CHAPTER IV.
One morning, as Vivian was walking with Mr. Wharton up Bond-street, they were met by a party of fashionable loungers, one of whom asked whether Mrs. Wharton was not come to town yet.
“Mrs. Wharton!” said Vivian, with an air of surprise.
“Yes, she came to town this morning,” said Wharton, carelessly; then laughing, as he turned to look at Vivian, “Vivian, my good fellow! what smites you with such surprise? Did not you know I was married?”
“I suppose I must have heard it; but I really forgot it,” said Vivian.
“There you had the advantage of me,” said Wharton, still laughing. “But if you never heard of Mrs. Wharton before, keep your own secret; for I can tell you she would never forgive you, though I might. Put a good face on the matter, at any rate; and swear you’ve heard so much of her, that you were dying to see her. Some of these gentlemen, who have nothing else to do, will introduce you whenever you please.”
“And cannot I,” said Vivian, “have the honour of your introduction?”
“Mine! the worst you could possibly have. The honour, as you are pleased to call it, would be no favour, I assure you. The honour!—honour of a husband’s introduction! What a novice you are, or would make me believe you to be! But, seriously, I am engaged to-day at Glistonbury’s: so, good morning to you.”
Accustomed to hear Wharton talk in the freest manner of women and marriage in general, and scarcely having heard him mention his own wife, Vivian had, as he said, absolutely forgotten that Wharton was a married man. When he was introduced to Mrs. Wharton, he was still more surprised at her husband’s indifference; for he beheld a lady in all the radiance of beauty, and all the elegance of fashion: he was so much dazzled by her charms, that he had not immediately power or inclination to examine what her understanding or disposition might be; and he could only repeat to himself, “How is it possible that Wharton can be indifferent to such a beautiful creature!”
Incapable of feeling any of what he, called the romance of love, the passion, of course, had always been with Mr. Wharton of a very transient nature. Tired of his wife’s person, he showed his indifference without scruple or ceremony. Notorious and glorying in his gallantries, he was often heard to declare, that no price was too high to be paid for beauty, except a man’s liberty; but that was a sacrifice which he would never make to any woman, especially to a wife. Marriage vows and custom-house oaths he classed in the same order of technical forms,—nowise binding on the conscience of any but fools and dupes. Whilst the husband went on in this manner, the wife satisfied herself by indulgence in her strongest passions—the passion for dress and public admiration. Childishly eager to set the fashion in trifles, she spent unconscionable sums on her pretty person; and devoted all her days, or rather all her nights, to public amusements. So insatiable and restless is the passion for admiration, that she was never happy for half an hour together, at any place of public amusement, unless she fixed the gaze of numbers. The first winter after her marriage she enjoyed the prerogatives of a fashionable beauty; but the reign of fashion is more transient even than the bloom of beauty. Mrs. Wharton’s beauty soon grew familiar, and faded in the public eye; some newer face was this season the mode. Mrs. Wharton appeared twice at the opera in the most elegant and becoming dresses; but no one followed her lead. Mortified and utterly dejected, she felt, with the keenest anguish, the first symptoms of the decline of public admiration. It was just at this period, when she was miserably in want of the consolations of flattery, that Vivian’s acquaintance with her commenced. Gratified by the sort of delighted surprise which she saw in his countenance the first moment he beheld her, seeing that he was an agreeable man, and knowing that he was a man of fortune and family, she took pains to please him by all the common arts of coquetry. But his vanity was proof against these: the weakness of the lady’s understanding and the frivolity of her character were, for some weeks, sufficient antidotes against all the power of her personal charms; so much so, that at this period he often compared, or rather contrasted, Mrs. Wharton and Selina, and blessed his happy fate. He wrote to his friend Russell soon after he was introduced to this celebrated beauty, and drew a strong and just parallel between the characters of these two ladies: he concluded with saying, “Notwithstanding your well-founded dread of the volatility of my character, you will not, I hope, my dear Russell, do me the injustice to apprehend that I am in any danger from the charms of Mrs. Wharton.”
