody knew how—in careless profusion. In public life he made a distinguished figure; and seemed, therefore, to think himself raised above the necessity of practising any of the minor virtues of economy, prudence, or justice, which common people find essential to their well-being in society. Far from attempting to conceal, he gloried in his faults; for he knew full well, that as long as he had the voice of numbers with him, he could bully, or laugh, or shame plain reason and rigid principle out of countenance. It was his grand art to represent good sense as stupidity, and virtue as hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was, in his opinion, the only vice which merited the brand of infamy; and from this he took sufficient care to prove, or at least to proclaim, himself free. Even whilst he offended against the decencies of life, there seemed to be something frank and graceful in his manner of throwing aside all disguise. There appeared an air of superior liberality in his avowing himself to be governed by that absolute selfishness, which other men strive to conceal even from their own hearts. He dexterously led his acquaintance to infer that he would prove as much better than his professions, as other people are often found to be worse than theirs. Where he wished to please, it was scarcely possible to escape the fascination of his manner; nor did he neglect any mode of courting popularity. He knew that a good table is necessary to attract even men of wit; and he made it a point to have the very best cook, and the very best wines. He paid his cook, and his cook was the only person he did pay, in ready money. His wine-merchant he paid in words—an art in which he was a professed and yet a successful adept, as hundreds of living witnesses were ready to attest. But though Wharton could cajole, he could not attach his fellow-creatures—he had a party, but no friend. With this distribution of things he was perfectly satisfied; for he considered men only as beings who were to be worked to his purposes; and he declared that, provided he had power over their interests and their humours, he cared not what became of their hearts. It was his policy to enlist young men of talents or fortune under his banners; and consequently Vivian was an object worthy of his attention. Such was the disorder of Wharton's affairs, that either ready money or political power was necessary to his existence. Our hero could, at the same time, supply his extravagance and increase his consequence. Wharton thought that he could borrow money from Vivian, and that he might command his vote in parliament; but, to the accomplishment of these schemes, there were two obstacles—Vivian was attached to an amiable woman, and was possessed of an estimable friend. Wharton had become acquainted with Russell at Lord Glistonbury's; and, in many arguments which they had held on public affairs, had discovered that Russell was not a man who ever preferred the expedient to the right, nor one who could be bullied or laughed out of his principles. He saw also that Russell's influence over Vivian was so great, that it supplied him with that strength of mind in which Vivian was naturally deficient; and, if our hero should marry such a woman as Miss Sidney, Wharton foresaw that he should have no chance of succeeding in his designs; therefore his first objects were, to detach Vivian from his friend Russell and from Selina. One morning he called upon Vivian with a party of his friends, and found him writing.

"Poetry!" cried Wharton, carelessly looking at what he had, been writing, "poetry, I protest!—Ay, I know this poor fellow's in love; and every man who is in love is a poet, 'with a woeful ditty to his mistress's eyebrow.' Pray what colour may Miss Sidney's eyebrows be?—she is really a pretty girl—I think I remember seeing her at some races.—Why does she never come to town?—But of course she is not to blame for that, but her fortune I suppose.—Marrying a girl without a fortune is a serious thing in these expensive days; but you have fortune enough for both yourself and your wife, so you may do as you please. Well, I thank God, I have no fortune! If I had been a young man of fortune I should have been the most unhappy rascal upon earth, for I should have always suspected that every woman liked me for my wealth—I should have had no pleasure in the smiles of an angel—angels, or their mothers, are so venal now-a-days, and so fond of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world!"

"I hope," said Vivian, laughing, "you don't include the whole sex in your satire."

"No—there are exceptions—and every man has his angel of an exception, as every woman has her star:—it is well for weak women when these stars of theirs don't lead them astray; and well for weak men when these angel exceptions before marriage don't turn out very women or devils afterwards. But why do I say all this? because I am a suspicious scoundrel—I know and can't help it. If other fellows of my standing in this wicked world would but speak the truth, however, they would show as much suspicion and more than I do. Bad as I am, and such as I am, you see, and have the whole of me—nobody can say Wharton's a hypocrite; that's some comfort. But, seriously, Vivian, I don't mean to laugh at love and angels—I can just remember the time when I felt all your sort of romance—but that is in the preterpluperfect tense with me—completely past—ambition is no bad cure for love. My head is, at this present moment, so full of this new bill that we are bringing into parliament, that Cupid might empty his quiver upon me in vain.—Look! here is an impenetrable shield!" added he, wrapping round him a thick printed copy of an act of parliament. "Come, Vivian, you must come along with us to the house,

'And, mix'd with men, a man you must appear.'"

Vivian felt much ashamed of having been detected in writing a sonnet, especially as it afforded Wharton such a fine subject for raillery. He accompanied the party to the House of Commons, where Wharton made a brilliant speech. It gained universal applause. Vivian sympathized in the general enthusiasm of admiration for Wharton's talents, accepted an invitation to sup with him, and was charmed by his convivial powers. From this day, he grew every hour more intimate with Wharton.

"I can enjoy," thought Vivian, "the pleasure of his society without being influenced by his libertine example."

Lady Mary Vivian saw the rise and progress of this intimacy, and was not insensible to its danger; yet she was gratified by seeing her son distinguished by a man of Wharton's political consequence; and she satisfied her conscience by saying, "He will bring my son forward in public life; and, as to the rest, Charles has too good principles ever to follow his example in private life."

Wharton had too much address to alarm Vivian's moral prejudices on a first acquaintance. He contented himself with ridiculing only the exaggeration of any of the virtues, still affecting to believe in virtue, and to love it, wherever it could be found genuine. By the success of his first petty attacks, he learned the power that ridicule had over our hero's mind; and he did not fail to make use of it continually. After having, as he perceived, succeeded in making Vivian ashamed of his sonnet to Selina, and of appearing as a romantic lover, he doubted not but in time he should make true love itself ridiculous; and Wharton thought it was now the moment to hazard another stroke, and to commence his attack against friendship.

