"Enclosed, I return the letter which I received from you this morning. I read the first three lines of it before I perceived that it could not be intended for me—I went no farther.—I cannot help knowing for whom it was designed; but you may be assured that your secret shall be kept inviolably.—You have no reproaches to fear from me.—This is the last letter I shall ever write to you.—Leave it to me to explain my own conduct to my mother and to yours; if they think me capricious, I can bear it. I shall tell them that my sentiments are totally changed: I am sure I can say so with perfect truth.—Oh, Vivian, it is you who are to be pitied; every thing may be endured except remorse. Would to Heaven, I could save you from the reproaches of your own heart!—Adieu!

"SELINA SIDNEY."

The feelings of Vivian's mind, on reading this letter, cannot be described. Admiration, love, tenderness, remorse, successively seized upon his heart. Incapable of any distinct reflection, he threw himself upon his bed, and closed his eyes, endeavouring to compose himself to sleep, that he might forget his existence. But, motionless as he lay, the tumult of his mind continued unabated. His pulse beat high; and before morning he was in a fever. The dread that his mother should come to attend him, and to inquire into the cause of his illness, increased his agitation:—she came. Her kindness and anxiety were fresh torments to her unhappy son. Bitterly did he reproach himself as the cause of misery to those he loved and esteemed most in the world. He became delirious; and, whilst he was in this state, he repeated Mrs. Wharton's name sometimes in terms of endearment, sometimes in accents of execration. His mother's suspicions of his intrigue were confirmed by many expressions which burst from him, and which were thought by his attendants to be merely the ravings of fever. Lady Mary had, at this crisis, the prudence to conceal her doubts, and to keep every body, as much as possible, out of her son's apartment. In a few days his fever subsided, and he recovered to the clear recollection of all that had passed previously to his illness. He almost wished to be again delirious. The first time he was left alone, he rose from his bed, unlocked his bureau, and seized Selina's letter, which he read again and again, studying each line and word, as if he could draw from them every time a new meaning.

"She read but three lines of my letter," said he to himself; "then she only guesses that I have an intrigue with Mrs. Wharton, without knowing that in this very letter I used my utmost influence to recall Mrs. Wharton to—herself."

The belief that Selina thought worse of him than he deserved was some consolation to Vivian. He was resolved to recover her esteem: he determined to break off all connexion with Mrs. Wharton; and, full of this intention, he was impatient till the physicians permitted him to go abroad. When he was at last free from their dominion, had escaped from his chamber, and had just gained the staircase, he was stopped by his mother.

"Charles," said she, "before you quit me again, it is my duty to say a few words to you upon a subject of some importance."

Lady Mary led the way to her dressing-room with a dignified air; Vivian followed with a mixture of pride and alarm in his manner. From the bare idea of a maternal lecture his mind revolted: he imagined that she was going to repeat the remonstrance which she had formerly made against his intimacy with Mrs. Wharton, and against platonics in general; but he had not the least apprehension that she had discovered the whole truth: he was, therefore, both surprised and shocked, when she spoke to him in the following manner:

"The libertinism of the age in which we live has so far loosened all the bonds of society, and all the ties of nature, that I doubt not but a mother's anxiety for the morals of her son—her only son—the son over whose education she has watched from his infancy, may appear, even in his eyes, a fit subject for ridicule. I am well aware that my solicitude and my counsels have long been irksome to him, I have lost his affections by a steady adherence to my duty; but I shall persevere with the less reluctance, since the dread of my displeasure, or the hope of my approbation, cannot now touch his sensibility. During your illness, you have betrayed a secret—you have reason to start with horror. Is it possible that a son of mine, with the principles which I have endeavoured to instil into his mind, should become so far depraved? Do I live to hear, from his own lips, that he is the seducer of a married woman—and that woman the wife of his friend?"

Vivian walked up and down the room in great agony: his mother continued, with increased severity of manner, "I say nothing of your dissimulation with me, nor of all your platonic subterfuges—I know that, with a man of intrigue, falsehood is deemed a virtue. I shall not condescend to inquire farther into your guilty secrets—I now think myself fortunate in having no place in your confidence. But I here declare to you, in the most solemn manner, that I never will see you again until all connexion between you and Mrs. Wharton is utterly dissolved. I do not advise—I COMMAND, and must be obeyed—or I cast you off for ever."

Lady Mary left the room as she uttered these words. Her son was deeply struck with his mother's eloquence: he knew she was right, yet his pride was wounded by the peremptory severity of her manner:—his remorse and his good resolutions gave place to anger. The more he felt himself in the wrong, the less he could bear to be reproached by the voice of authority. Even because his mother commanded him to give up all connexion with Mrs. Wharton, he was inclined to disobey—he could not bear to seem to do right merely in compliance to her will. He went to visit Mrs. Wharton in a very different temper from that in which, half an hour before this conference with his mother, he had resolved to see the lady. Mrs. Wharton knew how to take advantage both of the weakness of his character and of the generosity of his temper. She fell into transports of grief when she found that Lady Mary Vivian and Miss Sidney were in possession of her secret. It was in vain that Vivian assured her that it would he kept inviolably; she persisted in repeating, "that her reputation was lost; that she had sacrificed every thing for a man who would, at last, desert her in the most treacherous and barbarous manner, leaving her at the mercy of her husband, the most profligate, hard-hearted tyrant upon earth. As to her being reconciled to him," she declared, "that was totally out of the question; his behaviour to her was such, that she could not live with him, even if her heart were not fatally prepossessed in favour of another." Her passions seemed wrought to the highest pitch. With all the eloquence of beauty in distress, she appealed to Vivian as her only friend; she threw herself entirely upon his protection; she vowed that she could not, would not, remain another day in the same house with Mr. Wharton; that her destiny, her existence, were at Vivian's mercy. Vivian had not sufficient fortitude to support this scene. He stood irresolute. The present temptation prevailed over his better resolutions. He was actually persuaded by this woman, whom he did not love, whom he could not esteem, to carry her off to the continent—whilst, at the very time, he admired, esteemed, and loved another. The plan of the elopement was formed and settled in a few minutes;—on Mrs. Wharton's part, apparently with all the hurry of passion; on Vivian's with all the confusion of despair. The same carriage, the very same horses, that had been ordered to carry our hero to his beloved Selina, conveyed him and Mrs. Wharton the first stage of their flight towards the continent. The next morning the following paragraph appeared in the newspapers:—

"Yesterday, the beautiful and fashionable Mrs. W——, whose marriage we announced last year to the celebrated Mr. W——, eloped from his house in St. James's-street, in company with C—— V——, member for ——shire. This catastrophe has caused the greatest sensation and astonishment in the circles of fashion; for the lady in question had always, till this fatal step, preserved the most unblemished reputation; and Mr. and Mrs. W—— were considered as models of conjugal felicity. The injured husband was attending his public duty in the House of Commons; and, as we are credibly informed, was, with patriotic ardour, speaking in his country's cause, when this unfortunate event, which for ever bereaves him of domestic happiness, took place. What must increase the poignancy of his feelings upon the occasion remains to be stated—that the seducer was his intimate friend, a young man, whom he had raised into notice in public life, and whom he had, with all that warmth and confidence of heart for which he is remarkable, introduced into his house, and trusted with his beloved wife. Mr. W—— is, we hear, in pursuit of the fugitives."



CHAPTER VII.

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

"TO THE REV. HENRY RUSSELL.

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

"I understand that W——, wherever he goes, calls me a coward, as well as a scoundrel; and says that I have kept out of the way to avoid fighting him. He is mistaken. It is true, I had the utmost dread of having his life to answer for—and nothing should have provoked me to fire upon him;—but I had determined how to act—I would have met him, and have stood his fire. I should not be sorry, at present, to be put out of the world; and would rather fall by his hand than by any other. But since this is out of the question, and that things have taken another turn, I have only to live, as long as it shall please God, a life of remorse—and, at least, to try to make the unfortunate woman who has thrown herself upon my protection as happy as I can.

"If you have any remaining regard for a pupil who has so disgraced you, do me one favour—Go to Miss Sidney, and give her what comfort you can. Say nothing for me, or of me, but that I wish her to forget me as soon as possible. She discarded me from her heart when she first discovered this intrigue—before this last fatal step. Still I had hopes of recovering her esteem and affection; for I had resolved—But no matter what I resolved—all my resolutions failed; and now I am utterly unworthy of her love. This, and all that is good and happy in life, all the fair hopes and virtuous promises of my youth, I must give up. Early as it is in my day, my sun has set. I truly desire that she should forget me; for you know I am bound in honour—Honour! How dare I use the word? I am bound, after the divorce, to marry the woman I have seduced. Oh, Russell! what a wife for your friend!—What a daughter-in-law for my poor mother, after all her care of my education—all her affection—all her pride in me!—It will break her heart! Mine will not break. I shall drag on, perhaps, to a miserable old age. I am of too feeble a nature to feel these things as strong minds would—as you will for me; but do not blame yourself for my faults. All that man could do for me, you did. This must be some consolation to you, my dear and excellent friend! May I still call you friend?—or have I no friend left upon earth?