Vivian wrote with perfect sincerity; he believed it to be impossible that he could ever become attached to such a woman as Mrs. Wharton, even if she had not been married, and the wife of his friend. So, in all the security of conscious contempt, he went every day to wait upon her, or rather to meet agreeable company at her house,—a house in which all that was fashionable and dissipated assembled; where beauty, and talents, and rank, met and mingled; and where political or other arrangements prevented the host and hostess from scrupulously excluding some whose characters were not free from suspicion. Lady Mary Vivian never went to Mrs. Wharton’s; but she acknowledged that she knew many ladies of unblemished reputation who thought it no impropriety to visit there; and Mrs. Wharton’s own character she knew was hitherto unimpeached. “She is, indeed, a woman of a cold, selfish temper,” said Lady Mary; “not likely to be led into danger by the tender passion, or by any of the delusions of the imagination.”
Vivian agreed with his mother in this opinion, and went on paying his devoirs to her every day. It was the fashion of the times, and peculiarly the mode of this house, for the gentlemen to pay exclusive attention to matrons. Few of the young men seemed to think it worth while to speak to an unmarried woman in any company; and the few who might be inclined to it were, as they declared, deterred by the danger: for either the young ladies themselves, or their mothers, immediately formed expectations and schemes of drawing them into matrimony—the grand object of the ladies’ wishes and of the gentlemen’s fears. The men said they could not speak to an unmarried woman, or even dance with her more than twice, without its being reported that they were going to be married; and then the friends and relatives of the young ladies pretended to think them injured and ill-treated, if these reports were not realized. Our hero had some slight experience of the truth of these complaints in his own case with the Lady Sarah Lidhurst: he willingly took the rest upon trust—believed all the exaggerations of his companions—and began to think it prudent and necessary to follow their example, and to confine his attentions to married women. Many irresistible reasons concurred to make Mrs. Wharton the most convenient and proper person to whom he could pay this sort of homage: besides, she seemed to fall to his share by lot and necessity; for, at Wharton’s house, every other lady and every other gentleman being engaged in gallantry, play, or politics, Mrs. Wharton must have been utterly neglected if Vivian had not paid her some attention. Common politeness absolutely required it; the attention became a matter of course, and was habitually expected. Still he had not the slightest design of going beyond the line of modern politeness; but, in certain circumstances, people go wrong a great way before they are aware that they have gone a single step. It was presently repeated to Mr. Vivian, by some of Mrs. Wharton’s confidantes, in whispers, and under the solemn promise of secrecy, that he certainly was a prodigious favourite of hers. He laughed, and affected to disbelieve the insinuation: it made its impression, however; and he was secretly flattered by the idea of being a prodigious favourite with such a beautiful young creature. In some moments he saw her with eyes of compassion, pitying her for the neglect with which she was treated by her husband: he began to attribute much of her apparent frivolity, and many of her faults, more to the want of a guide and a friend than to a deficiency of understanding or to defects of character. Mrs. Wharton had just sufficient sense to be cunning—this implies but a very small portion: she perceived the advantage which she gained by thus working upon Vivian’s vanity and upon his compassion. She continued her operations, without being violently interested in their success; for she had at first only a general wish to attract his attention, because he was a fashionable young man.
One morning when he called upon Wharton to accompany him to the House of Commons, he found Mrs. Wharton in tears, her husband walking up and down the room in evident ill-humour. He stopped speaking when Vivian entered; and Mrs. Wharton endeavoured, or seemed to endeavour, to conceal her emotion. She began to play on her harp; and Wharton, addressing himself to Vivian, talked of the politics of the day. There was some incoherence in the conversation; for Vivian’s attention was distracted by the air that Mrs. Wharton was playing, of which he was passionately fond.
“There’s no possibility of doing any thing while there is such a cursed noise in the room!” cried Wharton. “Here I have the heads of this bill to draw up—I cannot endure to have music wherever I go—”
He snatched up his papers and retired to an adjoining apartment, begging that Vivian would wait one quarter of an hour for him.—Mrs. Wharton’s tears flowed afresh, and she looked beautiful in tears.
“You see—you see, Mr. Vivian—and I am ashamed you should see—how I am treated.—I am, indeed, the most unfortunate creature upon the face of the earth; and nobody in this world has the least compassion for me!”
Vivian’s countenance contradicted this last assertion most positively.—Mrs. Wharton understood this; and her attitude of despondency was the most graceful imaginable.
“My dear Mrs. Wharton”—(it was the first time our hero had ever called her “his dear Mrs. Wharton;” but it was only a platonic dear)—“you take trifles much too seriously—Wharton was hurried by business—a moment’s impatience must be forgiven.”
