Whilst his lordship had been speaking, compassion, gratitude, vanity, rivalship, honour, Lady Mary Vivian’s conversation, Lady Julia’s letter, then again the connexion, the earldom in future, the present triumph or disappointment about the election, the insolent intrusion of Mr. Lidhurst, the cruelty of abandoning a lady who was in love with him, the dishonour, the impossibility of receding after certain reports; all these ideas, in rapid succession, pressed on Vivian’s mind: and his decision was in consequence of the feelings and of the embarrassment of the moment. His reply to Lord Glistonbury was a proposal for Lady Sarah, followed by as many gallant protestations as his presence of mind could furnish. He did not very well know what he said, nor did Lord Glistonbury scrupulously examine whether he had the air and accent of a true lover, nor did his lordship inquire what had become of Vivian’s late love for Lady Julia; but, quite content that the object should be altered, the desire the same, he relieved Vivian by exclaiming, “Come, come, all this sort of thing Lady Sarah herself must hear; and I’ve a notion — but I can keep a secret. You’ll return with me directly to Glistonbury. Lady Glistonbury will be delighted to see you; and I shall be delighted to see Marmaduke’s face, when I tell him you have actually proposed for Sarah — for now I must tell you all. Our politician calculated upon the probability that you would not decide, you see, to make a proposal at once, that would justify me to the world in supporting my son-in-law against my nephew. As to the choice of the son-in-law, Sarah settles that part of the business herself, you know; for, when two proposals are made, both almost equally advantageous, in the common acceptation of the word, I am too good a father not to leave the decision to my daughter. So you see we understand one another perfectly, and will make Marmaduke, too, understand us perfectly, contrary to his calculations, hey, hey? —— Mr. Politician, your advertisement must be withdrawn, I opine, in the next paper — hey, Vivian? my dear Vivian!”
With similar loquacity, Lord Glistonbury continued, in the fulness of his heart, all the way they went together to Glistonbury Castle; which was agreeable to Vivian, at least by saving him from all necessity of speaking.
“So!” said Vivian to himself, “the die is cast, and I have actually proposed for Lady Sarah Lidhurst! — Who would have expected this two years ago? — I would not have believed it, if it had been foretold to me even two months ago. But it is a very — a very suitable match, and it will please the friends of both parties; and Lady Sarah is certainly very estimable, and capable of very strong attachment; and I like her, that is, I liked her yesterday very much — I really like her.”
Upon those mixed motives, between convenience and affection, from which, Dr. Johnson says, most people marry, our hero commenced his courtship of the Lady Sarah Lidhurst. As the minds of both parties on the subject are pretty well known to our readers, it would be cruel to fatigue them with a protracted description of the formalities of courtship. It is sufficient to say, that my Lord Glistonbury had the satisfaction of seeing his nephew disappointed.
CHAPTER XIV.
“And the marriage was solemnized with much pomp and magnificence, and every demonstration of joy.”
Novelists and novel readers are usually satisfied when they arrive at this happy catastrophe; their interest and curiosity seldom go any farther: but, in real life, marriage is but the beginning of domestic happiness or misery.
Soon after the celebration of Vivian’s nuptials, an event happened which interrupted all the festivities at Glistonbury, and which changed the bridal pomp to mourning. Lady Glistonbury, who had been much fatigued by the multitude of wedding-visits she was obliged to receive and return, had another stroke of the palsy, which, in a few hours, terminated fatally. Thus, the very event which Vivian had dreaded, as the probable consequence of his refusal to marry her daughter, was, in fact, accelerated by the full accomplishment of her wishes. After the loss of her mother, Lady Sarah Vivian’s whole soul seemed to be engrossed by fondness for her husband. In public, and to all eyes but Vivian’s, her ladyship seemed much the same person as formerly: but, in private, the affection she expressed for him was so great, that he frequently asked himself whether this could be the same woman, who, to the rest of the world, and in every other part of her life, appeared so cold and inanimate. On a very few occasions her character, before her marriage, had, “when much enforced, given out a hasty spark, and straight was cold again;” but now she permitted the steady flame to burn without restraint. Duty and passion had now the same object. Before marriage, her attachment had been suppressed, even at the hazard of her life; she had no idea that the private demonstrations of unbounded love from a married woman to her husband could be either blameable or dangerous: she believed it to be her duty to love her husband as much as she possibly could. — Was not he her husband? She had been taught that she should neither read, speak, nor think of love; and she had been so far too much restricted on this subject, that, absolutely ignorant and unconscious even of her danger, she now pursued her own course without chart or compass. Her injudicious tenderness soon imposed such restraint upon her husband, as scarcely any lover, much less any husband, could have patiently endured. She would hardly ever suffer him to leave her. Whenever he went out of the house, she exacted from him a promise that he would be back again at a certain hour; and if he were even a few minutes later than his appointment, he had to sustain her fond reproaches. Even though he stayed at home all day, she was uneasy if he quitted the room where she sat; and he, who by this time understood, through all her exterior calmness, the symptoms of her internal agitation, saw by her countenance that she was wretched if he seemed interested in the conversation of any other person, especially of any other woman.