"Vivian, my good fellow! why do you let yourself be ruled by that modern stoic in the form of Lord Lidhurst's tutor? I never saw any of these cold moralists who were real, warm-hearted, good friends. I have a notion I see more of Russell's play in the house where he has got than he thinks I do; and I can form a shrewd guess why he was so zealous in warning you of the report about Lady Sarah Lidhurst—he had his own snug reasons for wanting you away—Oh, trust me for scenting out self-interest, through all the doublings and windings of your cunning moralist!"

Reddening with indignation at this attack upon his friend, Vivian warmly replied, that Mr. Wharton ought to restrain his wit where the feelings of friendship and the character of a man of honour were concerned; that he did not, in the least, comprehend his insinuations with regard to Russell; but that, for his own part, he had such firm reliance upon his friend's attachment and integrity, that he was at any time ready to pledge his own honour for Russell's, and to answer for it with his life.

"Spare your heroics, my dear Vivian!" cried Wharton, laughing; "for we are not in the days of Pylades and Orestes;—yet, upon my soul, instead of being as angry with you as you are with me, at this instant I like you a thousand times the better for your enthusiastic credulity. For my part, I have, ever since I lived in the world and put away childish things, regretted that charming instinct of credulity, which experience so fatally counteracts. I envy you, my dear boy!—as to the rest, you know Russell's merits better than I do: I'll take him henceforward upon trust from you."

"Thus Wharton, finding that he was upon dangerous ground, made a timely retreat: the playful manner and open countenance with which he now spoke, and the quick transition that he made to other subjects of conversation, prevented Vivian from suspecting that any settled design had been formed to detach him from Russell. From this time forward, Wharton forbore raillery on love and friendship; and, far from seeming desirous of interfering in Vivian's private concerns, appeared quite absorbed in politics. Avowing, as he did, that he was guided solely by his interest in public life, he laughed at Vivian for professing more generous principles.

"I know," cried Wharton, "how to make use of a fine word, and to round a fine sentence, as well as the best of you; but what a simpleton he must be who is cheated by his own sophistry!—An artist, an enthusiastic artist, who is generally half a madman, might fall in love with a statue of his own making; but you never heard of a coiner, did you, who was cheated by his own bad shilling? Patriotism and loyalty are counterfeit coin; I can't be taken in by them at my time of day."

Vivian could not forbear to smile at the drollery and wit with which this profligate defended his want of integrity; yet he sometimes seriously and warmly asserted his own principles. Upon these occasions, Wharton either overpowered him by a fine flow of words, or else listened with the most flattering air of admiration, and silenced him by compliments to his eloquence. Vivian thought that he was quite secure of his own firmness; but the contagion of bad example sometimes affects the mind imperceptibly; as certain noxious atmospheres steal upon the senses, and excite the most agreeable sensations, while they secretly destroy the principles of health and life. A day was fixed when a question of importance was to come on in the House of Commons. Wharton was extremely anxious to have Vivian's vote. Vivian, according to the parliamentary phrase, had not made up his mind on the subject. A heap of pamphlets on the question lay uncut upon his table. Every morning he resolved to read them, that he might form his judgment, and vote according to his unbiassed opinion; but every morning he was interrupted by some of the fashionable idlers whom his facility of temper had indulged in the habit of haunting him daily. "Oh, Vivian! we are going to such and such a place, and you must come with us!" was a mode of persuasion which he could not resist.

"If I don't do as they do," thought he, "I shall be quite unfashionable. Russell may say what he pleases, but it is necessary to yield to one's companions in trifles.

'Whoever would be pleased and please, Must do what others do with ease.'"

This couplet, which had been repeated to him by Wharton, recurred to him continually; and thus Wharton, by slight means, in which he seemed to have no interest or design, prepared Vivian for his purposes, by working gradually on the easiness of his disposition. He always argued, that it could not possibly signify what he did with an hour or two of his day, till at last Vivian found that he had no hours of his own, that his whole time was at the disposal of others; and now that he really wanted leisure to consider an important question,—when his credit, as a member of the senate, and as a man just entering political life, depended on this decision,—he literally could not command time to read over the necessary documents. So the appointed day arrived before Vivian's opinion was formed; and, from mere want of time to decide for himself, he voted as Wharton desired. Another and another political question came on; the same causes operated, and the same consequences ensued. Wharton managed with great address, so as to prevent him from feeling that he gave up his freewill. Before Vivian was aware of it, whilst he thought that he was perfectly independent of all parties, public opinion had enrolled him amongst Wharton's partisans. Of this Russell was the first to give him warning. Russell heard of it amongst the political leaders who met at Lord Glistonbury's dinners; and, knowing the danger there is of a young man's committing himself on certain points, he, with the eagerness of a true friend, wrote immediately to put Vivian upon his guard:—

"My Dear Vivian,

"I am just going into the country with Lord Lidhurst, and perhaps may not return for some time. I cannot leave you without putting you on your guard, once more, against Mr. Wharton. I understand that you are thought to be one of his party, and that he countenances the report. Take care that you are not bound hand and foot, before you know where you are.

"Your sincere friend,

"H. Russell."

With the natural frankness of his disposition, Vivian immediately spoke to Wharton upon the subject.

"What! people say that you are one of my party, do they?" said Wharton: "I never heard this before, but I am heartily glad to hear it. You are in for it now, Vivian: you are one of us; and with us you must stand or fall."

"Excuse me there!" cried Vivian; "I am not of any party; and am determined to keep myself independent."

"Do you remember the honest Quaker's answer to the man of no party?" said Wharton.

"No."

"I think it was about the year '40, when party disputes about Whig and Tory ran high—but no matter what year, it will do for any time. A gentleman of undeviating integrity, an independent man, just such a man as Mr. Vivian, offered himself candidate for a town in the east, west, north, or south of England—no matter where, it will do for any place; and the first person whose vote he solicited was a Quaker, who asked him whether he was a Whig or Tory?—'Neither. I am an independent, moderate man; and when the members of administration are right, I will vote with them—when wrong, against them.' 'And be these really thy principles?' quoth the Quaker; 'then a vote of mine thou shalt never have. Thou seest my door, it leadeth into the street; the right hand side of which is for the Tory, the left for the Whigs; and for a cold-blooded moderate man, like thee, there is the kennel, and into it thou wilt be jostled, for thou beest not decided enough for any other situation.'"