“A moment!” replied Mrs. Wharton, casting up to heaven her beautiful eyes—“Oh! Mr. Vivian, how little do you know of him!—I am the most miserable creature that ever existed; but there is not a man upon earth to whom I would say so except yourself.”
Vivian could not help feeling some gratitude for this distinction; and, as he leaned over her harp with an air of unusual interest, he said he hoped that he should ever prove himself worthy of her esteem and confidence.
At this instant Wharton interrupted the conversation, by passing hastily through the room.—“Come, Vivian,” said he; “we shall be very late at the house.”
“We shall see you again of course at dinner,” said Mrs. Wharton to Vivian in a low voice. Our hero replied by an assenting bow.
Five minutes afterwards he repented that he had accepted the invitation, because he foresaw that he should resume a conversation which was at once interesting and embarrassing. He felt that it was not right to become the depository of this lady’s complaints against her husband; yet he had been moved by her tears, and the idea that he was the only man in the world to whom she would open her heart upon such a delicate subject, interested him irresistibly in her favour. He returned in the evening, and was flattered by observing, that amongst the crowd of company by which she was surrounded he was instantly distinguished. He was perfectly persuaded of the innocence of her intentions; and, as he was attached to another woman, he fancied that he could become the friend of the beautiful Mrs. Wharton without danger. The first time he had an opportunity of speaking to her in private, he expressed this idea in the manner that he thought the most delicately flattering to her self-complacency. Mrs. Wharton seemed to be perfectly satisfied with this conduct; and declared, that unless she had been certain that he was not a man of gallantry, she should never have placed any confidence in his friendship.
“I consider you,” said she, “quite as a married man:—by-the-bye, when are you to be married, and what sort of a person is Miss Sidney?—I am told she is excessively handsome, and amiable, and sensible.—What a happy creature she is!—just going to be united to the man she loves!” Here the lady gave a profound sigh; and Vivian had an opportunity of observing that she had the longest dark eyelashes that he had ever seen.
“I was married,” continued she, “before I knew what I was about. You know Mr. Wharton can be so charming when he pleases—and then he was so much in love with me, and swore he would shoot himself if I would not have him—and all that sort of thing.—I protest I was terrified; and I was quite a child, you know. I had been out but six weeks, and I thought I was in love with him. That was because I did not know what love was—then;—besides, he hurried and teased me to such a degree!—After all, I’m convinced I married him more out of compassion than any thing else; and now you see how he treats me!—most barbarously and tyrannically!—But I would not give the least hint of this to any man living but yourself. I conjure you to keep my secret—and—pity me!—that is all I ask—pity me sometimes, when your thoughts are not absorbed in a happier manner.”
Vivian’s generosity was piqued: he could not be so selfish as to be engrossed exclusively by his own felicity. He thought that delicacy should induce him to forbear expatiating upon Selina’s virtues and accomplishments, or upon his passion. He carried this delicacy so far, that sometimes for a fortnight or three weeks he never mentioned her name. He could not but observe that Mrs. Wharton did not like him the less for this species of sacrifice. It may be observed, that Mrs. Wharton managed her attack upon Vivian with more art than could be expected from so silly a woman; but we must consider that all her faculties were concentrated on one object; so that she seemed to have an instinct for coquetry. The most silly animals in the creation, from the insect tribe upwards, show, on some occasions, where their interests are immediately concerned, a degree of sagacity and ingenuity, which, compared with their usual imbecility, appears absolutely wonderful. The opinion which Vivian had early formed of the weakness of this lady’s understanding prevented him from being on his guard against her artifices: he could not conceive it possible that he should be duped by a person so obviously his inferior. With a woman of talents and knowledge, he might have been suspicious; but there was nothing in Mrs. Wharton to alarm his pride or to awaken his fears: he fancied that he could extricate himself in a moment, and with the slightest effort, from any snares which she could contrive; and, under this persuasion, he neglected to make even that slight effort, and thus continued from hour to hour in voluntary captivity.