One day when Vivian, after spending the morning tête-à-tête with Lady Sarah, signified to her his intention of dining abroad, she repeated her fond request that he would be sure to come home early, and that he would tell her at what o’clock exactly she might expect to see him again. He named an hour at hazard, to free himself from her importunate anxiety; but he could not help saying, “Pshaw!” as he ran down stairs; an exclamation which fortunately reached only the ears of a groom, who was thinking of nothing but the tops of his own boots. Vivian happened to meet some agreeable people where he dined: he was much pressed to stay to supper; he yielded to entreaty, but he had the good-natured attention to send home his servant, to beg that Lady Sarah and his mother would not sit up for him. When he returned, he found all the family in bed except Lady Sarah, who was sitting up waiting for him, with her watch in her hand. The moment he appeared, she assailed him with tender reproaches, to which he answered, “But why would you sit up when I begged you would not, my dear Lady Sarah?”
She replied by a continuity of fond reproach; and among other things she said, but without believing it to be true, “Ah! I am sure you would have been happier if you had married my sister Julia, or that Miss Sidney!”
Vivian sighed deeply; but the next instant, conscious that he had sighed, and afraid of giving his wife pain, he endeavoured to turn the course of her thoughts to some other subject. In vain. Poor Lady Sarah said no more, but felt this exquisitely, and with permanent anguish. Thus her imprudence reverted upon herself, and she suffered in proportion to her pride and to her fondness. By such slight circumstances is the human heart alienated from love! Struggling to be free, the restive little deity ruffles and impairs his plumage, and seldom recovers a disposition to tranquillity. Vivian’s good-nature had induced him for some time to submit to restraint; but if, instead of weakly yielding to the fond importunity of his wife — if, instead of tolerating the insipidity of her conversation and the narrowness of her views, he had with real energy employed her capacity upon suitable objects, he might have made her attachment the solace of his life. Whoever possesses the heart of a woman, who has common powers of intellect, may improve her understanding in twelve months more than could all the masters, and lectures, and courses of philosophy, and abridgments, and documenting in the universe. But Vivia
n had not sufficient resolution for such an undertaking: he thought only of avoiding to give or to feel present pain; and the consequences were, that the evils he dreaded every day increased.
Vivian’s mother saw the progress of conjugal discontent with anguish and remorse.
“Alas!” said she to herself, “I was much to blame for pressing this match. My son told me he could never love Lady Sarah Lidhurst. It would have been better far to have broken off a marriage at the church-door than to have forced the completion of such an ill-assorted union. My poor son married chiefly from a principle of honour; his duty and respect for my opinion had also great weight in his decision; and I have sacrificed his happiness to my desire that he should make what the world calls a splendid alliance. I am the cause of all his misery; and Heaven only knows where all this will end!”
In her paroxysm of self-reproach, and her eagerness to set things to rights between her daughter-in-law and her son, she only made matters worse. She spoke with all the warmth and frankness of her own character to Lady Sarah, beseeching her to speak with equal openness, and to explain the cause of the alteration in Vivian.
“I do not know what you mean, madam, by alteration in Mr. Vivian!”
“Is not there some disagreement between you, my dear?”
“There is no disagreement whatever, madam, as far as I know, between Mr. Vivian and me — we agree perfectly,” said Lady Sarah.
“Well, the misunderstanding!”
“I do not know of any misunderstanding, madam. Mr. Vivian and I understand one another perfectly.”
“The coolness, then — Oh! what word shall I use! — Surely, my dear Lady Sarah, there is some coolness — something wrong?”
“I am sure, madam, I do not complain of any coolness on Mr. Vivian’s part. Am I to understand that he complains to your ladyship of any thing wrong on mine? If he does, I shall think it my duty, when he points out the particulars, to make any alteration he may desire in my conduct and manners.”
“Complain! — My son! — He makes no complaints, my dear. You misunderstand me. My son does not complain that any thing is wrong on your part.”
“Then, madam, if no complaints are made on either side, all is as it should be, I presume, at present; and if in future I should fail in any point of duty, I shall hold myself obliged to your ladyship if you will then act as my monitor.”
Hopeless of penetrating Lady Sarah’s sevenfold fence of pride, the mother flew to her son, to try what could be done with his open and generous mind. He expressed a most earnest and sincere wish to make his wife happy. Conscious that he had given her exquisite pain, he endeavoured to make atonement by the sacrifices which he thought would be most grateful to her. He refrained often from company and conversation that was agreeable to him, and would resign himself for hours to her society. It was fortunate for Lady Julia Lidhurst that, by continuing with her good uncle the bishop, she did not see the consequences of the union which she had so strenuously advised. The advice of friends is often highly useful to prevent an imprudent match; but it seldom happens that marriages turn out happily which have been made from the opinion of others rather than from the judgment and inclinations of the parties concerned; for, let the general reasons on which the advice is grounded be ever so sensible, it is scarcely possible that the adviser can take in all the little circumstances of taste and temper, upon which so much of the happiness or misery of domestic life depends. Besides, people are much more apt to repent of having been guided by the judgment of another than of having followed their own; and this is most likely to be the case with the weakest minds. Strong minds can decide for themselves, not by the opinions but by the reasons that are laid before them: weak minds are influenced merely by opinions; and never, either before or after their decision, are firm in abiding by the preponderating reasons.