"C. VIVIAN."

From this letter some idea may be formed of what this unhappy man suffered at this period of his life, from "the reflections of a mind not used to its own reproaches." The view of the future was as dreadful as the retrospect of the past. His thoughts continually dwelt upon the public trial which was preparing—before him he saw all its disgraceful circumstances. Then the horror of marrying, of passing his whole future existence with a woman whom he could not esteem or trust! These last were secret subjects of anxiety and anguish, the more intensely felt, because he could not speak of them to any human being. Such as Mrs. Wharton was, she was to be his wife; and he was called upon to defend her against reproach and insult,—if possible, from contempt. During the course of six weeks, which they spent together in exile at Brussels, Vivian became so altered in his appearance, that his most intimate friends could scarcely have known him; his worst enemies, if he had had any, could not have desired the prolongation of his sufferings.

One evening, as he was sitting alone in his hotel, ruminating bitter thoughts, a letter was brought to him from Mr. Russell; the first he had received since he left England. Every one, who has been absent from his friends in a foreign country, must know the sort of emotion which the bare sight of a letter from home excites; but, in Vivian's circumstances, abandoned as he felt himself, and deserving to be abandoned by his best friends, the sight of a letter from Russell so struck him, that he gazed upon the direction for some minutes, almost without power or wish to open it. At last he opened, and read, "Return to your country, your friends, and yourself, Vivian! Your day is not yet over! Your sun is not yet set!—Resume your energy—recover your self-confidence—carry your good resolutions into effect—and you may yet be an honour to your family, a delight to your fond mother, and the pride of your friend Russell. Your remorse has been poignant and sincere; let it be salutary and permanent in its consequences: this is the repentance which religion requires. The part of a man of sense and virtue is to make his past errors of use to his future conduct. Whilst I had nothing to say that could give you pleasure, I forbore to answer your letter; I forbore to overwhelm a mind sinking under remorse. My sacred duty is to waken the sinner to repentance, not to shut the gates of mercy on the penitent. Now, I can relieve your mind from part of the load by which it has been justly oppressed. You know that nothing can palliate your conduct in an intrigue with a married woman—from this I had hoped your moral and religious education would have preserved you. But of the premeditated guilt of deceiving the husband, and laying a plan to seduce the wife, I never suspected you; and I may now tell you, that you have not betrayed Mr. Wharton; he has betrayed you. You have not seduced Mrs. Wharton; you have been seduced by her. You are not bound to marry her—Wharton cannot obtain a divorce—he dare not bring the affair to trial; if he does, he is undone. There has been collusion between the parties. The proof of this you will find in the enclosed paper, which will be sworn to, in due legal form, whenever it is necessary. Even when you see them, you will scarcely believe these 'damning proofs' of Wharton's baseness. But I always knew, I always told you, that this pretence to honour and candour, frankness and friendship, with this avowed contempt of all principle and all virtue, could not be safe, could not he sincere, would not stand the test.—No—nothing should make me trust to the private honour of a man so corrupt in public life as Mr. Wharton. A man who sells his conscience for his interest will sell it for his pleasure. A man who will betray his country will betray his friend. It is in vain to palter with our conscience: there are not two honours—two honesties. How I rejoice at this moment, in the reflection that your character, as a public man, is yet untarnished You have still this great advantage:—feel its value. Return, and distinguish yourself among your countrymen: distinguish yourself by integrity still more than by talents. A certain degree of talents is now cheap in England: integrity is what we want—true patriotism, true public spirit, noble ambition not that vile scramble for places and pensions, which some men call ambition; not that bawling, brawling, Thersites character, which other men call public spirit; not that marketable commodity with which Wharton, and such as he, cheat popular opinion for a season;—but that fair virtue which will endure, and abide by its cause to the last; which, in place or out, shall be the same; which, successful or unsuccessful, shall sustain the possessor's character through all changes of party; which, whilst he lives, shall command respect from even the most profligate of his contemporaries; upon which, when he is dying, he may reflect with satisfaction; which, after his death, shall be the consolation of his friends, and the glory of his country. All this is yet in your power, Vivian.—Come, then, and fulfil the promise of your early years! Come, and restore to your mother a son worthy of her!—Come, and surpass the hopes of your true friend,

"H. RUSSELL."

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

The same post which brought Vivian this woman's deposition and Russell's letter brought Mrs. Wharton notice that the whole plan of collusion was discovered: she was therefore prepared for Vivian's reproaches, and received the first burst of his astonishment and indignation with a studied Magdalen expression of countenance: then she attempted a silly apology, laying all the blame on her husband, and vowing that she had acted under terror, and that her life would not have been safe in his hands if she had not implicitly obeyed and executed his horrid plans. She wept and kneeled in vain. Finding Vivian immoveable in his purpose to return immediately to England, she suddenly rose from her knees, and, all beautiful as she was, looked in Vivian's eyes like a fiend, whilst, with an unnatural smile, she said to him, "You see, fool as I am thought to be, I have been too clever for some people; and I can tell Mr. Wharton that I have been too clever for him too. His heart is set upon a divorce; but he can't have it. He can't marry Miss P——, nor yet her fortune, nor ever shall! I shall remain at Brussels—I have friends here—and friends who were my friends before I was forced to give my hand to Mr. Wharton, or my smiles to you, sir!—people who will not tease me with talking of remorse and repentance, and such ungallant, ungentlemanlike stuff; nor sit bewailing themselves, like a country parson, instead of dashing out with me here in a fashionable style, as a man of any spirit would have done. But you!—you're neither good nor bad; and no woman will ever love you, nor ever did. Now you know my whole mind."

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

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

The words, "and no woman will ever love you, nor ever, did," rung upon Vivian's ear. "There she is mistaken, thank Heaven!" said he to himself: yet the words still dwelt upon his mind, and gave him exquisite pain. Upon looking again at Russell's letter, he observed that Selina Sidney's name was never mentioned; that she was neither directly nor indirectly alluded to in the whole letter. What omen to draw from this he could not divine. Again he read it; and all that Russell said of public life, and his exhortations to him to come and distinguish himself in public and in the political world, struck him in a new light. It seemed as if Russell was sensible that, there were no farther hopes of Selina, and that therefore he tried to turn Vivian's mind from love to ambition. Fourteen times he read over this letter before he reached England; but he could not discover from it any thing as to the point on which his heart was most interested. He reached London in this, uncertainty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you no longer love me, Selina? Now, after all I have suffered, you have the cruelty to tell me so? And you, who could form my character to every thing that is good and honourable; you, who alone could restore me to myself—you reject, you cast me from you for ever?"

"I have suffered much," said Selina, in a trembling voice, "since we parted."

Vivian's eye quickly ran over her face and whole form as she spoke these words; and he saw, indeed, traces of sickness and suffering: with the idea of his power over her affections, his hopes revived; he seized the feeble hand, which lay motionless; but she withdrew it decidedly, and his hopes again forsook him, when she gently raised her head, and continued to speak, "I have suffered much since we parted, Mr. Vivian; and I hope you will spare me unnecessary and useless pain in this interview: painful to a certain degree it must be to both of us; for I cannot, even now that all feelings of passion have subsided, and that the possibility of my being united to you is past, tell you so, with all the composure which I had expected to do; nor with all the firmness of voice and manner which is necessary, perhaps, to convince you of the truth, and to restore your mind to itself."

"The possibility of my being united to you is past!—Why?" interrupted Vivian, incapable of understanding or listening to any thing else, till this question was answered.

"Do not force me to what may seem like cruel reproach; but let it suffice for me to say, that my sentiments have been so much altered by a year's experience, that it is impossible for me ever to become your wife. My love was founded on esteem. I had, indeed, always fears of the instability of your character; therefore, I put your resolution to the proof: the event has proved to me that my fears were but too just. I speak with difficulty; for I cannot easily give you so much pain as I know that I am inflicting at this moment. But," resumed she, in a more resolute tone, "it is absolutely necessary for your future peace of mind, as well as for my own, that I should convince you I am sincere, perfectly sincere, at this moment; that I know my own heart; that my determination has not been hastily formed, and cannot be altered. The deliberate manner in which I now speak to you will, I hope, persuade you of this truth. And if I have hesitated, or showed any agitation in this interview, attribute it to its real cause—the weakness of my health; feebleness of body, not of mind."