Insensibly Vivian became more interested for Mrs. Wharton; and, at the same time, submitted with increased facility to the influence of her husband. It was necessary that he should have some excuse to the world, and yet more to his own conscience, for being so constantly at Wharton’s. The pleasure he took in Wharton’s conversation was still a sort of involuntary excuse to himself for his intimacy with the lady. “Wharton’s wit more than Mrs. Wharton’s beauty,” thought he, “is the attraction that draws me here—I am full as ready to be of his parties as of hers; and this is the best proof that all is as it should be.”
Wharton’s parties were not always such as Vivian would have chosen; but he was pressed on, without power of resistance. For instance, one night Wharton was going with Lord Pontipool and a set of dissipated young men, to the house of a lady who made herself fashionable by keeping a faro-bank.
“Vivian, you’ll come along with us?” said Wharton. “Come, we must have you—unless you are more happily engaged.”
His eye glanced with a mixture of contempt and jealousy upon his wife. Mrs. Wharton’s alarmed and imploring countenance at the same moment seemed to say, “For Heaven’s sake, go with him, or I am undone.” In such circumstances it was impossible for Vivian to say no: he followed immediately; acting, as he thought, from a principle of honour and generosity. Wharton was not a man to give up the advantage which he had gained. Every day he showed more capricious jealousy of his wife, though he, at the same time, expressed the most entire confidence in the honour of his friend. Vivian still thought he could not do too much to convince him that his confidence was not misplaced; and thus, to protect Mrs. Wharton from suspicion, he yielded to all her husband’s wishes. Vivian now felt frequently ashamed of his conduct, but always proud of his motives; and, with ingenious sophistry, he justified to himself the worst actions, by pleading that he did them with the best intentions.
CHAPTER V.
By this time Lady Mary Vivian began to hear hints of her son’s attachment to Mrs. Wharton; and, much alarmed, she repented having encouraged him to form a political or fashionable intimacy with the Whartons. Suddenly awakened to the perception of the danger, Lady Mary was too vehement in her terror. She spoke with so much warmth and indignation, that there was little chance of her counsels being of use.
“But, my dear madam, it is only a platonic attachment,” argued Vivian, when his mother represented to him that the world talked loudly of his intimacy with Mrs. Wharton.
“A platonic attachment!—Fashionable, dangerous sophistry!” said Lady Mary.
“Why so, ma’am?” said her son, warmly; “and why should we mind what the world says? The world is so fond of scandal, that a man and woman cannot have any degree of friendship for one another without a hue and cry being immediately raised—and all the prudes and coquettes join at once in believing, or pretending to believe, that there must be something wrong. No wonder such a pretty woman as Mrs. Wharton cannot escape envy, and, of course, censure; but her conduct can defy the utmost malice of her enemies.”
“I hope so,” said Lady Mary; “and, at all events, I am not one of them. I know and care very little about Mrs. Wharton, whom I have always been accustomed to consider as a frivolous, silly woman; but what I wish to say, though I fear I have lost your confidence, and that my advice will not—”
“Frivolous! silly!” interrupted Vivian; “believe me, my dear mother, you and half the world are, and have been, under a great mistake about her understanding and character.”
“Her forming a platonic friendship with a young man is no great proof of her sense or of her virtue,” said Lady Mary. “The danger of platonic attachments, I thought, had been sufficiently understood. Pray, my dear Charles, never let me hear more from you of platonics with married women.”
“I won’t use the expression, ma’am, if you have any objection to it,” said Vivian; “but, mother, you wish me to live in the most fashionable company, and yet you desire me not to live as they live, and talk as they talk: now, that is next to impossible. Pardon me, but I should not have thought,” added he, laughing, “that you, who like most things that are fashionable, would object to platonics.”
“Object to them!—I despise, detest, abhor them! Platonics have been the ruin of more women, the destruction of the peace of more families, than open profligacy ever could have accomplished. Many a married woman, who would have started with horror at the idea of beginning an intrigue, has been drawn in to admit of a platonic attachment. And many a man, who would as soon have thought of committing murder as of seducing his friend’s wife, has allowed himself to commence a platonic attachment; and how these end, all the world knows.”
Struck by these words, Vivian suddenly quitted his air of raillery, and became serious. Had his mother stopped there, and left the rest to his good sense and awakened perception of danger, all would have been well; but she was ever prone to say too much; and, in her ardour to prove herself to be in the right, forgot that people are apt to be shocked, by having it pointed out that they are utterly in the wrong.