"But why should the moderate man be condemned to the kennel?" said Vivian. "Was there no middle to your Quaker's road? A stout man cannot be EASILY jostled into the kennel."

"Pshaw! pshaw!" said Wharton: "jesting out of the question, a man is nothing in public life, or worse than nothing, a trimmer, unless HE JOINS a party, and unless he abides by it, too."

"As long as the party is in the right, I presume, you mean," said Vivian.

"Right or wrong'" cried Wharton, "a man must abide by his party. No power, and no popularity, trust me, without it!—Better stride on the greasy heads of the mob than be trampled under their dirtier feet. An armed neutrality may be a good thing, but an unarmed neutrality is fit only for fools. Besides, in Russell's grand style, I can bring down the ancients upon you, and tell you that when the commonwealth is in danger he cannot be a good man who sides with neither party."

"If it be so necessary to join a party, and if, after once joining it, I must abide by it, right or wrong, for life," said Vivian, "it behoves me to consider well, before I commit myself; and, before I go into the ranks, I must see good reason to confide, not only in the abilities, but in the integrity and public virtue of my leader."

"Public virtue! sounds fresh from college," said Wharton; "I would as soon, and sooner, hear a schoolboy read his theme as hear a man begin to prose about public virtue—especially a member of parliament. Keep that phrase, my dear Vivian, till some of the treasury bench come to court you; then look superb, like a French tragic actor, swelling out your chest, and throwing the head over the left shoulder—thus—exclaim, 'Public virtue forbid!'—practise! practise!—for if you do it well, it may be worth a loud huzza to you yet; or better still, a snug place or pension. But stay till you're asked—stay till you're asked—that's the etiquette; never till then let me hear public virtue come out of your lips, else you'll raise suspicion of your virtue, and lower your price. What would you think of a pretty actress who began to talk to you of her reputation before you put it in any danger? Oh, Vivian! my honest fellow! unless you would make me think you no better than thousands that have gone before you, never let me hear from your lips again, till the proper time, the hypocritical state phrase—public virtue."

"I had always, till now, understood that it was possible to be a patriot without being a hypocrite," replied Vivian; "I always understood that Mr. Wharton was a patriot."

"A very fair sarcasm on me," said Wharton, laughing. "But you know, I'm a sad dog; never set myself up for a pattern man.—Come! let's home to dinner, and a truce with politics and morality. I find, Vivian, you're a sturdy fellow, and must have your own way; no bending, no leading you, I see. Well! it is a good thing to have so much strength of mind: I envy you."

It must be recorded to the credit of our hero, that in defiance of Wharton's raillery, he talked, and—oh! still more wonderful!—thought of public virtue, during nearly half of his first session in parliament. But, alas! whilst his political principles thus withstood the force of ridicule, temptation soon presented itself to Vivian in a new shape, and in a form so seducing, as to draw his attention totally away from politics, and to put his private, if not his public, honour, in the most imminent peril.



CHAPTER IV.

One morning, as Vivian was walking with Mr. Wharton up Bond-street, they were met by a party of fashionable loungers, one of whom asked whether Mrs. Wharton was not come to town yet.

"Mrs. Wharton!" said Vivian, with an air of surprise.

"Yes, she came to town this morning," said Wharton, carelessly; then laughing, as he turned to look at Vivian, "Vivian, my good fellow! what smites you with such surprise? Did not you know I was married?"

"I suppose I must have heard it; but I really forgot it," said Vivian.

"There you had the advantage of me," said Wharton, still laughing. "But if you never heard of Mrs. Wharton before, keep your own secret; for I can tell you she would never forgive you, though I might. Put a good face on the matter, at any rate; and swear you've heard so much of her, that you were dying to see her. Some of these gentlemen, who have nothing else to do, will introduce you whenever you please."

"And cannot I," said Vivian, "have the honour of your introduction?"

"Mine! the worst you could possibly have. The honour, as you are pleased to call it, would be no favour, I assure you. The honour!—honour of a husband's introduction! What a novice you are, or would make me believe you to be! But, seriously, I am engaged to-day at Glistonbury's: so, good morning to you."

Accustomed to hear Wharton talk in the freest manner of women and marriage in general, and scarcely having heard him mention his own wife, Vivian had, as he said, absolutely forgotten that Wharton was a married man. When he was introduced to Mrs. Wharton, he was still more surprised at her husband's indifference; for he beheld a lady in all the radiance of beauty, and all the elegance of fashion: he was so much dazzled by her charms, that he had not immediately power or inclination to examine what her understanding or disposition might be; and he could only repeat to himself, "How is it possible that Wharton can be indifferent to such a beautiful creature!"

Incapable of feeling any of what he, called the romance of love, the passion, of course, had always been with Mr. Wharton of a very transient nature. Tired of his wife's person, he showed his indifference without scruple or ceremony. Notorious and glorying in his gallantries, he was often heard to declare, that no price was too high to be paid for beauty, except a man's liberty; but that was a sacrifice which he would never make to any woman, especially to a wife. Marriage vows and custom-house oaths he classed in the same order of technical forms,—nowise binding on the conscience of any but fools and dupes. Whilst the husband went on in this manner, the wife satisfied herself by indulgence in her strongest passions—the passion for dress and public admiration. Childishly eager to set the fashion in trifles, she spent unconscionable sums on her pretty person; and devoted all her days, or rather all her nights, to public amusements. So insatiable and restless is the passion for admiration, that she was never happy for half an hour together, at any place of public amusement, unless she fixed the gaze of numbers. The first winter after her marriage she enjoyed the prerogatives of a fashionable beauty; but the reign of fashion is more transient even than the bloom of beauty. Mrs. Wharton's beauty soon grew familiar, and faded in the public eye; some newer face was this season the mode. Mrs. Wharton appeared twice at the opera in the most elegant and becoming dresses; but no one followed her lead. Mortified and utterly dejected, she felt, with the keenest anguish, the first symptoms of the decline of public admiration. It was just at this period, when she was miserably in want of the consolations of flattery, that Vivian's acquaintance with her commenced. Gratified by the sort of delighted surprise which she saw in his countenance the first moment he beheld her, seeing that he was an agreeable man, and knowing that he was a man of fortune and family, she took pains to please him by all the common arts of coquetry. But his vanity was proof against these: the weakness of the lady's understanding and the frivolity of her character were, for some weeks, sufficient antidotes against all the power of her personal charms; so much so, that at this period he often compared, or rather contrasted, Mrs. Wharton and Selina, and blessed his happy fate. He wrote to his friend Russell soon after he was introduced to this celebrated beauty, and drew a strong and just parallel between the characters of these two ladies: he concluded with saying, "Notwithstanding your well-founded dread of the volatility of my character, you will not, I hope, my dear Russell, do me the injustice to apprehend that I am in any danger from the charms of Mrs. Wharton."