She rose to leave the room; but Vivian detained her, beseeching her, with all the eloquence of passion in despair, to hear him but for one moment; whilst he urged that there was no probability of his ever relapsing into errors from which he had suffered so much; that now his character was formed by adversity; and that such was the power which Selina possessed over his heart, that a union with her would, at this crisis, decide his fate; that her steadiness would give stability to his resolutions; and that his gratitude would so increase his affection, that he should have the strongest possible motives to make her a good husband; that when he was happy in domestic life, he should feel every energy of his mind revive; that he should exert all his powers to distinguish himself, and to justify the choice of the woman he adored,

In spite of the word adored, which has usually such power to confound female judgment, Selina perceived that all he said was merely a repetition of his former arguments, of which experience had proved the insufficiency. She was aware that, if before marriage his resolution and constancy had not been able to support the trial, it would be folly or madness to marry him with the vague hope that she might reform his character. She therefore continued steady to her resolution; and as she found that Vivian's disappointment was greater than she had expected, she immediately withdrew from his mother's house. The next morning, when Vivian came to breakfast, after having spent a sleepless night, planning new arguments or new intreaties in favour of his love, he found that Miss Sidney was gone. His mother and his friend Russell joined in representing to him that it would be useless to follow her, that it would only give himself and Selina unavailing pain. Vivian felt this stroke severely. His mind was, as it were, adrift again. After the first violence of his feelings had spent itself, and when he sunk into that kind of apathy which is the consequence of exhausted passion, his friend Russell endeavoured to excite him to honourable ambition. Vivian caught the idea, that if he distinguished himself in public life, and if he there displayed any steadiness of character, he might win back Selina's esteem and affection. Fired with this hope, he immediately turned his whole mind to the object; applied with indefatigable ardour, day and night, to make himself master of the subjects likely to be discussed in the ensuing session of parliament. At length his application and his energy were crowned with success. On a question of considerable political importance, which he had carefully considered, he made an excellent speech; a speech which directly made him of consequence in the house; which, in the language of the newspapers, "was received with unbounded applause, was distinguished for strength of argument, lucid order, and a happy choice of expression." But what encouraged our hero more than newspaper puffs or party panegyrics was the approbation of his friend Russell. Russell never praised violently; but a few words, or even a look of satisfaction from him, went farther than the most exaggerated eulogiums from others. Vivian pursued his course for some time with honour and increasing reputation. There was one man who never joined in any of the compliments paid to the rising orator; there was one man who always spoke of him with contempt, who pronounced that "Vivian would never go far in politics—that it was not in him—that he was too soft—que c'etoit batir sur de la boue, que de compter sur lui." This depreciator and enemy of Vivian was the man who, but a few months before, had been his political proneur and unblushing flatterer, Mr. Wharton. Exasperated by the consciousness of his own detected baseness, and provoked still more by his being frustrated in all his schemes, Wharton now practised every art that a malicious and unprincipled wit could devise to lower the opinion of Vivian's talents, and to prevent his obtaining either power or celebrity. Our hero was stimulated by this conduct to fresh exertions. So far Wharton's enmity was of service to him; but it was of disservice, by changing, in some measure, the purity of the motives from which he acted. With love and honourable ambition now mixed hatred, thoughts of vengeance, views of vulgar vanity and interest: he thought more of contradicting Mr. Wharton's prophecies than of fulfilling his own ideas of what was fair and right. He was anxious to prove, that he could "go far in politics, that it was in him, that he was not too soft, and that it was not building on mud to depend on him." These indefinite expressions operated powerfully and perniciously on his imagination. To prove that Wharton was mistaken in his prognostics, it was necessary to our hero to obtain the price and stamp of talents—it was essential to gain political power; and this could not be attained without joining a party. Vivian joined the party then in opposition. Wharton and he, though both in opposition, of course, after what had passed, could never meet in any private company; nor had they any communication in public, though on the same side of the question: their enmity was so great, that not only the business of the nation, but even the interests of their party, were often impeded by their quarrels. In the midst of these disputes, Vivian insensibly adopted more and more of the language and principles of the public men with whom he daily associated. He began to hear and talk of compensations and jobs, as they did; and to consider all measures proved to be necessary for the support of his party as expedient, if not absolutely right. His country could not be saved, unless be and his friends could obtain the management of affairs; and no men, be found, could gain parliamentary influence, or raise themselves into political power, without acting as a body. Then, of course, all subordinate points of right were to be sacrificed to the great good of promoting the views of the party. Still, however, his patriotism was upon the whole pure; he had no personal views of interest, no desire even to be in place, independently of a wish to promote the good of his country. Secret overtures were, about this time, made to him by government; and inquiries were made if there was any thing which could gratify him, or by which he could be induced to lay aside his opposition, and to assist in supporting their measures. Many compliments to his talents and eloquence, and all the usual commonplaces, about the expediency and propriety of strengthening the hands of government, were, of course, added. Something specific was at length mentioned: it was intimated, that as he was of an ancient family, it might gratify him that his mother should be made a baroness in her own right. The offer was declined, and the temptation was firmly withstood by our hero; his credit was now at its acme with his own coadjutors. Lady Mary whispered the circumstance, as a state secret, to all her acquaintance; and Russell took care that Miss Sidney should hear of it.

Vivian was now cited as an incorruptible patriot. Wharton's malice, and even his wit, was almost silenced; yet he was heard to say, amidst the din of applause, "This is only the first offer; he is in the right to make a show of resistance: he will coquet for a time, and keep philandering on till he suits himself, and then he'll jilt us, you'll see."

Such speeches, though they reached Vivian's ear by the kind officiousness of friends, were never made by Mr. Wharton so directly that he could take hold of them; and Russell strenuously advised him not to seek occasion to quarrel with a man who evidently desired only to raise his own reputation by making Vivian angry, getting him in the wrong, and forcing him into an imprudent duel.

"Let your actions continue to contradict his words, and they can never injure you," said Russell.

For some time Vivian adhered to his friend's advice, and he proudly felt the superiority of principle and character. But, alas! there was one defence that his patriotism wanted—economy. Whilst he was thus active in the public cause, and exulting in his disinterestedness, his private affairs were getting into terrible disorder. The expense of building his castle had increased beyond all his calculations—the expense of his election—the money he had lost at play whilst he was in Wharton's society—the sums he had lent to Wharton—the money he had spent abroad,—all these accumulated brought him to great difficulties: for though his estate was considerable, yet it was so settled and tied up that he could neither sell nor mortgage. His creditors became clamorous—he had no means of satisfying or quieting them: an execution was actually sent down to his castle, just as it was finished. Lady Mary Vivian was in the greatest alarm and distress: she had no means of extricating her son. As to his fashionable friends—no hopes from such extravagant and selfish beings. What was to be done? At this critical moment, the offers from a certain quarter were renewed in another, and, as it seemed, a more acceptable form,—a pension was proffered instead of a title; and it was promised that the business should be so managed, and the pension so held in another name, that nothing of the transaction should transpire; and that his seceding from opposition should be made to appear a change of sentiments from conviction, not from interested motives. Vivian's honourable feelings revolted from these offers, and abhorred these subterfuges; but distress—pecuniary distress! he had never before felt its pressure; he had never till now felt how powerful, how compulsatory it is over even generous and high-spirited souls. Whilst Vivian was thus oppressed with difficulties, which his imprudence had brought upon him; whilst his mind was struggling with opposing motives, he was, most fortunately for his political integrity, relieved, partly by accident, and partly by friendship. It happened that the incumbent of the rich living, of which Vivian had the presentation, was dying just at this time; and Russell, instead of claiming the living which Vivian had promised to him, relinquished all pretensions to it, and insisted upon his friend's disposing of his right of presentation. The sum which this enabled Vivian to raise was fully sufficient to satisfy the execution which had been laid on his castle; and the less clamorous creditors were content to be paid by instalments, annually, from his income. Thus he was saved for the present; and he formed the most prudent resolves for the future. He was most sincerely grateful to his disinterested friend. The full extent of the sacrifice which Russell made him was not, however, known at this time, nor for some years afterwards.

But, without anticipation, let us proceed with our story. Amongst those fashionable and political friends with whom our hero had, since his return to England, renewed his connexion, was my Lord Glistonbury. His lordship, far from thinking the worse of him for his affair with Mrs. Wharton, spoke of it in modish slang, as "a new and fine feather in his cap;" and he congratulated Vivian upon his having "carried off the prize without paying the price." Vivian's success as a parliamentary orator had still further endeared him to his lordship, who failed not to repeat, that he had always prophesied Vivian would make a capital figure in public life; that Vivian was his member, &c. At the recess, Lord Glistonbury insisted upon carrying Vivian down to spend the holidays with him at Glistonbury Castle.