“Indeed, the very word platonics,” pursued she, “is considered, by those who have seen any thing of life, as the mere watchword of knaves or dupes; of those who deceive, or of those who wish to be deceived.”
“Be assured, ma’am,” said Vivian, “that Mrs. Wharton is not one of those who wish either to deceive or to be deceived; and, as to myself, I hope I am as far from any danger of being a dupe as of being a knave. My connexion with Mrs. Wharton is perfectly innocent; it is justified by the example of hundreds and thousands every day in the fashionable world; and I should do her and myself great injustice, if I broke off our intimacy suddenly, as if I acknowledged that it was improper.”
“And what can be more improper? since you force me to speak plainly,” cried Lady Mary; “what can be more improper than such an intimacy, especially in your circumstances?”
“My circumstances! What circumstances, ma’am?”
“Have you forgotten Miss Sidney?”
“By no means, ma’am,” said Vivian, colouring deeply; “Mrs. Wharton is well apprized, and was, from the first moment of our friendship, clearly informed of my——engagements with Miss Sidney.”
“And how do they agree with your attachment to Mrs. Wharton?”
“Perfectly well, ma’am—Mrs. Wharton understands all that perfectly well, ma’am.”
“And Miss Sidney! do you think she will understand it?—and is it not extraordinary that I should think more of her feelings than you do?”
At these questions Vivian became so angry, that he was incapable of listening farther to reason, or to the best advice, even from a mother, for whom he had the highest respect. The mother and son parted with feelings of mutual dissatisfaction.
Vivian, from that spirit of opposition so often seen in weak characters, went immediately from his mother’s lecture to a party at Mrs. Wharton’s. Lady Mary, in the mean time, sat down to write to Miss Sidney. Whatever reluctance she had originally felt to her son’s marriage with this young lady, it must be repeated, to her ladyship’s credit, that Selina’s honourable and disinterested conduct had won her entire approbation. She wrote, therefore, in the strongest terms to press the immediate conclusion of that match, which she now considered as the only chance of securing her son’s morals and happiness. Her letter concluded with these words:—“I shall expect you in town directly. Do not, my dear, let any idle scruples prevent you from coming to my house. Consider that my happiness, your own, and my son’s, depend upon your compliance. I am persuaded, that the moment he sees you, the moment you exert your power over him, he will be himself again. But, believe me, I know the young men of the present day better than you do: their constancy is not proof against absence. If he lose the habit of seeing and conversing with you, I cannot answer for the rest.—Adieu! I am so much harassed by my own thoughts, and by the reports I hear, that I scarcely know what I write. Pray come immediately, my dear Selina, that I may talk to you of many subjects on which I don’t like to trust myself to write. My feelings have been too long repressed.—I must unburden my heart to you. You only can console and assist me; and, independently of all other considerations, you owe to my friendship for you, Selina, not to refuse this first request I ever made you.—Farewell! I shall expect to see you as soon as possible.
“Yours, &c.
“MARY VIVIAN.”
“St. James’s-street.”
In this letter, Lady Mary Vivian had not explained the nature of her son’s danger, or of her fears for him. Motives of delicacy had prevented her from explicitly telling Miss Sidney her suspicions that Vivian was attached to a married woman. “Selina,” said her ladyship to herself, “must, probably, have heard the report from Mr. G——, who is so often at her mother’s; therefore, there can be no necessity for my saying any more than I have done. She will understand my hints.”
Unfortunately, however, Miss Sidney did not comprehend, or in the least suspect, the most material part of the truth; she understood simply, from Lady Mary’s letter, that Vivian’s affections wavered, and she imagined that he was, perhaps, on the point of making matrimonial proposals for some fashionable belle, probably for one of the Lady Lidhursts; but the idea of his becoming attached to a married woman never entered her thoughts. Many motives conspired to incline Selina to accept of the invitation. The certainty that Lady Mary would be highly offended by a refusal; the hint, that her influence over Vivian would operate immediately, and in all its force, if he were to see and converse with her; and that, on the contrary, absence might extinguish his passion for ever; curiosity to learn precisely the nature of the reports, which his mother had heard to his disadvantage; but, above all, a fond wish to be nearer to the man she loved, and to have daily opportunities of seeing him, prompted Selina to comply with Lady Mary’s request. On the contrary, good sense and delicacy represented, that she had released Vivian from all promises, all engagements; that, at parting, she had professed to leave him perfectly at liberty: that it would, therefore, be as indelicate as imprudent to make such an attempt to reclaim his inconstant heart. She had told him, that she desired to have proof of the steadiness, both of his character and of his attachment, before she could consent to marry him. From this decision she could not, she would not, recede. She had the fortitude to persist in this resolution. She wrote to Lady Mary Vivian in the kindest, but, at the same time, in the most decided terms, declining the tempting invitation.