Vivian wrote with perfect sincerity; he believed it to be impossible that he could ever become attached to such a woman as Mrs. Wharton, even if she had not been married, and the wife of his friend. So, in all the security of conscious contempt, he went every day to wait upon her, or rather to meet agreeable company at her house,—a house in which all that was fashionable and dissipated assembled; where beauty, and talents, and rank, met and mingled; and where political or other arrangements prevented the host and hostess from scrupulously excluding some whose characters were not free from suspicion. Lady Mary Vivian never went to Mrs. Wharton's; but she acknowledged that she knew many ladies of unblemished reputation who thought it no impropriety to visit there; and Mrs. Wharton's own character she knew was hitherto unimpeached. "She is, indeed, a woman of a cold, selfish temper," said Lady Mary; "not likely to be led into danger by the tender passion, or by any of the delusions of the imagination."

Vivian agreed with his mother in this opinion, and went on paying his devoirs to her every day. It was the fashion of the times, and peculiarly the mode of this house, for the gentlemen to pay exclusive attention to matrons. Few of the young men seemed to think it worth while to speak to an unmarried woman in any company; and the few who might be inclined to it were, as they declared, deterred by the danger: for either the young ladies themselves, or their mothers, immediately formed expectations and schemes of drawing them into matrimony—the grand object of the ladies' wishes and of the gentlemen's fears. The men said they could not speak to an unmarried woman, or even dance with her more than twice, without its being reported that they were going to be married; and then the friends and relatives of the young ladies pretended to think them injured and ill-treated, if these reports were not realized. Our hero had some slight experience of the truth of these complaints in his own case with the Lady Sarah Lidhurst: he willingly took the rest upon trust—believed all the exaggerations of his companions—and began to think it prudent and necessary to follow their example, and to confine his attentions to married women. Many irresistible reasons concurred to make Mrs. Wharton the most convenient and proper person to whom he could pay this sort of homage: besides, she seemed to fall to his share by lot and necessity; for, at Wharton's house, every other lady and every other gentleman being engaged in gallantry, play, or politics, Mrs. Wharton must have been utterly neglected if Vivian had not paid her some attention. Common politeness absolutely required it; the attention became a matter of course, and was habitually expected. Still he had not the slightest design of going beyond the line of modern politeness; but, in certain circumstances, people go wrong a great way before they are aware that they have gone a single step. It was presently repeated to Mr. Vivian, by some of Mrs. Wharton's confidantes, in whispers, and under the solemn promise of secrecy, that he certainly was a prodigious favourite of hers. He laughed, and affected to disbelieve the insinuation: it made its impression, however; and he was secretly flattered by the idea of being a prodigious favourite with such a beautiful young creature. In some moments he saw her with eyes of compassion, pitying her for the neglect with which she was treated by her husband: he began to attribute much of her apparent frivolity, and many of her faults, more to the want of a guide and a friend than to a deficiency of understanding or to defects of character. Mrs. Wharton had just sufficient sense to be cunning—this implies but a very small portion: she perceived the advantage which she gained by thus working upon Vivian's vanity and upon his compassion. She continued her operations, without being violently interested in their success; for she had at first only a general wish to attract his attention, because he was a fashionable young man.

One morning when be called upon Wharton to accompany him to the House of Commons, he found Mrs. Wharton in tears, her husband walking up and down the room in evident ill-humour. He stopped speaking when Vivian entered; and Mrs. Wharton endeavoured, or seemed to endeavour, to conceal her emotion. She began to play on her harp; and Wharton, addressing himself to Vivian, talked of the politics of the day. There was some incoherence in the conversation; for Vivian's attention was distracted by the air that Mrs. Wharton was playing, of which he was passionately fond.

"There's no possibility of doing any thing while there is such a cursed noise in the room!" cried Wharton. "Here I have the heads of this bill to draw up—I cannot endure to have music wherever I go—"

He snatched up his papers and retired to an adjoining apartment, begging that Vivian would wait one quarter of an hour for him.—Mrs. Wharton's tears flowed afresh, and she looked beautiful in tears.

"You see—you see, Mr. Vivian—and I am ashamed you should see—how I am treated.—I am, indeed, the most unfortunate creature upon the face of the earth; and nobody in this world has the least compassion for me!"

Vivian's countenance contradicted this last assertion most positively.—Mrs. Wharton understood this; and her attitude of despondency was the most graceful imaginable.

"My dear Mrs. Wharton"—(it was the first time our hero had ever called her "his dear Mrs. Wharton;" but it was only a platonic dear)—"you take trifles much too seriously—Wharton was hurried by business—a moment's impatience must be forgiven."

"A moment!" replied Mrs. Wharton, casting up to heaven her beautiful eyes—"Oh! Mr. Vivian, how little do you know of him!—I am the most miserable creature that ever existed; but there is not a man upon earth to whom I would say so except yourself."

Vivian could not help feeling some gratitude for this distinction; and, as he leaned over her harp with an air of unusual interest, he said he hoped that he should ever prove himself worthy of her esteem and confidence.

At this instant Wharton interrupted the conversation, by passing hastily through the room.—"Come, Vivian," said he; "we shall be very late at the house."

"We shall see you again of course at dinner," said Mrs. Wharton to Vivian in a low voice. Our hero replied by an assenting bow.