"You must come, Vivian: so make your fellow put your worldly goods into my barouche, which is at the door; and we are to have a great party at Glistonbury, and private theatricals, and the devil knows what; and you must see my little Julia act, and I must introduce you to the Rosamunda. Come, come! you can't refuse me!—Why, you have only a bachelor's castle of your own to go to; and that's a dismal sort of business, compared with what I have in petto for you—'the feast of reason, and the flow of soul,' in the first style, I assure you. You must know, I always—even in the midst of the wildest of my wild oats—had a taste for the belles-lettres, and philosophy, and the muses, and the literati, and so forth—always a touch of the Mecaenas about me.—And now my boy's growing up, it's more particularly proper to bring these sort of people about him; for, you know, clever men who have a reputation can sound a flourish of trumpets advantageously before 'a Grecian youth of talents rare' makes his appearance on the stage of the great world—Ha! hey!—Is not this what one may call prudence?—Ha!— Good to have a father who knows something of life, and of books too, hey? Then, for my daughters, too—daughter, I mean; for Lady Sarah's Lady Glistonbury's child: her ladyship and Miss Strictland have manufactured her after their own taste and fashion; and I've nothing to say to that—But my little Julia—Ah, I've got a different sort of governess about her these few months past—not without family battles, you may guess. But when Jupiter gives the nod, you know, even Juno, stately as she is, must bend. So I have my Rosamunda for my little Julia—who, by-the-bye, is no longer my little Julia, but a prodigious fine woman, as you shall see. But, all this time, is your fellow putting your things up? No!—Hey? how? Oh, I understand your long face of hesitation—you have not seen the ladies since the Wharton affair, and you don't know how they might look.—Never fear! Lady Glistonbury shall do as I please, and look as I please. Besides, entre nous, I know she hates the Whartons; so that her morality will have a loophole to creep out of; and you'll be safe and snug, whilst all the blame will be thrown on them—Hey!—Oh, I understand things—pique myself on investigating the human heart. Come, we have not a moment to lose; and you'll have your friend Russell, too—Come, come! to have and to hold, as the lawyers say—"

Seizing Vivian's arm, Lord Glistonbury carried him off before he had half understood all his lordship had poured forth so rapidly; and before he had decided whether he wished or not to accept of this invitation.



CHAPTER VIII.

On his way to Glistonbury Castle, Vivian had full leisure to repent of having accepted of this invitation, recollecting, as he did, all the former reports about himself and Lady Sarah Lidhurst. He determined, therefore, that his visit should be as short as possible; and the chief pleasure he promised himself was the society of his friend Russell.

On his arrival at the castle, he was told that Mr. Russell was out riding; and that every body else was in the theatre at a rehearsal, except Lady Glistonbury, the Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland. He found these three ladies sitting in form in the great deserted drawing-room, each looking like a copy of the other, and all as if they were deploring the degeneracy of the times. Vivian approached with due awe; but, to his great surprise and relief, at his approach their countenances exhibited some signs of life. Lord Glistonbury presented him on his return from abroad: Lady Glistonbury's features relaxed to a smile, though she seemed immediately to repent of it, and to feel it incumbent upon her to maintain her rigidity of mien. Whilst she, and of course Miss Strictland and the Lady Sarah, were thus embarrassed between the necessity of reprobating the sin, and the desire of pleasing the sinner, Lord Glistonbury ran on with one of his speeches, of borrowed sense and original nonsense, and then would have carried him off to the rehearsal, but Lady Glistonbury called Vivian back, begging, in her formal manner, "that her lord would do her the favour to leave Mr. Vivian with her for a few minutes, as it was so long since she had the pleasure of seeing him at Glistonbury." Vivian returned with as good a grace as he could; and, to find means of breaking the embarrassing silence that ensued, took up a book which lay upon the table, "Toplady's Sermons"—no hope of assistance from that: he had recourse to another—equally unlucky, "Wesley's Diary:" another—"The Pilgrim's Progress." He went no farther; but, looking up, he perceived that the Lady Sarah was motioned by her august mother to leave the room. Vivian had again recourse to "Toplady."

"Very unfashionable books, Mr. Vivian," said Miss Strictland, bridling and smiling as in scorn.

"Very unfashionable books!" repeated Lady Glistonbury, with the same inflection of voice, and the same bridling and smiling. "Very different," continued her ladyship, "very different from what you have been accustomed to see on some ladies' tables, no doubt, Mr. Vivian! Without mentioning names, or alluding to transactions that ought to be buried in eternal oblivion, and that are so very distressing to your friends here to think of, sir, give me leave to ask, Mr. Vivian, whether it be true what I have heard, that the prosecution, and every thing relative to it, is entirely given up?"

"Entirely, madam."

"Then," said Lady Glistonbury, glancing her eye at Miss Strictland, "we may welcome Mr. Vivian with safe consciences to Glistonbury; and since the affair will never become public, and since Lady Sarah knows none of the improper particulars; and since she may, and, from her education, naturally will, class all such things under the head of impossibilities and false reports, of which people, in our rank of life especially, are subject every hour to hear so many; there cannot, as I am persuaded you will agree with me in thinking, Miss Strictland, be any impropriety in our and Lady Sarah's receiving Mr. Vivian again on the same footing as formerly."

Miss Strictland bowed her formal assent: Vivian bowed, because he saw that a bow was expected from him; and then he pondered on what might be meant by the words, on the same footing as formerly; and he had just framed a clause explanatory and restrictive of the same, when he was interrupted by the sound of laughter, and of numerous, loud, and mingled voices, coming along the gallery that led to the drawing-room. As if these were signals for her departure, and as if she dreaded the intrusion and contamination of the revel rout, Lady Glistonbury arose, looked at her watch, pronounced her belief that it was full time for her to go to dress, and retired through a Venetian door, followed by Miss Strictland, repeating the same belief, and bearing her ladyship's tapestry work: her steps quickened as the door at the opposite end of the room opened; and, curtsying (an unnecessary apology to Mr. Vivian) as she passed, she left him to himself. And now,

"He sees a train profusely gay, Come pranckling o'er the place."

Some were dressed for comic, some for tragic characters; but all seemed equally gay, and talked equally fast. There had been a dressed rehearsal of "The Fair Penitent," and of "The Romp;" and all the spectators and all the actors were giving and receiving exuberant compliments. Vivian knew many of the party,—some of them bel-esprits, some fashionable amateurs; all pretenders to notoriety, either as judges or performers. In the midst of this motley group, there was one figure who stood receiving and expecting universal homage: she was dressed as "The Fair Penitent;" but her affected vivacity of gesture and countenance was in striking contrast to her tragic attire; and Vivian could hardly forbear smiling at the minauderies with which she listened and talked to the gentlemen round her; now languishing, now coquetting; rolling her eyes, and throwing herself into a succession of studied attitudes, dealing repartees to this side and to that; and, in short, making the greatest possible exhibition both of her person and her mind.

"Don't you know her? Did you never see her before?—No! you've been out of England; but you've heard of her, certainly?—Rosamunda," —whispered Lord Glistonbury to Vivian.

"And who is Rosamunda?" said Vivian; "an actress."

"Actress!—Hush!—Bless you! no—but the famous poetess. Is it possible that you hav'n't read the poems of Rosamunda?—They were in every body's hands a few months ago; but you were abroad—better engaged, or as well, hey? But, as I was going to tell you, that's the reason she's called The Rosamunda—I gave her the name, for I patronized her from the first. Her real name is Bateman; and Lady Glistonbury and her set call her Miss Bateman still, but nobody else. She's an amazing clever woman, I assure you—more genius than any of 'em since the time of Rousseau!—Devil of a salary!—and devil of a battle I had to fight with some of my friends before I could fix her here; but I was determined I would follow my own ideas in Julia's education. Lady Glistonbury had her way and her routine with Lady Sarah; and it's all very well, vastly well—

'Virtue for her too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever.'

You know the sort of thing! Yes, yes; but I was not content to have my Julia lost among the mediocres, as I call them: so I took her out of Miss Strictland's hands; and the Rosamunda's her governess."

"Her governess!" repeated Vivian, with uncontrollable astonishment; "Lady Julia Lidhurst's governess!"

"Yes, you may well be surprised," pursued Lord Glistonbury, mistaking the cause of the surprise: "no one in England could have done it but myself; she refused innumerable applications,—immense offers; and, after all, you know, she does not appear as governess titree—only as a friend of the family, who directs Lady Julia Lidhurst's literary talents. Oh, you understand, a man of the world knows how to manage these things—sacrifices always to the vanity of the sex, or the pride, as the case may be, I never mind names, but things, as the metaphysicians say—distinguish betwixt essentials and accidents—sound philosophy that, hey? And, thank Heaven! a gentleman or a nobleman need not apologize in these days for talking of philosophy before ladies, even if any body overheard us, which, as it happens, I believe nobody does. So let me, now that you know your Paris, introduce you to 'The Rosamunda.'—Mr. Vivian—the Rosamunda. Rosamunda—Mr. Vivian."

After Vivian had for a few minutes acted audience, very little to his own satisfaction, he was relieved by Lord Glistonbury's exclaiming, "But Julia! where's Julia all this time?"