It happened that Vivian was with his mother at the moment when Selina’s answer arrived. In the firm belief that such a pressing invitation as she had sent, to a person in Selina’s circumstances and of Selina’s temper, could not be refused, her ladyship had made it a point with her son to dine tête-à-tête with her this day; and she had been talking to him, in the most eloquent but imprudent manner, of the contrast between the characters of Mrs. Wharton and Miss Sidney. He protested that his esteem and love for Miss Sidney were unabated; yet, when his mother told him that he would, perhaps, in a few minutes see his Selina, he changed colour, grew embarrassed and melancholy, and thus by his looks effectually contradicted his words. He was roused from his reverie by the arrival of Selina’s letter. His mother’s disappointment and anger were expressed in the strongest terms, when she found that Selina declined her invitation; but such are the quick and seemingly perverse turns of the human heart, Vivian grew warm in Selina’s defence the moment that his mother became angry with her: he read her letter with tender emotion, for he saw through the whole of it, the strength, as well as the delicacy of her attachment. All that his mother’s praises had failed to effect, was immediately accomplished by this letter; and he, who but an instant before dreaded to meet Selina, now that she refused to come, was seized with a strong desire to see her; his impatience was so great, that he would willingly have set out that instant for the country. Men of such characters as Vivian’s are peculiarly jealous of their free will; and, precisely because they know that they are easily led, they resist, in affairs of the heart especially, the slightest appearance of control.
Lady Mary was delighted to hear her son declare his resolution to leave town the next morning, and to see Miss Sidney as soon as possible; but she could not forbear reproaching him for not doing what she wanted precisely in the manner in which she had planned that it should be done.
“I see, my dear Charles,” cried she, “that even when you do right, I must not flatter myself that it is owing to any influence of mine. Give my compliments to Miss Sidney, and assure her that I shall in future forbear to injure her in your opinion by my interference, or even by expressing my approbation of her character. My anger, it is obvious, has served her better than my kindness; and therefore she has no reason to regret that my affection has been lessened, as I confess it has been, by her late conduct.”
The next morning, when Vivian was prepared to leave town, he called upon Wharton, to settle with him about some political, business which was to be transacted in his absence. Wharton was not at home—Vivian knew that it would be best to avoid seeing Mrs. Wharton; but he was afraid that she would be offended, and he could not help sacrificing a few minutes to politeness. The lady was alone; apparently very languid, and charmingly melancholy. Before Vivian could explain himself, she poured forth, in silly phrases, but in a voice that made even nonsense please, a rariety of reproaches for his having absented himself for such a length of time.—“Positively, she would keep him prisoner, now that she had him safe once more.” To be kept prisoner by a fair lady was so flattering, that it was full an hour before he could prevail upon himself to assert his liberty—the fear of giving pain, indeed, influenced him still more than vanity. At last, when Mrs. Wharton spoke of her engagements for the evening, and seemed to take it for granted that he would be of her party, he summoned resolution sufficient—Oh! wonderful effort of courage!—to tell her, that he was under a necessity of leaving town immediately.
“Going, I presume, to—”
“To the country,” said Vivian, firmly.
“To the country!——No, no, no; say at once, to Selina!—Tell me the worst in one word!”
