Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Thrown into the utmost consternation by the idea of this double forfeiture of honour, this breach both of public and private faith, Vivian, after thanking Colonel S —— for his friendly manner of communicating this information, and declaring that the transaction was totally unknown to him, begged that the colonel would do him the favour and the justice to be present when he should require an explanation from Lord Glistonbury. To this Colonel S —— consented, and they hastened in search of his lordship: his lordship was not to be found; but Mr. Marmaduke Lidhurst was, however, in the coffee-room, and upon Vivian’s referring to him, he could not deny the truth of the charge, though he used all his powers of circumlocution to evade giving a direct answer. The shame, the indignation, that rapidly succeeded to each other in Vivian’s countenance, sufficiently convinced Colonel S —— that he had no share in the private part of this disgraceful transaction; and he very handsomely assured Vivian, that he would set the matter in its true point of view with his friends. Marmaduke soon found a pretence to withdraw — some member was speaking in the house, whom he must hear, he said, and away he went.

  At this moment Mr. Wharton, who was walking down the room with his friends, passed by Vivian, and, as he passed, said,

  “That private vices are public benefits, we all know; but that public vices are private benefits, some of us, alas! have yet to learn. But I’d have that little, whiffling, most noble and puissant prince expectant, his majesty’s right trusty and entirely beloved cousin elect, know, that plain Bob Wharton is not a man to be duped and deserted with impunity.”

  “Whom does he mean? — What does he mean?” whispered some of the bystanders. “What prince is he talking of? — Which of the princes?”

  “Oh! none of the princes,” replied another. “You know most noble and puissant prince is the title of a marquis, and our right trusty and entirely beloved cousin, the style in which the king writes to him.”

  “But who is this marquis expectant?”

  “Don’t you know? — Lord Glistonbury.”

  “But some of his lordship’s friends ought to take it up, surely.”

  “Hush! — his son-in-law will hear you.”

  “Where?”

  “There — don’t look!”

  Vivian was, with reason, so much exasperated by the treacherous duplicity of Lord Glistonbury’s conduct, that he was ill inclined to undertake his lordship’s defence, and determined to leave it to himself, or to his nephew; yet the whispers operated not a little upon his weakness. Wharton, who was walking with his set up and down the room, again came within Vivian’s hearing, and, as he passed, exclaimed, “Public vice! and public virtue! precious, well-matched pair!”

  “Who is public vice, and who is public virtue?” said one of Wharton’s companions.

  “Don’t you know?” replied Wharton: “the heir-at-law and the son-in-law.”

  On hearing this speech, Vivian, who knew that he was one of the persons to whom it alluded, started forward to demand an explanation from Wharton: but Colonel S —— held him back. “You are not called upon, by any means, to take notice of this,” said the colonel: “Wharton did not address himself to you, and though he might mean what he said for you, yet he speaks under a false impression; and besides, he is not quite sober. Leave it to me, and I will settle it all to your satisfaction before to-morrow.” Vivian listened unwillingly and uneasily to the friendly counsel: he was more hurt than he had ever before felt himself by any of Wharton’s sarcasms, because there was now in them a mixture of truth; and a man seldom feels more irritable than when he is conscious that he is partly to blame, and apprehensive that others will think him more blameable than he really is. His irritability was increased by the whispers he had heard, and the looks he now perceived among the bystanders: the voice, the opinion of numbers, the fear of what others would think or say, operated against his better judgment.

  “Come,” said Colonel S —— , “let us go and see what they are doing in the house.”

  Vivian refused to stir, saying that it would be leaving the field to Wharton. Wharton at this instant repassed; and still running the changes, with half-intoxicated wit, upon the same ideas, reiterated, “Public vice! — We all knew where that would end in these days — in public honours; but none of you would believe me, when I told you where public virtue would end — in private treachery!”

  “That’s neat! — that’s strong! — faith, that’s home!” whispered some one.

  “Mr. Wharton!” cried Vivian, going up to him, “I could not help hearing what you said just now — did you intend it for me?”

  “You heard it, it seems, sir, and that is sufficient,” replied Wharton, in an insolent tone: “as to what I meant, I presume it is pretty evident; but, if you think it requires any explanation, I am as ready to give as you can be to ask it.”

  “The sooner the better, then, sir,” said Vivian. The two gentlemen walked away together, whilst the spectators exclaimed, “Very spirited indeed! — very right! — very proper! — Vivian could do no less than call him out. But, after all, what was the quarrel about? Which of them was to blame?”