Rosamunda looked round, with the air of one interrupted by a frivolous question which requires no answer; but some one less exalted, and more attentive to the common forms of civility, told his lordship that Lady Julia was in the gallery with her brother. Lord Glistonbury hurried Vivian into the gallery. He was struck the moment he met Lady Julia with the great change and improvement in her appearance. Instead of the childish girl he had formerly seen flying about, full only of the frolic of the present moment, he now saw a fine graceful woman with a striking countenance that indicated both genius and sensibility. She was talking to her brother with so much eagerness, that she did not see Vivian come into the gallery; and, as he walked on towards the farther end, where she was standing, he had time to admire her.

"A fine girl, faith! though she is my daughter," whispered Lord Glistonbury; "and would you believe that she is only sixteen?"

"Only sixteen!"

"Ay: and stay till you talk to her—stay till you hear her—you will be more surprised. Such genius! such eloquence! She's my own girl. Well, Julia, my darling!" cried he, raising his voice, "in the clouds, as usual?"

Lady Julia started—but it was a natural, not a theatric start— colouring at the consciousness of her own absence of mind. She came forward with a manner that apologized better than words could do, and she received Mr. Vivian so courteously, and with such ingenuous pleasure in her countenance, that he began to rejoice in having accepted the invitation to Glistonbury; at the same instant, he recollected a look which his mother had given him when he first saw Lady Julia on the terrace of the castle.

"Well, what was she saying to you, Lidhurst? hey! my boy?"

"We were arguing, sir."

"Arguing! Ay, ay, she's the devil for that!—words at will!—'Persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs!' Ah, woman! woman for ever! always talking us out of our senses! and which of the best of us would not wish it to be so? 'Oh! let me, let me be deceived!' is the cream of philosophy, epicurean and stoic—at least, that's my creed. But to the point: what was it about that she was holding forth so charmingly—a book or a lover? A book, I'll wager: she's such a romantic little fool, and so unlike other women: leaves all her admirers there in the drawing-room, and stays out here, talking over musty books with her brother. But come, what was the point? I will have it argued again before me—Let's see the book."

Lord Lidhurst pointed out a speech in "The Fair Penitent," and said that they had been debating about the manner in which it should be recited. Lord Glistonbury called upon his daughter to repeat it: she showed a slight degree of unaffected timidity at first; but when her father stamped and bid her let him see no vulgar bashfulness, she obeyed—recited charmingly—and, when urged by a little opposition from her brother, grew warm in defence of her own opinion—displayed in its support such sensibility, with such a flow of eloquence, accompanied with such animated and graceful, yet natural gesture, that Vivian was transported with sudden admiration. He was astonished at this early development of feeling and intellect; and if, in the midst of his delight, he felt some latent disapprobation of this display of talent from so young a woman, yet he quickly justified her to himself, by saying that he was not a stranger; that he had formerly been received by her family on a footing of intimacy. Then he observed farther, in her vindication, that there was not the slightest affectation or coquetry in any of her words or motions; that she spoke with this eagerness not to gain admiration, but because she was carried away by her enthusiasm, and, thoughtless of herself, was eager only to persuade and to make her opinions prevail. Such was the enchantment of her eloquence and her beauty, that after a quarter of an hour spent in her company, our hero did not know whether to wish that she had more sedateness and reserve, or to rejoice that she was so animated and natural. Before he could decide this point, his friend Russell returned from riding. After the first greetings were over, Russell drew him aside, and asked, "Pray, my dear Vivian, what brings you here?"

"Lord Glistonbury—to whom I had not time to say no, he talked so fast. But, after all, why should I say no? I am a free man—a discarded lover. I am absolutely convinced that Selina Sidney's refusal will never be retracted; my mother, I know, is of that opinion. You suggested, that if I distinguished myself in public life, and showed steadiness, I might recover her esteem and affection; but I see no chance of it. My mother showed me her last letter—no hopes from that—so I think it would be madness, or folly, to waste my time, and wear out my feelings, in pursuit of a woman, who, however amiable, is lost to me."

"Of that you are the best judge," said Russell, gravely. "I am far from wishing—from urging you to waste your time. Lady Mary Vivian must know more of Miss Sidney, and be better able to judge of the state of her heart than I can be. It would not be the part of a friend to excite you to persevere in a pursuit that would end in disappointment; but this much, before we quit the subject for ever, I feel it my duty to say—that I think Miss Sidney the woman of all others the best suited to your character, the most deserving of your love, the most calculated to make you exquisitely and permanently happy."

"All that's very true," said Vivian, impatiently; "but, since I can't have her, why make me miserable about her?"

"Am I to understand," resumed Russell, after a long pause, "am I to understand that, now you have regained your freedom, you come here with the settled purpose of espousing the Lady Sarah Lidhurst?"

"Heaven forfend!" cried Vivian, starting back.

"Then I am to go over again, on this subject, with indefatigable patience and in due logical order, all the arguments, moral, prudential, and conventional, which I had the labour of laying before you about a twelvemonth ago."

"Save yourself the trouble, my dear friend!" said Vivian; "I shall set all that upon a right footing immediately, by speaking of the report at once to some of the family. I was going to rise to explain this morning, when I was with Lady Glastonbury; but I felt a sort of delicacy—it was an awkward time—and at that moment somebody came into the room."

"Ay," said Russell, "you are just like the hero of a novel, stopped from saying what he ought to say by somebody's coming into the room.—Awkward time! Take care you don't sacrifice yourself at last to these awkwardnesses and this sort of delicacies. I have still my fears that you will get into difficulties about Lady Sarah."

Vivian could not help laughing at what he called his friend's absurd fears.

"If you are determined, my dear Russell, at all events to fear for me, I'll suggest to you a more reasonable cause of dread. Suppose I should fall desperately in love with Lady Julia!—I assure you there's some danger of that. She is really very handsome and very graceful; uncommonly clever and eloquent—as to the rest, you know her—what is she?"

"All that you have said, and more. She might be made any thing—every thing; an ornament to her sex—an honour to her country—were she under the guidance of persons fit to direct great powers and a noble character; but yet I cannot, Vivian, as your friend, recommend her to you as a wife."

"I am not thinking of her as a wife," said Vivian: "I have not had time to think of her at all yet. But you said, just now, that in good hands she might be made every thing that is good and great. Why not by a husband, instead of a governess? and would not you call mine good hands?"

"Good, but not steady—not at all the husband fit to guide such a woman. He must be a man not only of superior sense, but of superior strength of mind."

Vivian was piqued by this remark, and proceeded to compare the fitness of his character to such a character as Lady Julia's. Every moment he showed more curiosity to hear further particulars of her disposition; of the different characters of her governesses, and of all her relations; but Russell refused to say more. He had told him what he was called upon, as his friend, to reveal; he left the rest to Vivian's own observation and judgment. Vivian set himself to work to observe and judge with all his might.

He soon perceived that all Russell had told him of the mismanagement of Lady Julia's education was true. In this house there were two parties, each in extremes, and each with their systems and practice carried to the utmost excess. The partisans of the old and the new school were here to be seen at daggers-drawing. Lady Glastonbury, abhorrent of what she termed modern philosophy, and classing under that name almost all science and literature, especially all attempts to cultivate the understanding of women, had, with the assistance of her double, Miss Strictland, brought up Lady Sarah in all the ignorance and all the rigidity of the most obsolete of the old school; she had made Lady Sarah precisely like herself; with virtue, stiff, dogmatical, and repulsive; with religion, gloomy and puritanical; with manners, cold and automatic. In the course of eighteen years, whilst Lady Glistonbury went on, like clock-work, the same round, punctual to the letter but unfeeling of the spirit of her duties, she contrived, even by the wearisome method of her minuted diary of education, to make her house odious to her husband. Some task, or master, or hour of lesson, continually, and immitigably plagued him: he went abroad for amusement, and found dissipation. Thus, by her unaccommodating temper, and the obstinacy of her manifold virtues, she succeeded in alienating the affections of her husband. In despair he one day exclaimed,

"Ah que de vertus vous me faites hair;"

and, repelled by virtue in this ungracious form, he flew to more attractive vice. Finding that he could not have any comfort or solace in the society of his wife, he sought consolation in the company of a mistress. Lady Glistonbury had, in the mean time, her consolation in being a pattern-wife; and in hearing that at card-tables it was universally said, that Lord Glistonbury was the worst of husbands, and that her ladyship was extremely to be pitied. In process of time, Lord Glistonbury was driven to his home again by the united torments of a virago mistress and the gout. It was at this period that he formed the notion of being at once a political leader and a Mecaenas; and it was at this period that he became acquainted with both his daughters, and determined that his Julia should never resemble the Lady Sarah. He saw his own genius in Julia; and he resolved, as he said, to give her fair play, and to make her one of the wonders of the age. After some months' counteraction and altercation, Lord Glistonbury, with a high hand, took his daughter from under the control of Miss Strictland; and, in spite of all the representations, prophecies, and denunciations of her mother, consigned Julia to the care of a governess after his own heart—a Miss Bateman; or, as he called her, The Rosamunda. From the moment this lady was introduced into the family there was an irreconcileable breach between the husband and wife. Lady Glistonbury was perfectly in the right in her dread of such a governess as Miss Bateman for her daughter. Her ladyship was only partially and accidentally right: right in point of fact, but wrong in the general principle; for she objected to Miss Bateman, as being of the class of literary women; to her real faults, her inordinate love of admiration, and romantic imprudence, Lady Glistonbury did not object, because she did not at first know them; and when she did, she considered them but as necessary consequences of the cultivation and enlargement of Miss Bateman's understanding. "No wonder!" her ladyship would say; "I knew it must be so; I knew it could not be otherwise. All those clever women, as they are called, are the same. This comes of literature and literary ladies."