Astonished beyond measure, Vivian had not power to move. The lady fell back on the sofa in violent hysterics. Our hero trembled lest any of her servants should come in, or lest her husband should at his return find her in this condition, and discover the cause. He endeavoured in vain to soothe and compose the weeping fair one; he could not have the barbarity to leave her in this state. By sweet degrees she recovered her recollection—was in the most lovely confusion—asked where she was, and what was going to happen. Vivian had not the rashness to run the risk of a second fit of hysterics; he gave up all thoughts of his journey for this day, and the lady recovered her spirits in the most flattering manner. Vivian intended to postpone his journey only for a single day; but, after he had yielded one point, he found that there was no receding. He was now persuaded that Mrs. Wharton was miserable; that she would never forgive herself for having betrayed the state of her heart. His self-love pleaded powerfully in her favour: he considered that her husband treated her with mortifying neglect, and provoked the spirit of retaliation by his gallantries. Vivian fancied that Mrs. Wharton’s attachment to him might render her wretched, but would never make her criminal. With sophistical delicacy he veiled his own motives; and, instead of following the plain dictates of reason, he involved his understanding in that species of sentimental casuistry which confounds all principles of right and wrong. But the dread that he felt lest Wharton should discover what was going on might have sufficiently convinced him that he was not acting honourably. The suspicions which Mr. Wharton formerly showed of his wife seemed now to be completely lulled asleep; and he gave Vivian continually such proofs of confidence as stung him to the soul. By an absurd, but not an uncommon error of self-love, Vivian was induced to believe, that a man who professed to cheat mankind in general behaved towards him in particular with strict honour, and even with unparalleled generosity. Honesty was too vulgar a virtue for Wharton; but honour, the aristocratic, exclusive virtue of a gentleman, he laid claim to in the highest tone. The very frankness with which Wharton avowed his libertine principles with respect to women, convinced Vivian that he had not the slightest suspicion that these could be immediately applied to the ruin of his own wife.
“How can you, my dear Wharton, talk in this manner?” said Vivian once, when he had been speaking with great freedom.
“But it is better,” added he, with a sigh, “to speak than to act like a villain.”
“Villain!” repeated Wharton, with a sarcastic laugh; “you are grown quite ridiculous, Vivian: I protest, I don’t understand you. Women now-a-days are surely able, if not willing enough, to take care of themselves; and villains, though they were very common in the time of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, and of all the tragedy queens of the last century, are not to be heard of in these days. Any strange tales of those male monsters called seducers could gain credit during the ages of ignorance and credulity; but now, the enlightened world cannot be imposed upon by such miracles; and a gentleman may be a man of gallantry—nay, even a lady may be a woman of gallantry—without being hooted out of society as a monster; at all events, the blame is, as it should be, equally divided between the parties concerned; and if modern lovers quarrel, they do not die of grief, but settle their differences in a court of law, where a spinster may have her compensation for a breach of contract of marriage; a father or a husband their damages for the loss of the company, affection, solace, services, &c., as the case may be, of his wife or daughter. All this is perfectly well understood; and the terrors of law are quite sufficient, without the terrors of sentiment. If a man punish himself, or let himself be punished, twice for the same offence, once by his conscience, and once by his king and his country, he is a fool; and, moreover, acts contrary to the spirit of the British law, which sayeth—see Blackstone and others—that no man shall be punished twice for the same offence.—Suffer your risible muscles to relax, I beseech you, Vivian; and do not affect a presbyterian rigidity, which becomes your face as ill as your age.”
“I affect nothing—certainly I do not affect presbyterian rigidity,” cried Vivian, laughing. “But, after all, Wharton, if you had a daughter or a sister, what would you think of any man, your friend for instance, who should attempt—”
“To cut your speech short at once,” interrupted Wharton, “I should not think at all about the matter; I should blow his brains out, of course; and afterwards, probably, blow out my own. But treachery from a friend—from a man of honour—is a thing of which I can hardly form an idea. Where I give my confidence, I give it without any paltry mental reservation—I could not suspect a friend.”
Vivian suffered, at this instant, all the agony which a generous mind, conscious of guilt, could endure. He thought that the confusion of his mind must be visible in his countenance—his embarrassment was so great that he could not utter a word. Wharton did not seem to perceive his companion’s agitation, but passed on carelessly to other subjects of conversation; and at length completely relieved Vivian from fear of immediate detection, by asking a favour from him—a pecuniary favour.
“All is safe—Mrs. Wharton, at least, is safe, thank Heaven!” thought Vivian. “Had her husband the slightest suspicion, he never would condescend to accept of any favour from me.”
With eagerness, and almost with tears of gratitude, Vivian pressed upon Wharton the money which he condescended to borrow—it was no inconsiderable sum.
“Wharton!” cried he, “you sometimes talk freely—too freely; but you are, I am convinced, the most open-hearted, unsuspicious, generous fellow upon earth—you deserve a better friend than I am.”