  Long before these points were settled, the challenge was given and accepted. Colonel S —— , who followed Vivian and Wharton, endeavoured to set things to rights, by explaining that Vivian had been deceived by Lord Glistonbury, and kept totally in the dark respecting the negotiation for the marquisate. But Wharton, aware that by taking up the matter immediately in such a spirited way he should do himself infinite honour with his party, and with that majority of the world who think that the greatest merit of a man is to stand to be shot at, was not at all willing to listen to these representations. Colonel S —— declared that, were he in Mr. Wharton’s place, he should, without hesitation, make an apology to Mr. Vivian, and publicly acknowledge that what he said in the coffee-room was spoken under a false impression, which a plain statement of facts had totally removed: but Wharton disdained all terms of accommodation; his policy, pride, and desire of revenge, all conspired to produce that air of insolent determination to fight, which, with some people, would obtain the glorious name of COURAGE. By this sort of courage can men of the most base and profligate characters often put themselves in a moment upon an equal footing with men of principle and virtue!

  It was settled that Mr. Wharton and Vivian should meet, at eight o’clock the next morning, in a field near town. Colonel S —— consented to be Vivian’s second. Russell was not yet returned — not expected till ten the next day.

  Left to his cool reflection, Vivian thought with horror of the misery into which the event of this duel might involve all with whom he was connected, and all who were attached to him. The affair was of course to be kept a secret from all at Glistonbury House, where Vivian was engaged to dine with a large ministerial party. He went home to dress, hoping to have a quarter of an hour to himself; but, on entering his own dressing-room, he, to his surprise and mortification, found his wife seated there, waiting for him with a face of anxious expectation; a case of newly-set diamonds on a table beside her. “I thought you were at your father’s, my dear: are you not to be at Glistonbury House to-day?” said Vivian.

  “No,” replied Lady Sarah. “Surely, Mr. Vivian, you know that my father gives a political dinner, and I suppose you are to be there?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Vivian; “I did not know what I was saying — I am to be there, and must dress (looking at his watch), for I have no time to spare.”

  “Be that as it may, I must intrude upon your time for a few minutes,” said Lady Sarah.

  Vivian stood impatiently attentive, whilst Lady Sarah seemed to find it difficult to begin some speech which she had prepared.

  “Women, I know, have nothing to do with politics,” she began in a constrained voice; but, suddenly quitting her air and tone of constraint, she started up and exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, dear husband! what have you done? — No, no, I cannot, will not believe it, till I hear it from your OWN lips!”

  “Wh
at is the matter, my dear Lady Sarah? — You astonish and almost alarm me!” said Vivian, endeavouring to preserve composure of countenance.

  “I will not — Heaven forbid that I should alarm you as I have been alarmed!” said Lady Sarah, commanding her voice again to a tone of tranquillity. “I ought, and, if I were not weak, should be convinced that there is no reason for alarm. There has been some mistake, no doubt; and I have been to blame for listening to idle reports. Let me, however, state the facts. Half an hour ago, I was at Gray’s the jeweller’s, to call for my poor mother’s diamonds, which, you know, he has reset — —”

  “Yes — Well!”

  “And whilst I was in the shop, a party of gentlemen came in, all of them unknown to me, and, of course, I was equally unknown to them; for they began to speak of you in a manner in which none knowing me could venture in my presence. They said — I cannot bear to repeat or to think of what they said — you cannot have bartered your public reputation for a marquisate for my father! — You cannot have done that which is dishonourable — you cannot have deserted your party for a paltry place for yourself! — You turn pale. — I wish, if it pleased God, that I was this moment in my grave!”

  “Heaven forbid, my dear Lady Sarah!” cried Vivian, forcing a smile, and endeavouring to speak in a tone of raillery. “Why should you wish to be in your grave, because your husband has just got a good warm place? Live! live!” said he, raising her powerless hand; “for consider — as I did — and this consideration was of no small weight with me — consider, my dear Sarah, how much better you will live for it!”

  “And you did consider me? And that did weigh with you?”

  “ — Oh, this is what I dreaded most!” cried Lady Sarah.—”When will you know my real character? When will you have confidence in your wife, sir? When will you know the power, the unconquered, unconquerable power of her affection for you?”

  Vivian, much struck by the strength of her expression as she uttered these words, was a moment silent in astonishment; and then could only, in an incoherent manner, protest, that he did know — that he had always done justice to her character — that he believed in her affection — and had the greatest confidence in its power.

  “No, sir, no! — Do not say that which I cannot credit! — You have not confidence in the power of my affection, or you would never have done this thing to save me pain. What pain can be so great to me as the thought of my husband’s reputation suffering abasement? — Do you think that, in comparison with this, I, your wife, could put the loss of a service of plate, or house in town, or equipage, or servants, or such baubles as these?” added she, her eyes glancing upon the diamonds; then, snatching them up, “Take them, take them!” cried she; “they were my mother’s; and if her spirit could look down from heaven upon us she would approve my offer — she would command your acceptance. Then here on my knees I conjure you, my beloved husband, take them — sell them — sell plate, furniture, house, equipage, sell every thing rather than your honour!”

  “It is sold,” said Vivian, in a voice of despair.

  “Redeem it, redeem it at any price!” cried Lady Sarah. “No! I will kneel here at your feet — you shall not raise me — till I have obtained this promise, this justice to me, to yourself!”