Five minutes afterwards he repented that he had accepted the invitation, because he foresaw that he should resume a conversation which was at once interesting and embarrassing. He felt that it was not right to become the depository of this lady's complaints against her husband; yet he had been moved by her tears, and the idea that he was the only man in the world to whom she would open her heart upon such a delicate subject, interested him irresistibly in her favour. He returned in the evening, and was flattered by observing, that amongst the crowd of company by which she was surrounded he was instantly distinguished. He was perfectly persuaded of the innocence of her intentions; and, as he was attached to another woman, he fancied that he could become the friend of the beautiful Mrs. Wharton without danger. The first time he had an opportunity of speaking to her in private, he expressed this idea in the manner that he thought the most delicately flattering to her self-complacency. Mrs. Wharton seemed to be perfectly satisfied with this conduct; and declared, that unless she had been certain that he was not a man of gallantry, she should never have placed any confidence in his friendship.

"I consider you," said she, "quite as a married man:—by-the-bye, when are you to be married, and what sort of a person is Miss Sidney?—I am told she is excessively handsome, and amiable, and sensible.—What a happy creature she is!—just going to be united to the man she loves!" Here the lady gave a profound sigh; and Vivian had an opportunity of observing that she had the longest dark eyelashes that he had ever seen.

"I was married," continued she, "before I knew what I was about. You know Mr. Wharton can be so charming when he pleases—and then he was so much in love with me, and swore he would shoot himself if I would not have him—and all that sort of thing.—I protest I was terrified; and I was quite a child, you know. I had been out but six weeks, and I thought I was in love with him. That was because I did not know what love was—then;—besides, he hurried and teased me to such a degree!—After all, I'm convinced I married him more out of compassion than any thing else; and now you see how he treats me!—most barbarously and tyrannically!—But I would not give the least hint of this to any man living but yourself. I conjure you to keep my secret—and—pity me!—that is all I ask—pity me sometimes, when your thoughts are not absorbed in a happier manner."

Vivian's generosity was piqued: he could not be so selfish as to be engrossed exclusively by his own felicity. He thought that delicacy should induce him to forbear expatiating upon Selina's virtues and accomplishments, or upon his passion. He carried this delicacy so far, that sometimes for a fortnight or three weeks he never mentioned her name. He could not but observe that Mrs. Wharton did not like him the less for this species of sacrifice. It may be observed, that Mrs. Wharton managed her attack upon Vivian with more art than could be expected from so silly a woman; but we must consider that all her faculties were concentrated on one object; so that she seemed to have an instinct for coquetry. The most silly animals in the creation, from the insect tribe upwards, show, on some occasions, where their interests are immediately concerned, a degree of sagacity and ingenuity, which, compared with their usual imbecility, appears absolutely wonderful. The opinion which Vivian had early formed of the weakness of this lady's understanding prevented him from being on his guard against her artifices: he could not conceive it possible that he should be duped by a person so obviously his inferior. With a woman of talents and knowledge, he might have been suspicious; but there was nothing in Mrs. Wharton to alarm his pride or to awaken his fears: he fancied that he could extricate himself in a moment, and with the slightest effort, from any snares which she could contrive; and, under this persuasion, he neglected to make even that slight effort, and thus continued from hour to hour in voluntary captivity.

Insensibly Vivian became more interested for Mrs. Wharton; and, at the same time, submitted with increased facility to the influence of her husband. It was necessary that he should have some excuse to the world, and yet more to his own conscience, for being so constantly at Wharton's. The pleasure he took in Wharton's conversation was still a sort of involuntary excuse to himself for his intimacy with the lady. "Wharton's wit more than Mrs. Wharton's beauty," thought he, "is the attraction that draws me here—I am full as ready to be of his parties as of hers; and this is the best proof that all is as it should be."

Wharton's parties were not always such as Vivian would have chosen; but he was pressed on, without power of resistance. For instance, one night Wharton was going with Lord Pontipool and a set of dissipated young men, to the house of a lady who made herself fashionable by keeping a faro-bank.

"Vivian, you'll come along with us?" said Wharton. "Come, we must have you—unless you are more happily engaged."

His eye glanced with a mixture of contempt and jealousy upon his wife. Mrs. Wharton's alarmed and imploring countenance at the same moment seemed to say, "For Heaven's sake, go with him, or I am undone." In such circumstances it was impossible for Vivian to say no: he followed immediately; acting, as he thought, from a principle of honour and generosity. Wharton was not a man to give up the advantage which he had gained. Every day he showed more capricious jealousy of his wife, though he, at the same time, expressed the most entire confidence in the honour of his friend. Vivian still thought he could not do too much to convince him that his confidence was not misplaced; and thus, to protect Mrs. Wharton from suspicion, he yielded to all her husband's wishes. Vivian now felt frequently ashamed of his conduct, but always proud of his motives; and, with ingenious sophistry, he justified to himself the worst actions, by pleading that he did them with the best intentions.



CHAPTER V.

By this time Lady Mary Vivian began to hear hints of her son's attachment to Mrs. Wharton; and, much alarmed, she repented having encouraged him to form a political or fashionable intimacy with the Whartons. Suddenly awakened to the perception of the danger, Lady Mary was too vehement in her terror. She spoke with so much warmth and indignation, that there was little chance of her counsels being of use.

"But, my dear madam, it is only a platonic attachment," argued Vivian, when his mother represented to him that the world talked loudly of his intimacy with Mrs. Wharton.

"A platonic attachment!—Fashionable, dangerous sophistry!" said Lady Mary.

"Why so, ma'am?" said her son, warmly; "and why should we mind what the world says? The world is so fond of scandal, that a man and woman cannot have any degree of friendship for one another without a hue and cry being immediately raised—and all the prudes and coquettes join at once in believing, or pretending to believe, that there must be something wrong. No wonder such a pretty woman as Mrs. Wharton cannot escape envy, and, of course, censure; but her conduct can defy the utmost malice of her enemies."

"I hope so," said Lady Mary; "and, at all events, I am not one of them. I know and care very little about Mrs. Wharton, whom I have always been accustomed to consider as a frivolous, silly woman; but what I wish to say, though I fear I have lost your confidence, and that my advice will not—"

"Frivolous! silly!" interrupted Vivian; "believe me, my dear mother, you and half the world are, and have been, under a great mistake about her understanding and character."