Thus moralizing in private with Miss Strictland and her own small party, Lady Glistonbury appeared silent and passive before her husband and his adherents. After prophesying how it all must end in the ruin of her daughter Julia, she declared that she would never speak on this subject again: she showed herself ready, with maternal resignation, and in silent obduracy, to witness the completion of the sacrifice of her devoted child.

Lord Glistonbury was quite satisfied with having silenced opposition. His new governess, established in her office, and with full and unlimited powers, went on triumphant and careless of her charge; she thought of little but displaying her own talents in company. The castle was consequently filled with crowds of amateurs; novels and plays were the order of the day; and a theatre was fitted up, all in open defiance of poor Lady Glistonbury. The daughter commenced her new course of education by being taught to laugh at her mother's prejudices. Such was the state of affairs when Vivian commenced his observations; and all this secret history he learnt by scraps, and hints, and inuendoes, from very particular friends of both parties—friends who were not troubled with any of Mr. Russell's scruples or discretion.

Vivian's attention was now fixed upon Lady Julia; he observed with satisfaction, that, notwithstanding her governess's example and excitement, Lady Julia did not show any exorbitant desire for general admiration; and that her manners were free from coquetry and affectation: she seemed rather to disdain the flattery, and to avoid both the homage and the company of men who were her inferiors in mental qualifications; she addressed her conversation principally to Vivian and his friend Russell; with them, indeed, she conversed a great deal, with much eagerness and enthusiasm, expressing all her opinions without disguise, and showing on most occasions more imagination than reason, and more feeling than judgment. Vivian perceived that it was soon suspected by many of their observers, and especially by Lady Glistonbury and the Lady Sarah, that Julia had a design upon his heart; but he plainly discerned that she had no design whatever to captivate him; and that though she gave him so large a share of her company, it was without thinking of him as a lover: he saw that she conversed with him and Mr. Russell, preferably to others, because they spoke on subjects which interested her more; and because they drew out her brother, of whom she was very fond. Her being capable, at so early an age, to appreciate Russell's character and talents; her preferring his solid sense and his plain sincerity to the brilliancy, the fashion, and even the gallantry of all the men whom her father had now collected round her, appeared to Vivian the most unequivocal proof of the superiority of her understanding and of the goodness of her disposition. On various occasions, he marked with delight the deference she paid to his friend's opinion, and the readiness with which she listened to reason from him—albeit unused and averse from reason in general. Impatient as she was of control, and confident, both in her own powers and in her instinctive moral sense (about which, by-the-bye, she talked a great deal of eloquent nonsense), yet a word or a look from Mr. Russell would reclaim her in her highest flights. Soon after Vivian commenced his observations upon this interesting subject, he saw an instance of what Russell had told him of the ease with which Lady Julia might be guided by a man of sense and strength of mind.

The tragedy of "The Fair Penitent," Calista by Miss Bateman, was represented with vast applause to a brilliant audience at the Glistonbury theatre. The same play was to be reacted a week afterwards to a fresh audience—it was proposed that Vivian should play Lothario, and that Lady Julia should play Calista: Miss Bateman saw no objection to this proposal: Lord Glistonbury might, perhaps, have had the parental prudence to object to his daughter's appearing in public at her age, in such a character, before a mixed audience: but, unfortunately, Lady Glistonbury bursting from her silence at this critical moment, said so much, and in such a prosing and puritanical manner, not only against her daughter's acting in this play, and in these circumstances, but against all stage plays, playwrights, actors, and actresses whatsoever, denouncing and anathematizing them all indiscriminately; that immediately Lord Glistonbury laughed—Miss Bateman took fire—and it became a trial of power between the contending parties. Lady Julia, who had but lately escaped from the irksomeness of her mother's injudicious and minute control, dreaded, above all things, to be again subjected to her and Miss Strictland; therefore, without considering the real propriety or impropriety of the point in question, without examining whether Miss Bateman was right or wrong in the licence she had granted, Lady Julia supported her opinion warmly; and, with all her eloquence, at once asserted her own liberty, and defended the cause of the theatre in general. She had heard Mr. Russell once speak of the utility of a well-regulated public stage; of the influence of good theatric representations in forming the taste and rousing the soul to virtue: he had shown her Marmontel's celebrated letter to Rousseau on this subject; consequently, she thought she knew what his opinion must be on the present occasion: therefore she spoke with more than her usual confidence and enthusiasm. Her eloquence and her abilities transported her father and most of her auditors, Vivian among the rest, with astonishment and admiration: she enjoyed, at this moment, what the French call un grand succes; but, in the midst of the buzz of applause, Vivian observed that her eye turned anxiously upon Russell, who stood silent, and with a disapproving countenance.

"I am sure your friend, Mr. Russell, is displeased at this instant—and with me.—I must know why.—Let us ask him.—Do bring him here."

Immediately she disengaged herself from all her admirers, and, making room for Mr. Russell beside her, waited, as she said, to hear from him ses verites. Russell would have declined speaking, but her ladyship appealed earnestly and urgently for his opinion, saying, "Who will speak the truth to me if you will not? On whose judgment can I rely if not on yours?—You direct my brother's mind to every thing that is wise and good; direct mine: I am as desirous to do right as he can be: and you will find me—self-willed and volatile, as I know you think me—you will find me a docile pupil. Then tell me frankly—did I, just now, speak too much or too warmly? I thought I was speaking your sentiments, and that I must be right. But perhaps it was not right for a woman, or so young a woman as I am, to support even just opinions so resolutely. And yet is it a crime to be young?—And is the honour of maintaining truth to be monopolized by age?—No, surely; for Mr. Russell himself has not that claim to stand forth, as he so often does, in its defence. If you think that I ought not to act Calista; if you think that I had better not appear on the stage at all, only say so!—All I ask is your opinion; the advantage of your judgment. And you see, Mr. Vivian, how difficult it is to obtain it!—But his friend, probably, never felt this difficulty!"

With a degree of sober composure, which almost provoked Vivian, Mr. Russell answered this animated lady. And with a sincerity which, though politely shown, Vivian thought severe and almost cruel, Russell acknowledged that her ladyship had anticipated some, but not all of his objections. He represented that she had failed in becoming respect to her mother, in thus publicly attacking and opposing her opinions, even supposing them to be ill-founded; and declared that, as to the case in discussion, he was entirely of Lady Glistonbury's opinion, that it would be unfit and injurious to a young lady to exhibit herself, even on a private stage, in the character in which it had been proposed that Lady Julia should appear.

Whilst Russell spoke, Vivian was charmed with the manner in which Lady Julia listened: he thought her countenance enchantingly beautiful, alternately softened as it was by the expression of genuine humility, and radiant with candour and gratitude. She made no reply, but immediately went to her mother; and, in the most engaging manner acknowledged that she had been wrong, and declared that she was convinced it would be improper for her to act the character she had proposed. With that cold haughtiness of mien, the most repulsive to a warm and generous mind, the mother turned to her daughter, and said that, for her part, she had no faith in sudden conversions, and starts of good conduct made little impression upon her; that, as far as she was herself concerned, she forgave, as in charity it became her, all the undutiful insolence with which she had been treated; that, as to the rest, she was glad to find, for Lady Julia's own sake, that she had given up her strange, and, as she must say, scandalous intentions. "However," added Lady Glistonbury, "I am not so sanguine as to consider this as any thing but a respite from ruin; I am not so credulous as to believe in sudden reformations; nor, despicable as you and my lord do me the honour to think my understanding—am I to be made the dupe of a little deceitful fondling!"

Julia withdrew her arms, which she had thrown round her mother; and Miss Strictland, after breaking her netting silk with a jerk of indignation, observed, that, for her part, she wondered young ladies should go to consult their brother's tutor, instead of more suitable, and, perhaps, as competent advisers. Lady Julia, now indignant, turned away, and was withdrawing from before the triumvirate, when Lady Sarah, who had sat looking, even more stiff and constrained than usual, suddenly broke from her stony state, and, springing forward, exclaimed, "Stay, Julia!—Stay, my dear sister!—Oh, Miss Strictland! do my sister justice!—When Julia is so candid, so eager to do right, intercede for her with my mother!"

"First, may I presume to ask," said Miss Strictland, drawing herself up with starch malice; "first, may I presume to ask, whether Mr. Vivian, upon this occasion, declined to act Lothario?"