  “It is too late,” said Vivian, writhing in agony.

  “Never too late,” cried Lady Sarah. “Give up the place. — Never too late! — Give up the place — write this moment, and all will be well; for your honour will be saved, and the rest is as nothing in my eyes!”

  “High-minded woman!” cried Vivian: “why did not I hear you sooner? Why did not I avail myself of your strength of soul?”

  “Use it now — hear me now — let us waste no time in words — here is a pen and ink — write, my dearest husband! and be yourself again.”

  “You waste the energy of your mind on me,” cried Vivian, breaking from Lady Sarah, and striking his forehead violently; “I am not worthy of such attachment! It is done — it cannot be undone: I am a weak, ruined, dishonoured wretch! — I tell you, it CANNOT be undone!”

  Lady Sarah rose, and stood in despair. Then, looking up to heaven, she was silent for some moments. After which, approaching her husband, she said, in an altered, calm voice, “Since it cannot be undone, I will urge you no more. But, whether in glory or in shame, you are secure that your wife will abide by you.”

  Vivian embraced her with a tenderness which he had never before felt. “Excellent woman! in justice to myself, I must tell you,” cried he, “that I was deceived into this situation. I CAN say no more!”

  At this moment a servant knocked at the door, bringing a message from Lord Glistonbury, to say that all the company were assembled, and that dinner waited for Mr. Vivian.

  “You are not in a fit state to go. Shall I send an apology to my father?”

  “Oh, no! I must go,” cried Vivian, starting up, “I must go, or it will be thought — or it will be suspected — I can’t explain it to you, my dear; but I must go — I must appear to-day, and in spirits too, if possible.”

  He hurried away. A servant delivered to Lady Sarah a number of notes and cards. The notes were notes of congratulation, from many of her acquaintance, upon the report in circulation, that her father was immediately to be a marquis. The cards were from people who were to be at her assembly that night. This was one of her nights, which were usually crowded. Lady Sarah’s first wish was to write apologies, and to say that she was not well enough to see company; but, recollecting that her husband had said, “he must appear, and in spirits, too, if possible,” she thought that it might be more for their interest, and according to his wishes, that she should see company, and that no appearance of dejection should be discerned in his wife. She prepared herself accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, walked through her splendid apartments, to see whether the decorations had been properly executed.

  In the mean time Vivian dined at Lord Glistonbury’s, with a large ministerial party. As soon as he could, after dinner, Vivian got away; and Lord Glistonbury attributed his retiring early to the awkwardness he might feel in the company of men whom he had, till now, so violently opposed. This his lordship thought a foolish young man’s feeling, which would soon wear away. Vivian returned home, anxious to escape from crowds, and to have some hours of leisure to pass alone; but, the moment he entered his own house, he saw the great staircase lined with roses and orange-trees; he found the rooms lighted up and prepared for company; and Lady Sarah dressed, for the first time, in all her mother’s diamonds.

  “Good Heavens! — Do you see company to-night?” cried he.

  “Yes; for I thought, my dear, that you would wish it.”

  “I wish it! — Oh! if you knew how I wish to be alone!”

  “Then, as no one is yet come, I can still shut my doors, and order them to say that I am not well enough to see company — I am sure it is true. Shall I?”

  “No, my dear, it is too late,” said Vivian: “I am afraid it is impossible for you to do that.”

  “Not impossible, if you wish it.”

  “Well, do as you please.”

  “Which is most for your interest? I have no other pleasure.”

  “You are too good to me, and I fear I shall never have it in my power to show you any gratitude — —”

  “But decide which is best to be done, my dear,” said Lady Sarah.

  “Why, my dear, I believe you judged rightly — see your friends, and make the best of it: but I can appear only for a moment; I have business of consequence — letters — papers — that must be finished to-night; and I must go now to my study.”

  “You shall not be interrupted,” said Lady Sarah: “I will exert myself as much as possible.”

  A tremendous knock at the door. — Vivian passed through the saloon, and gained his study, where, after remaining for some time in painful reflection, he was roused by hearing the clock strike twelve. He recollected that he had several arrangements to make in his affairs this night; and t
hat it was incumbent on him to sign and execute a will, which had been for some time in his possession, with certain blanks not yet filled up. His wife was, by his marriage settlements, amply provided for; but he inserted in his will some clauses which he thought would add to her peculiar comfort, and took care to word them so that his respect and esteem should be known hereafter to all the world; and that, if he died, he should leave her the consolation of knowing that his last feelings for her were those of gratitude and affection. To his mother he left all that was in his power to contribute to the ease of her declining years — often obliged to pause whilst he wrote, overcome by the thoughts of what her grief would be if he died. He left his friend Russell in remainder, to a considerable part of his estate; and he was just adding the bequest of certain books, which they had read together in his better days, when the door of the study suddenly opened, and his mother entered.