"Her forming a platonic friendship with a young man is no great proof of her sense or of her virtue," said Lady Mary. "The danger of platonic attachments, I thought, had been sufficiently understood. Pray, my dear Charles, never let me hear more from you of platonics with married women."

"I won't use the expression, ma'am, if you have any objection to it," said Vivian; "but, mother, you wish me to live in the most fashionable company, and yet you desire me not to live as they live, and talk as they talk: now, that is next to impossible. Pardon me, but I should not have thought," added he, laughing, "that you, who like most things that are fashionable, would object to platonics."

"Object to them!—I despise, detest, abhor them! Platonics have been the ruin of more women, the destruction of the peace of more families, than open profligacy ever could have accomplished. Many a married woman, who would have started with horror at the idea of beginning an intrigue, has been drawn in to admit of a platonic attachment. And many a man, who would as soon have thought of committing murder as of seducing his friend's wife, has allowed himself to commence a platonic attachment; and how these end, all the world knows."

Struck by these words, Vivian suddenly quitted his air of raillery, and became serious. Had his mother stopped there, and left the rest to his good sense and awakened perception of danger, all would have been well; but she was ever prone to say too much; and, in her ardour to prove herself to be in the right, forgot that people are apt to be shocked, by having it pointed out that they are utterly in the wrong.

"Indeed, the very word platonics," pursued she, "is considered, by those who have seen any thing of life, as the mere watchword of knaves or dupes; of those who deceive, or of those who wish to be deceived."

"Be assured, ma'am," said Vivian, "that Mrs. Wharton is not one of those who wish either to deceive or to be deceived; and, as to myself, I hope I am as far from any danger of being a dupe as of being a knave. My connexion with Mrs. Wharton is perfectly innocent; it is justified by the example of hundreds and thousands every day in the fashionable world; and I should do her and myself great injustice, if I broke off our intimacy suddenly, as if I acknowledged that it was improper."

"And what can be more improper? since you force me to speak plainly," cried Lady Mary; "what can be more improper than such an intimacy, especially in your circumstances?"

"My circumstances! What circumstances, ma'am?"

"Have you forgotten Miss Sidney?"

"By no means, ma'am," said Vivian, colouring deeply; "Mrs. Wharton is well apprized, and was, from the first moment of our friendship, clearly informed of my——engagements with Miss Sidney."

"And how do they agree with your attachment to Mrs. Wharton?"

"Perfectly well, ma'am—Mrs. Wharton understands all that perfectly well, ma'am."

"And Miss Sidney! do you think she will understand it?—and is it not extraordinary that I should think more of her feelings than you do?"

At these questions Vivian became so angry, that he was incapable of listening farther to reason, or to the best advice, even from a mother, for whom he had the highest respect. The mother and son parted with feelings of mutual dissatisfaction.

Vivian, from that spirit of opposition so often seen in weak characters, went immediately from his mother's lecture to a party at Mrs. Wharton's. Lady Mary, in the mean time, sat down to write to Miss Sidney. Whatever reluctance she had originally felt to her son's marriage with this young lady, it must be repeated, to her ladyship's credit, that Selina's honourable and disinterested conduct had won her entire approbation. She wrote, therefore, in the strongest terms to press the immediate conclusion of that match, which she now considered as the only chance of securing her son's morals and happiness. Her letter concluded with these words:—"I shall expect you in town directly. Do not, my dear, let any idle scruples prevent you from coming to my house. Consider that my happiness, your own, and my son's, depend upon your compliance. I am persuaded, that the moment he sees you, the moment you exert your power over him, he will be himself again. But, believe me, I know the young men of the present day better than you do: their constancy is not proof against absence. If he lose the habit of seeing and conversing with you, I cannot answer for the rest.—Adieu! I am so much harassed by my own thoughts, and by the reports I hear, that I scarcely know what I write. Pray come immediately, my dear Selina, that I may talk to you of many subjects on which I don't like to trust myself to write. My feelings have been too long repressed.—I must unburden my heart to you. You only can console and assist me; and, independently of all other considerations, you owe to my friendship for you, Selina, not to refuse this first request I ever made you.—Farewell! I shall expect to see you as soon as possible.

"Yours, &c.

"MARY VIVIAN."

"St. James's-street."

In this letter, Lady Mary Vivian had not explained the nature of her son's danger, or of her fears for him. Motives of delicacy had prevented her from explicitly telling Miss Sidney her suspicions that Vivian was attached to a married woman. "Selina," said her ladyship to herself, "must, probably, have heard the report from Mr. G——, who is so often at her mother's; therefore, there can be no necessity for my saying any more than I have done. She will understand my hints."

Unfortunately, however, Miss Sidney did not comprehend, or in the least suspect, the most material part of the truth; she understood simply, from Lady Mary's letter, that Vivian's affections wavered, and she imagined that he was, perhaps, on the point of making matrimonial proposals for some fashionable belle, probably for one of the Lady Lidhursts; but the idea of his becoming attached to a married woman never entered her thoughts. Many motives conspired to incline Selina to accept of the invitation. The certainty that Lady Mary would be highly offended by a refusal; the hint, that her influence over Vivian would operate immediately, and in all its force, if he were to see and converse with her; and that, on the contrary, absence might extinguish his passion for ever; curiosity to learn precisely the nature of the reports, which his mother had heard to his disadvantage; but, above all, a fond wish to be nearer to the man she loved, and to have daily opportunities of seeing him, prompted Selina to comply with Lady Mary's request. On the contrary, good sense and delicacy represented, that she had released Vivian from all promises, all engagements; that, at parting, she had professed to leave him perfectly at liberty: that it would, therefore, be as indelicate as imprudent to make such an attempt to reclaim his inconstant heart. She had told him, that she desired to have proof of the steadiness, both of his character and of his attachment, before she could consent to marry him. From this decision she could not, she would not, recede. She had the fortitude to persist in this resolution. She wrote to Lady Mary Vivian in the kindest, but, at the same time, in the most decided terms, declining the tempting invitation.