"Miss Strictland, you do not do my sister justice!" cried Lady Sarah: "Miss Strictland, you are wrong—very wrong!"

Miss Strictland, for a moment struck dumb with astonishment, opening her eyes as far as they could open, stared at Lady Sarah, and, after a pause, exclaimed, "Lady Sarah! I protest I never saw any thing that surprised me so much in my whole life!——Wrong!—very wrong!—I?——My Lady Glistonbury, I trust your ladyship——"

Lady Glistonbury, at this instant, showed, by a little involuntary shake of her head, that she was inwardly perturbed: Lady Sarah, throwing herself upon her knees before her mother, exclaimed, "Oh, madam!—mother! forgive me if I failed in respect to Miss Strictland!——But, my sister! my sister——!"

"Rise, Sarah, rise!" said Lady Glistonbury; "that is not a fit attitude!—And you are wrong, very wrong, to fail in respect to Miss Strictland, my second self, Sarah. Lady Julia Lidhurst, it is you who are the cause of this—the only failure of duty your sister ever was guilty of towards me in the whole course of her life—I beg of you to withdraw, and leave me my daughter Sarah."

"At least, I have found a sister, and when I most wanted it," said Lady Julia. "I always suspected you loved me, but I never knew how much till this moment," added she, turning to embrace her sister; but Lady Sarah had now resumed her stony appearance, and, standing motionless, received her sister's embrace without sign of life or feeling.

"Lady Julia Lidhurst," said Miss Strictland, "you humble yourself in vain: I think your mother, my Lady Glistonbury, requested of you to leave your sister, Lady Sarah, to us, and to her duty."

"Duty!" repeated Lady Julia, her eyes flashing indignation: "Is this what you call duty?—Never will I humble myself before you again—I will leave you—I do leave you—now and for ever—DUTY!"

She withdrew:—and thus was lost one of the fairest occasions of confirming a young and candid mind in prudent and excellent dispositions. After humbling herself in vain before a mother, this poor young lady was now to withstand a father's reproaches; and, after the inexorable Miss Strictland, she was to encounter the exasperated Miss Bateman. Whether the Gorgon terrors of one governess, or the fury passions of the other, were most formidable, it was difficult to decide. Miss Bateman had written an epilogue for Lady Julia to recite in the character of Calista; and, with the combined irritability of authoress and governess, she was enraged at the idea of her pupil's declining to repeat these favourite lines. Lord Glistonbury cared not for the lines; but, considering his own authority to be impeached by his daughter's resistance, he treated his Julia as a traitor to his cause, and a rebel to his party.

But Lady Julia was resolute in declining to play Calista; and Vivian admired the spirit and steadiness of her resistance to the solicitations and the flattery with which she was assailed by the numerous hangers-on of the family, and by the amateurs assembled at Glistonbury. Russell, who knew the warmth of her temper, however, dreaded that she should pass the bounds of propriety in the contest with her father and her governess; and he almost repented having given any advice upon the subject. The contest happily terminated in Lord Glistonbury's having a violent fit of the gout, which, as the newspapers informed the public, "ended for the season the Christmas hospitalities and theatrical festivities at Glistonbury Castle!"

Whilst his lordship suffered this fit of torture, his daughter Julia attended him with so much patience and affection, that he forgave her for not being willing to be Calista; and, upon his recovery, he announced to Miss Bateman that it was his will and pleasure that his daughter Julia should do as she liked on this point, but that he desired it to be understood that this was no concession to Lady Glistonbury's prejudices, but an act of his own pure grace.

To celebrate his recovery, his lordship determined to give a ball; and Miss Bateman persuaded him to make it a fancy ball. In this family, unfortunately, every occurrence, even every proposal of amusement, became a subject of dispute and a source of misery. Lady Glistonbury, as soon as her lord announced his intention of giving this fancy ball, declined taking the direction of an entertainment which approached, she said, too near to the nature of a masquerade to meet her ideas of propriety. Lord Glistonbury laughed, and tried the powers of ridicule and wit:

"But on th'impassive ice the lightnings play'd."

The lady's cool obstinacy was fully a match for her lord's petulance: to all he could urge, she repeated, "that such entertainments did not meet her ideas of propriety." Her ladyship, Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland, consequently declared it to be their resolution, "to appear in their own proper characters, and their own proper dresses, and no others."

These three rigid seceders excepted, all the world at Glistonbury Castle, and within its sphere of attraction, were occupied with preparations for this ball. Miss Bateman was quite in her element, flattered and flattering, consulting and consulted, in the midst of novels, plays, and poetry, prints, and pictures, searching for appropriate characters and dresses. This preceptress seemed to think and to expect that others should deem her office of governess merely a subordinate part of her business: she considered her having accepted of the superintendence of the education of Lady Julia Lidhurst as a prodigious condescension on her part, and a derogation from her rank and pretensions in the literary and fashionable world; a peculiar and sentimental favour to Lord Glistonbury, of which his lordship was bound in honour to show his sense, by treating her as a member of his family, not only with distinguished politeness, but by deferring to her opinion in all things, so as to prove to her satisfaction that she was considered only as a friend, and not at all as a governess. Thus she was raised as much above that station in the family in which she could be useful, as governesses in other houses have been sometimes depressed below their proper rank. Upon this, as upon all occasions, Miss Bateman was the first person to be thought of—her character and her dress were the primary points to be determined; and they were points of no easy decision, she having proposed for herself no less than five characters—the fair Rosamond, Joan of Arc, Cleopatra, Sigismunda, and Circe. After minute consideration of the dresses, which, at a fancy ball, were to constitute these characters, fair Rosamond was rejected, "because the old English dress muffled up the person too much; Joan of Arc would find her armour inconvenient for dancing; Cleopatra's diadem and royal purple would certainly be truly becoming, but then her regal length of train was as inadmissible in a dancing-dress as Joan of Arc's armour." Between Sigismunda and Circe, Miss Bateman's choice long vibrated. The Spanish and the Grecian costume had each its claims on her favour: for she was assured they both became her remarkably. Vivian was admitted to the consultation: he was informed that there must be both a Circe and a Sigismunda; and that Lady Julia was to take whichever of the two characters Miss Bateman declined. Pending the deliberation, Lady Julia whispered to Vivian, "For mercy's sake! contrive that I may not be doomed to be Circe; for Circe is no better than Calista."

Vivian was charmed with her ladyship's delicacy and discretion; he immediately decided her governess, by pointing out the beautiful head-dress of Flaxman's Circe, and observing that Miss Bateman's hair (which was a wig) might easily be arranged, so as to produce the same effect. Lady Julia rewarded Vivian for this able and successful manoeuvre by one of her sweetest smiles. Her smiles had now powerful influence over his heart. He rebelled against Russell's advice, to take more time to consider how far his character was suited to hers: he was conscious, indeed, that it would be more prudent to wait a little longer before he should declare his passion, as Lady Julia was so very young and enthusiastic, and as her education had been so ill managed; but he argued that the worse her education, and the more imprudent the people about her, the greater was her merit in conducting herself with discretion, and in trying to restrain her natural enthusiasm. Russell acknowledged this, and gave all due praise to Lady Julia; yet still he represented that Vivian had been acquainted with her so short time that he could not be a competent judge of her temper and disposition, even if his judgment were cool; but it was evident that his passions were now engaged warmly in her favour. All that Russell urged for delay so far operated, however, upon Vivian, that he adopted a half measure, and determined to try what chance he might have of pleasing her before he should either declare his love to her ladyship, or make his proposal to her father. A favourable opportunity soon occurred. On the day appointed for the fancy ball, the young Lord Lidhurst, who was to be Tancred, was taken ill of a feverish complaint: he was of a very weakly constitution, and his friends were much alarmed by his frequent indispositions. His physicians ordered quiet; he was confined to his own apartment; and another Tancred was of course to be sought for: Vivian ventured to offer to assume the character; and his manner, when he made this proposal to his fair Sigismunda, though it was intended to be merely polite and gallant, was so much agitated, that she now, for the first time, seemed to perceive the state of his heart. Colouring high, her ladyship answered, with hesitation unusual to her, "that she believed—she fancied—that is, she understood from her brother—that he had deputed Mr. Russell to represent Tancred in his place."

Vivian was not displeased by this answer: the change of colour and evident embarrassment appeared to him favourable omens; and he thought that whether the embarrassment arose from unwillingness to let any man but her brother's tutor, a man domesticated in the family, appear as her Tancred, or whether she was afraid of offending Mr. Russell, by changing the arrangement her brother had made; in either case Vivian felt ready, though a man in love, to approve of her motives. As to the rest, he was certain that Russell would decline the part assigned him; and, as Vivian expected, Russell came in a few minutes to resign his pretensions, or rather to state that though Lord Lidhurst had proposed it, he had never thought of accepting the honour; and that he should, in all probability, not appear at the ball, because he was anxious to stay as much as possible with Lord Lidhurst, whose indisposition increased instead of abating. Lord Glistonbury, after this explanation, came in high spirits, and with much satisfaction in his countenance and manner, said he was happy to hear that his Sigismunda was to have Mr. Vivian for her Tancred. So far all was prosperous to our hero's hopes.