No letters, no intelligence from home, except a malicious hint now and then from her cousin Marmaduke, which she did not credit, gave her reason to suspect that the pair whom she had contributed to unite were not perfectly happy. So Lady Julia exulted in the success of her past counsels, and indulged her generous romantic disposition in schemes for forwarding a union between Russell and Selina, determining to divide her fortune amongst the children of her friends. She concluded one of her letters to Lady Sarah Vivian about this time with these words: —
“Could I but see one other person, — whom I must not name, rewarded for his virtues, as you are, by happy love, I should die content, and would write on my tomb: —
‘Je ne fus point heureux, mais j’ai fait leur bonheur.” 10
Far removed from all romance and all generosity of sentiment, Lord Glistonbury, in the mean time, went on very comfortably, without observing any thing that passed in his family. Whatever uneasiness obtruded upon his attention he attributed to one cause, anxiety relative to the question on which his present thoughts were exclusively fixed, viz. whether Lady Sarah’s first child would be a boy or a girl. “Heaven grant a boy!” said his lordship; “for then, you know, there’s an end of Marmaduke as heir-at-law!” Whenever his lordship saw a cloud on the brows of Lady Mary, of Lady Sarah, or of Vivian, he had one infallible charm for dispelling melancholy; — he stepped up close to the patient, and whispered, “It will be a boy! — My life upon it, it will be a boy!” Sometimes it happened that this universal remedy, applied at random, made the patient start or smile; and then his lordship never failed to add, with a nod of great sagacity, “Ah! you didn’t know I knew what you were thinking of! — Well! well! you’ll see we shall cut out Marmaduke yet.”
With this hope of cutting out Marmaduke, Lord Glistonbury went on very happily, and every day grew fonder of the son-in-law, who was the enemy of his heir-at-law, or whom he considered as such. The easiness of Vivian’s temper was peculiarly agreeable to his lordship, who enjoyed the daily pleasure of governing a man of talents which were far superior to his own. This easiness of temper in our hero was much increased by the want of motive and stimulus. He thought that he had now lost his chance of happiness; he cared little for the more or less pain of each succeeding day; and so passive was his listlessness, that to a superficial observer, like Lord Glistonbury, it looked like the good-nature of perfect content. — Poor Vivian! — In this wreck of his happiness, one saving chance, however, yet remained. He had still a public character; he was conscious of, having preserved unblemished integrity as a member of the senate; and this integrity, still more than his oratorical talents, raised him far above most of his competitors, and preserved him not only in the opinion of others, but in his own. When parliament met, he went to town, took a very handsome house for Lady Sarah, determining to do all he could to oblige and please the wife whom he could not love. Lady Sarah had complete power, at home and abroad, of her time and her expenses: her dress, her equipages, her servants, her whole establishment, were above Vivian’s fortune, and equal to her ladyship’s birth and rank. She was mistress of every thing but of his heart. The less he liked her, the more he endeavoured to compensate for this involuntary fault, by allowing her that absolute dominion, and that external splendour, which he thought would gratify, and perhaps fill her mind. As for himself, he took refuge in the House of Commons. There he forgot for a time domestic uneasiness, and was truly animated by what so many affect — zeal for the good of his country. He was proud to recollect, that the profligate Wharton had failed in the attempt to laugh him out of his public virtue; he was proud that Wharton’s prophecies of his apostasy had never been accomplished; that, as a public! character at least, he had fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and was still worthy of himself, and of that friend whom he had lost. He clung to this idea, as to the only hope left him in life.
One night, in a debate on some question of importance, he made an excellent speech, which was particularly well received by the house, because it came from one who had an unblemished character. When Vivian went into the coffee-room to refresh himself, after he had done speaking, several of his acquaintance crowded
round him, complimenting him upon his success — he broke from them all! for he saw, advancing towards him with a smile of approbation, the friend on whose approbation he set a higher value than he did even on the applauses of the house — the friend whose lost affection he had so long and so bitterly regretted. Russell stretched out his hand — Vivian eagerly seized it; and, before they had either of them spoken one word, they both understood each other perfectly, and their reconciliation was completely effected.
“Yes,” said Russell, as they walked out arm in arm together, “yes, it is fit that I should forget all private resentment, in the pride and pleasure I feel, not merely in your public success, but in your public virtue. Talents, even the rare talent of oratory, you know, I hold cheap in comparison with that which is so far more rare, as well as more valuable — political integrity. The abhorrence and contempt of political profligacy, which you have just expressed, as a member of the senate, and the consistent conduct by which you have supported your principles, are worthy of you; and, allow me to say, of your education.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 532