Unable any longer to suppress or conceal the emotions which struggled in his heart, he broke away abruptly, hurried home, shut himself up in his own apartment, and sat down immediately to write to Mrs. Wharton. The idea that Mrs. Wharton loved him in preference to all the fashionable coxcombs and wits by whom she was surrounded had insensibly raised our hero’s opinion of her understanding so much, that he now imagined that the world laboured under a prejudice against her abilities. He gave himself credit for having discovered that this beauty was not a fool; and he now spoke and wrote to her as if she had been a woman of sense. With eloquence which might have moved a woman of genius, with delicacy that might have touched a woman of feeling, he conjured her to fortify his honourable resolutions; and thus, whilst it was yet time, to secure her happiness and his own. “Instead of writing this letter,” added he in a postscript, “I ought, perhaps, to fly from you for ever; but that would show a want of confidence in you and in myself; and, besides, upon the most mature reflection, I think it best to stay, and wait upon you to-morrow as usual, lest, by my precipitation, I should excite suspicion in Wharton’s mind.”
The weak apprehension that Mrs. Wharton should betray herself by another fit of hysterics, if he should leave town, and if his departure should be suddenly announced to her by her husband, or by some common acquaintance, induced him to delay a few days longer, that he might prepare her mind by degrees, and convince her of the necessity for their absolute separation. When he had finished his letter to Mrs. Wharton, he was sufficiently well pleased with himself to venture to write to Miss Sidney. His letters to her had of late been short and constrained; but this was written with the full flow of affection. He was now in hopes that he should extricate himself honourably from his difficulties, and that he might at last claim his reward from Selina.
CHAPTER VI.
After he had despatched his two letters, he became excessively anxious to receive Mrs. Wharton’s answer. By trifling but unavoidable accidents, it was delayed a few hours. At last it arrived; Vivian tore it open, and read with surprise these words:
“Your letter is just what I wished, and makes me the happiest of women—that is, if you are sincere—which, after all you’ve said, I can’t doubt. I am so hurried by visitors, and annoyed, that I cannot write more; but shall have time to talk to-night at the opera.”
At the opera Mrs. Wharton appeared in high spirits, and was dressed with more than usual elegance. It was observed that she had never been seen to look so beautiful. There was something in her manner that puzzled Vivian extremely; this extraordinary gaiety was not what he had reason to expect. “Is it possible,” thought he, “that this woman is a mere coquette, who has been amusing herself at my expense all this time, and can now break off all connexion with me without a moment’s regret?” Vivian’s pride was piqued: though he wished to part from the lady, he could not bear that this parting should evidently cost her nothing. He was mortified beyond expression by the idea that he had been duped. After the opera was over, whilst Mrs. Wharton was waiting for her carriage, he had an opportunity of speaking to her without being overheard.
“I am happy,” said he, with a constrained voice, “I am extremely happy to see you, madam, in such charming spirits to-night.”
“But are not you a strange man to look so grave?” cried Mrs. Wharton. “I vow, I don’t know what to make of you! But I believe you want to quarrel for the pleasure of making it up again. Now that won’t do. By-the-bye, I have a quarrel with you, sir.—How came you to sign your name to that foolish stuff you wrote me yesterday? Never do so any more, I charge you, for fear of accidents. But what’s the matter now?—You are a strange mortal!—Are you going to die upon the spot?—What is the matter?”
“My letter to you was not signed, I believe,” said Vivian, in an altered voice.
“Indeed it was,” said Mrs. Wharton. “It was signed Charles Vivian at full length. But why are you in such tremors about it? I only mentioned it to put you on your guard in future.—I’ve burnt the letter—people always get themselves into scrapes if they don’t burn love-letters—as I’ve often heard Mr. Wharton say,” added she, laughing.
To his unspeakable consternation, Vivian now discovered that he had sent the letter intended for Selina to Mrs. Wharton; and that which was designed for Mrs. Wharton he had directed to Miss Sidney. Vivian was so lost in thought, that the cry of “Mrs. Wharton’s carriage stops the way!” was vociferated many times before he recovered sufficient presence of mind to hand the lady out of the house. He went home immediately, that he might reflect upon what was best to be done. His servant presently gave him a letter which a messenger had just brought from the country. The packet was from Selina.
“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 be 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.”