But when he saw Lady Julia again, which was not till dinner time, he perceived an unfavourable alteration in her manner; not the timidity or embarrassment of a girl who is uncertain whether she is or is not pleased, or whether she should or should not appear to be pleased by the first approaches of a new lover; but there was in her manner a decided haughtiness, and an unusual air of displeasure and reserve. Though he sat beside her, and though in general her delightful conversation had been addressed either to him or Mr. Russell, they were now both deprived of this honour; whatever she said, and all she said, was unlike herself, was directed to persons opposite to her, even to the captain, the lawyer, and the family parasites, whose existence she commonly seemed to forget. She ate as well as spoke in a hurried manner, and as if in defiance of her feelings. Whilst the courses were changing, she turned towards Mr. Vivian, and after a rapid examining glance at his countenance, she said, in a low voice—"You must think me, Mr. Vivian, very unreasonable and whimsical, but I have given up all thoughts of being Sigismunda. Will you oblige me so far as not to appear in the dress of Tancred to-night? You will thus spare me all farther difficulty. You know my mother and sister have declared their determination not to wear any fancy dress; and though my father is anxious that I should, I believe it may be best that, in this instance, I follow my own judgment.—May I expect that you will oblige me?"

Vivian declared his entire submission to her ladyship's judgment: and he now was delighted to be able to forgive her for all seeming caprice; because he thought he saw an amiable motive for her conduct—the wish not to displease her mother, and not to excite the jealousy of her sister.

The hour when the ball was to commence arrived; the room filled with company; and Vivian, who flattered himself with the pleasure of dancing all night with Lady Julia, as the price of his prompt obedience, looked round the room in search of his expected partner, but he searched in vain. He looked to the door at every new entrance—no Lady Julia appeared. Circe, indeed, was every where to be seen and heard, and an uglier Circe never touched this earth; but she looked happily confident in the power of her charms. Whilst she was intent upon fascinating Vivian, he was impatiently waiting for a moment's intermission of her volubility, that he might ask what had become of Lady Julia.

"Lady Julia?—She's somewhere in the room, I suppose.—Oh! no: I remember, she told me she would go and sit a quarter of an hour with her brother. She will soon make her appearance, I suppose; but I am so angry with her for disappointing us all, and you in particular, by changing her mind about Sigismunda!—Such a capital Tancred as you would have made! and now you are no character at all! But then, you are only on a par with certain ladies. Comfort yourself with the great Pope's (I fear too true) reflection, that

'Most women have no characters at all.'"

Miss Bateman's eye glanced insolently, as she spoke, upon Lady Glistonbury's trio, who passed by at this instant, all without fancy dresses. Vivian shocked by this ill-breeding towards the mistress of the house, offered his arm immediately to Lady Glistonbury, and conducted her with Lady Sarah and Miss Strictland to their proper places, where, having seated themselves, each in the same attitude precisely, they looked more like martyrs prepared for endurance, than like persons in a ball-room. Vivian stayed to speak a few words to Lady Glistonbury, and was just going away, when her ladyship, addressing him with more than her usual formality, said, "Mr. Vivian, I see, has not adopted the fashion of the day; and as he is the only gentleman present, whose fancy dress does not proclaim him engaged to some partner equally fanciful, I cannot but wish that my daughter, Lady Sarah, should, if she dance at all to-night, dance with a gentleman in his own proper character."

Vivian, thus called upon, felt compelled to ask the honour of Lady Sarah's hand; but he flattered himself, that after the first dance he should have done his duty, and that he should be at liberty by the time Julia should make her appearance. But, to his great disappointment, Mr. Russell, who came in just as he had finished the first two dances, informed him that Lady Julia was determined not to appear at the ball, but to stay with her brother, who wished for her company. So poor Vivian found himself doomed to be Lady Sarah's partner for the remainder of the night. It happened that, as he was handing her ladyship to supper, in passing through an antechamber where some of the neighbours of inferior rank had been permitted to assemble to see the show, he heard one farmer's wife say to another, "Who beas that there, that's handing of Lady Sarah?"—They were detained a little by the crowd, so that he had time to hear the whole answer.—"Don't you know?" was the answer. "That there gentleman is Mr. Vivian of the new castle, that is to be married to her directly, and that's what he's come here for; for they've been engaged to one another ever since the time o' the election."

This speech disturbed our hero's mind considerably; for it awakened a train of reflections which he had wilfully left dormant. Will it, can it be believed, that after all his friend Russell's exhortations, after his own wise resolutions, he had never yet made any of those explanatory speeches he had intended?

"Positively," said he to himself, "this report shall not prevail four-and-twenty hours longer. I will propose for Lady Julia Lidhurst before I sleep. Russell, to be sure, advises me not to be precipitate—to take more time to study her disposition; but I am acquainted with her sufficiently;" (he should have said, I am in love with her sufficiently;) "and really now, I am bound in honour immediately to declare myself—it is the best possible way of putting a stop to a report which will be ultimately injurious to Lady Sarah."

Thus Vivian made his past irresolution an excuse for his present precipitation, flattering himself, as men often do when they are yielding to the impulse of their passions, that they are submitting to the dictates of reason. At six o'clock in the morning the company dispersed. Lord Glistonbury and Vivian were the last in the ball-room. His lordship began some raillery upon our hero's having declined appearing as Tancred, and upon his having devoted himself all night to Lady Sarah. Vivian seized the moment to explain his real feelings, and he made his proposal for Lady Julia. It was received with warm approbation by the father, who seemed to rejoice the more in this proposal, because he knew that it would disappoint and mortify Lady Glistonbury. The interests of his hatred seemed, indeed, to occupy his lordship more than the interests of Vivian's love; but politeness threw a decent veil over these feelings; and, after saying all that could be expected of the satisfaction it must be to a father to see his daughter united to a man of Mr. Vivian's family, fortune, talents, and great respectability; and after having given, incidentally and parenthetically, his opinions, not only concerning matrimony, but concerning all other affairs of human life, he wished his future son-in-law a very good night, and left him to repose. But no rest could Vivian take—he waited with impatience, that made every hour appear at least two, for the time when he was again to meet Lady Julia. He saw her at breakfast; but he perceived by her countenance that she as yet knew nothing of his proposal. After breakfast Lord Glistonbury said, "Come with me, my little Julia! it is a long time since I've had a walk and a talk with you." His lordship paced up and down the terrace, conversing earnestly with her for some time: he then went on to some labourers, who were cutting down a tree at the farther end of the avenue. Vivian hastened out to meet Lady Julia, who, after standing deep in thought for some moments, seemed returning towards the castle.



CHAPTER IX.

"Mr. Vivian, I trust that I am not deficient in maidenly modesty," said Lady Julia, "when it is not incompatible with what I deem a higher virtue—sincerity. Now and ever, frankness is, and shall be, my only policy. The confidence I am about to repose in you, sir, is the strongest proof of my esteem, and of the gratitude I feel for your attachment.—My heart is no longer in my power to bestow. It is—young as I am, I dare to pronounce the words—irrevocably fixed upon one who will do honour to my choice. Your proposal was made to my father—Why was it not made to me?—Men—all men but one—treat women as puppets, and then wonder that they are not rational creatures!—Forgive me this too just reproach. But, as I was going to say, your proposal has thrown me into great difficulties—the greater because my father warmly approves of it. I have a strong affection for him; and, perhaps, a year or two ago, I should, in the ignorance in which I was dogmatically brought up, have thought it my duty to submit implicitly to parental authority, and to receive a husband from the hands of a father, without consulting either my own heart or my own judgment. But, since my mind has been more enlightened, and has opened to higher views of the dignity of my sex, and higher hopes of happiness, my ideas of duty have altered; and, I trust, I have sufficient courage to support my own idea of the rights of my sex, and my firm conviction of what is just and becoming."

Vivian was again going to say something; but, whether against or in favour of the rights of the sex, he had not clearly decided; when her ladyship saved him the trouble, by proceeding with the train of her ideas.

"My sincerity towards my father will, perhaps, cost me dear; but I cannot repent of it. As soon as I knew the state of my own heart—which was not till very lately—which was not, indeed, till you gave me reason to think you seriously liked me—I openly told my father all I knew of my own heart. Would you believe it?—I am sure I should not, unless I had seen and felt it—my father, who, you know, professes the most liberal opinions possible; my father, who, in conversation is 'All for love, and the world well lost;' my father, who let Miss Bateman put the Heloise into my hands, was astonished, shocked, indignant, at his own daughter's confession, I should say, assertion of her preference of a man of high merit, who wants only the advantages, if they be advantages, of rank and fortune.