It happened that Vivian was with his mother at the moment when Selina's answer arrived. In the firm belief that such a pressing invitation as she had sent, to a person in Selina's circumstances and of Selina's temper, could not be refused, her ladyship had made it a point with her son to dine tete-a-tete with her this day; and she had been talking to him, in the most eloquent but imprudent manner, of the contrast between the characters of Mrs. Wharton and Miss Sidney. He protested that his esteem and love for Miss Sidney were unabated; yet, when his mother told him that he would, perhaps, in a few minutes see his Selina, he changed colour, grew embarrassed and melancholy, and thus by his looks effectually contradicted his words. He was roused from his reverie by the arrival of Selina's letter. His mother's disappointment and anger were expressed in the strongest terms, when she found that Selina declined her invitation; but such are the quick and seemingly perverse turns of the human heart, Vivian grew warm in Selina's defence the moment that his mother became angry with her: he read her letter with tender emotion, for he saw through the whole of it, the strength, as well as the delicacy of her attachment. All that his mother's praises had failed to effect, was immediately accomplished by this letter; and he, who but an instant before dreaded to meet Selina, now that she refused to come, was seized with a strong desire to see her; his impatience was so great, that he would willingly have set out that instant for the country. Men of such characters as Vivian's are peculiarly jealous of their free will; and, precisely because they know that they are easily led, they resist, in affairs of the heart especially, the slightest appearance of control.

Lady Mary was delighted to hear her son declare his resolution to leave town the next morning, and to see Miss Sidney as soon as possible; but she could not forbear reproaching him for not doing what she wanted precisely in the manner in which she had planned that it should be done.

"I see, my dear Charles," cried she, "that even when you do right, I must not flatter myself that it is owing to any influence of mine. Give my compliments to Miss Sidney, and assure her that I shall in future forbear to injure her in your opinion by my interference, or even by expressing my approbation of her character. My anger, it is obvious, has served her better than my kindness; and therefore she has no reason to regret that my affection has been lessened, as I confess it has been, by her late conduct."

The next morning, when Vivian was prepared to leave town, he called upon Wharton, to settle with him about some political, business which was to be transacted in his absence. Wharton was not at home—Vivian knew that it would be best to avoid seeing Mrs. Wharton; but he was afraid that she would be offended, and he could not help sacrificing a few minutes to politeness. The lady was alone; apparently very languid, and charmingly melancholy. Before Vivian could explain himself, she poured forth, in silly phrases, but in a voice that made even nonsense please, a rariety of reproaches for his having absented himself for such a length of time.—"Positively, she would keep him prisoner, now that she had him safe once more." To be kept prisoner by a fair lady was so flattering, that it was full an hour before he could prevail upon himself to assert his liberty—the fear of giving pain, indeed, influenced him still more than vanity. At last, when Mrs. Wharton spoke of her engagements for the evening, and seemed to take it for granted that he would be of her party, he summoned resolution sufficient—Oh! wonderful effort of courage!—to tell her, that he was under a necessity of leaving town immediately.

"Going, I presume, to—"

"To the country," said Vivian, firmly.

"To the country!——No, no, no; say at once, to Selina!—Tell me the worst in one word!"

Astonished beyond measure, Vivian had not power to move. The lady fell back on the sofa in violent hysterics. Our hero trembled lest any of her servants should come in, or lest her husband should at his return find her in this condition, and discover the cause. He endeavoured in vain to soothe and compose the weeping fair one; he could not have the barbarity to leave her in this state. By sweet degrees she recovered her recollection—was in the most lovely confusion—asked where she was, and what was going to happen. Vivian had not the rashness to run the risk of a second fit of hysterics; he gave up all thoughts of his journey for this day, and the lady recovered her spirits in the most flattering manner. Vivian intended to postpone his journey only for a single day; but, after he had yielded one point, he found that there was no receding. He was now persuaded that Mrs. Wharton was miserable; that she would never forgive herself for having betrayed the state of her heart. His self-love pleaded powerfully in her favour: he considered that her husband treated her with mortifying neglect, and provoked the spirit of retaliation by his gallantries. Vivian fancied that Mrs. Wharton's attachment to him might render her wretched, but would never make her criminal. With sophistical delicacy he veiled his own motives; and, instead of following the plain dictates of reason, he involved his understanding in that species of sentimental casuistry which confounds all principles of right and wrong. But the dread that he felt lest Wharton should discover what was going on might have sufficiently convinced him that he was not acting honourably. The suspicions which Mr. Wharton formerly showed of his wife seemed now to be completely lulled asleep; and he gave Vivian continually such proofs of confidence as stung him to the soul. By an absurd, but not an uncommon error of self-love, Vivian was induced to believe, that a man who professed to cheat mankind in general behaved towards him in particular with strict honour, and even with unparalleled generosity. Honesty was too vulgar a virtue for Wharton; but honour, the aristocratic, exclusive virtue of a gentleman, he laid claim to in the highest tone. The very frankness with which Wharton avowed his libertine principles with respect to women, convinced Vivian that he had not the slightest suspicion that these could be immediately applied to the ruin of his own wife.

"How can you, my dear Wharton, talk in this manner?" said Vivian once, when he had been speaking with great freedom.

"But it is better," added he, with a sigh, "to speak than to act like a villain."

"Villain!" repeated Wharton, with a sarcastic laugh; "you are grown quite ridiculous, Vivian: I protest, I don't understand you. Women now-a-days are surely able, if not willing enough, to take care of themselves; and villains, though they were very common in the time of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, and of all the tragedy queens of the last century, are not to be heard of in these days. Any strange tales of those male monsters called seducers could gain credit during the ages of ignorance and credulity; but now, the enlightened world cannot be imposed upon by such miracles; and a gentleman may be a man of gallantry—nay, even a lady may be a woman of gallantry—without being hooted out of society as a monster; at all events, the blame is, as it should be, equally divided between the parties concerned; and if modern lovers quarrel, they do not die of grief, but settle their differences in a court of law, where a spinster may have her compensation for a breach of contract of marriage; a father or a husband their damages for the loss of the company, affection, solace, services, &c., as the case may be, of his wife or daughter. All this is perfectly well understood; and the terrors of law are quite sufficient, without the terrors of sentiment. If a man punish himself, or let himself be punished, twice for the same offence, once by his conscience, and once by his king and his country, he is a fool; and, moreover, acts contrary to the spirit of the British law, which sayeth—see Blackstone and others—that no man shall be punished twice for the same offence.—Suffer your risible muscles to relax, I beseech you, Vivian; and do not affect a presbyterian rigidity, which becomes your face as ill as your age."

"I affect nothing—certainly I do not affect presbyterian rigidity," cried Vivian, laughing. "But, after all, Wharton, if you had a daughter or a sister, what would you think of any man, your friend for instance, who should attempt—"

"To cut your speech short at once," interrupted Wharton, "I should not think at all about the matter; I should blow his brains out, of course; and afterwards, probably, blow out my own. But treachery from a friend—from a man of honour—is a thing of which I can hardly form an idea. Where I give my confidence, I give it without any paltry mental reservation—I could not suspect a friend."

Vivian suffered, at this instant, all the agony which a generous mind, conscious of guilt, could endure. He thought that the confusion of his mind must be visible in his countenance—his embarrassment was so great that he could not utter a word. Wharton did not seem to perceive his companion's agitation, but passed on carelessly to other subjects of conversation; and at length completely relieved Vivian from fear of immediate detection, by asking a favour from him—a pecuniary favour.

"All is safe—Mrs. Wharton, at least, is safe, thank Heaven!" thought Vivian. "Had her husband the slightest suspicion, he never would condescend to accept of any favour from me."

With eagerness, and almost with tears of gratitude, Vivian pressed upon Wharton the money which he condescended to borrow—it was no inconsiderable sum.

"Wharton!" cried he, "you sometimes talk freely—too freely; but you are, I am convinced, the most open-hearted, unsuspicious, generous fellow upon earth—you deserve a better friend than I am."

Unable any longer to suppress or conceal the emotions which struggled in his heart, he broke away abruptly, hurried home, shut himself up in his own apartment, and sat down immediately to write to Mrs. Wharton. The idea that Mrs. Wharton loved him in preference to all the fashionable coxcombs and wits by whom she was surrounded had insensibly raised our hero's opinion of her understanding so much, that he now imagined that the world laboured under a prejudice against her abilities. He gave himself credit for having discovered that this beauty was not a fool; and he now spoke and wrote to her as if she had been a woman of sense. With eloquence which might have moved a woman of genius, with delicacy that might have touched a woman of feeling, he conjured her to fortify his honourable resolutions; and thus, whilst it was yet time, to secure her happiness and his own. "Instead of writing this letter," added he in a postscript, "I ought, perhaps, to fly from you for ever; but that would show a want of confidence in you and in myself; and, besides, upon the most mature reflection, I think it best to stay, and wait upon you to-morrow as usual, lest, by my precipitation, I should excite suspicion in Wharton's mind."

The weak apprehension that Mrs. Wharton should betray herself by another fit of hysterics, if he should leave town, and if his departure should be suddenly announced to her by her husband, or by some common acquaintance, induced him to delay a few days longer, that he might prepare her mind by degrees, and convince her of the necessity for their absolute separation. When he had finished his letter to Mrs. Wharton, he was sufficiently well pleased with himself to venture to write to Miss Sidney. His letters to her had of late been short and constrained; but this was written with the full flow of affection. He was now in hopes that he should extricate himself honourably from his difficulties, and that he might at last claim his reward from Selina.



CHAPTER VI.

After he had despatched his two letters, he became excessively anxious to receive Mrs. Wharton's answer. By trifling but unavoidable accidents, it was delayed a few hours. At last it arrived; Vivian tore it open, and read with surprise these words:

"Your letter is just what I wished, and makes me the happiest of women—that is, if you are sincere—which, after all you've said, I can't doubt. I am so hurried by visitors, and annoyed, that I cannot write more; but shall have time to talk to-night at the opera."

At the opera Mrs. Wharton appeared in high spirits, and was dressed with more than usual elegance. It was observed that she had never been seen to look so beautiful. There was something in her manner that puzzled Vivian extremely; this extraordinary gaiety was not what he had reason to expect. "Is it possible," thought he, "that this woman is a mere coquette, who has been amusing herself at my expense all this time, and can now break off all connexion with me without a moment's regret?" Vivian's pride was piqued: though he wished to part from the lady, he could not bear that this parting should evidently cost her nothing. He was mortified beyond expression by the idea that he had been duped. After the opera was over, whilst Mrs. Wharton was waiting for her carriage, he had an opportunity of speaking to her without being overheard.

"I am happy," said he, with a constrained voice, "I am extremely happy to see you, madam, in such charming spirits to-night."

"But are not you a strange man to look so grave?" cried Mrs. Wharton. "I vow, I don't know what to make of you! But I believe you want to quarrel for the pleasure of making it up again. Now that won't do. By-the-bye, I have a quarrel with you, sir.—How came you to sign your name to that foolish stuff you wrote me yesterday? Never do so any more, I charge you, for fear of accidents. But what's the matter now?—You are a strange mortal!—Are you going to die upon the spot?—What is the matter?"

"My letter to you was not signed, I believe," said Vivian, in an altered voice.

"Indeed it was," said Mrs. Wharton. "It was signed Charles Vivian at full length. But why are you in such tremors about it? I only mentioned it to put you on your guard in future.—I've burnt the letter—people always get themselves into scrapes if they don't burn love-letters—as I've often heard Mr. Wharton say," added she, laughing.

To his unspeakable consternation, Vivian now discovered that he had sent the letter intended for Selina to Mrs. Wharton; and that which was designed for Mrs. Wharton he had directed to Miss Sidney. Vivian was so lost in thought, that the cry of "Mrs. Wharton's carriage stops the way!" was vociferated many times before he recovered sufficient presence of mind to hand the lady out of the house. He went home immediately, that he might reflect upon what was best to be done. His servant presently gave him a letter which a messenger had just brought from the country. The packet was from Selina.