“Then, if you won’t let me blame you, I must blame my mother.”
“Your mother! — I had always understood that she had paid particular attention to your early education, and all the world says that Lady Mary Vivian, though a woman of fashion, is remarkably well-informed and domestic; and, judging from those of her letters which you have shown me, I should think that, for once, what all the world says is right.”
“What all the world says is right, and yet I am not wrong: — my mother is a very clever woman, and most affectionate, and she certainly paid particular attention to my early education; but her attention was too particular, her care was too great. You know I was an only son — then I lost my father when I was an infant; and a woman, let her be ever so sensible, cannot well educate an only son, without some manly assistance; the fonder she is of the son the worse, even if her fondness is not foolish fondness — it makes her over-anxious — it makes her do too much. My mother took too much, a great deal too much, care of me; she over-educated, over-instructed, over-dosed me with premature lessons of prudence: she was so afraid that I should ever do a foolish thing, or not say a wise one, that she prompted my every word, and guided my every action. So I grew up, seeing with her eyes, hearing with her ears, and judging with her understanding, till, at length, it was found out that I had not eyes, ears, or understanding of my own. When I was between twelve and thirteen, my mother began to think that I was not sufficiently manly for my age, and that there was something too yielding and undecided in my character. Seized with a panic, my mother, to make a man of me at once, sent me to —— school. There I was, with all convenient expedition, made ashamed of every thing good I had learned at home; and there I learned every thing bad, and nothing good, that could be learned at school. I was inferior in Latin and Greek; and this was a deficiency I could not make up without more labour than I had courage to undertake. I was superior in general literature, but this was of little value amongst my competitors, and therefore I despised it; and, overpowered by numbers and by ridicule, I was, of course, led into all sorts of folly, by mere mauvaise honte. Had I been in the habit of exercising my own judgment, or had my resolution been strengthened by degrees; had I, in short, been prepared for a school, I might, perhaps, have acquired, by a public education, a manly, independent spirit. If I had even been wholly bred up in a public school, I might have been forced, as others were, by early and fair competition, to exercise my own powers, and by my own experience in that microcosm, as it has been called, I might have formed some rules of conduct, some manliness of character, and might have made, at least, a good schoolboy. Half home-bred, and half school-bred, from want of proper preparation, one half of my education totally destroyed the other. From school, of course, I went to college, and at college, of course, I should have become one of the worst species of college lads, and should have had no chance, in my whole future life, of being any thing but a dissipated fool of fashion, one of the Four-in-Hand Club, or the Barouche Club, or the Tandem Club, or the Defiance Club, had not I, by the greatest good fortune, met with such a friend as you, and, by still greater good fortune, found you out for myself; for if my mother had recommended you to me, I should have considered you only as a college tutor; I should never have discovered half your real merit; I doubt whether I should have even seen that you are young and handsome: so prejudiced should I have been with the preconceived notion of a college tutor, that I am not certain whether I should have found out that you are a gentleman as well born and well bred as myself; but, be that as it may, I am positive that I never should have made you my companion and friend; I should never have thrown open my whole soul to you, as I have done; nor could you ever have obtained such wondrous power as you possess over my mind, if you had been recommended to me by my mother.”
“I am sorry,” said Russell, smiling, “that, after so many wise reflections, and so many fine compliments, you end by proving to me that my wondrous power is founded on your wondrous weakness. I am mortified to find that your esteem and friendship for me depended so much upon my not having had the honour of your mother’s recommendation; and have not I reason to fear, that now, when I have a chance of becoming acquainted with Lady Mary Vivian, and, perhaps, a chance of her thinking me a fit companion and friend for her son, I must lose his regard and confidence, because I shall labour under the insuperable objection of an affectionate mother’s approbation?”
“No, no,” said Vivian; “my wilful folly does not go quite so far as that. So that I maintain the privilege of choosing my friends for myself, I shall always be pleased and proud to find my mother approve my choice.”
After a few moments’ pause, Vivian added, “You misunderstand, quite misunderstand me, if you think that I am not fond of my mother. I respect and love her with all my soul: — I should be a most ungrateful wretch if I did not. I did very wrong to speak as I did just now, of any little errors she may have made in my education; but, believe me, I would not have said so much to any one living but yourself, nor to you, but in strict confidence; and, after all, I don’t know whether I ought not to lay the blame of my faults on my masters more than on my poor mother.”
“Lay the blame where we will,” said Russell, “remember, that the punishment will rest on ourselves. We may, with as much philosophic justice as possible, throw the blame of our faults on our parents and preceptors, and on the early mismanagement of our minds; yet, after we have made out our case in the abstract, to the perfect satisfaction of a jury of metaphysicians, when we come to overt actions, all our judges, learned and unlearned, are so awed, by the ancient precedents and practice of society, and by the obsolete law of common sense, that they finish by pronouncing against us the barbarous sentence, that every man must suffer for his own faults.”
“‘I hope I shall be able to bear it, my lord,’ as the English sailor said when the judge —— But look out there! Let down that glass on your side of the carriage!” cried Vivian, starting forward. “There’s Vivian Hall!”
“That fine old castle?” said Russell, looking out of the window.
“No; but farther off to the left, don’t you see amongst the trees that house with wings?”
“Ha! quite a new, modern house: I had always fancied that Vivian Hall was an old pile of building.”
“So it was, till my father threw down the old hall, and built this new house.”
“And a very handsome one it is. — Is it as good within as without?”
“Quite, I think; but I’ll leave you to judge for yourself. — Are not those fine old trees in the park?”
From this time till the travellers arrived at Vivian Hall, their conversation turned upon trees, and avenues, and serpentine approaches, and alterations that Vivian intended to make, when he should be of age, and master of this fine place; and he now wanted but a twelvemonth of being at legal years of discretion. When they arrived at the hall, Lady Mary Vivian showed much affectionate joy at the sight of her son, and received Mr. Russell with such easy politeness that he was prepossessed at first in her favour. To this charm of well-bred manners was united the appearance of sincerity and warmth of feeling. In her conversation there was a mixture of excellent sense and general literature with the frivolities of the fashionable world, and the anecdotes of the day in certain high circles, of which she seemed to talk more from habit than taste, and to annex importance more from the compulsion of external circumstances than from choice. But her son, — her son was the great object of all her thoughts, serious or frivolous. She was delighted by the improvements she saw in his understanding and character; by the taste and talents he displayed, both for fine literature and for solid information: this flattered her hope that he would both shine as a polished gentleman and make a figure in public life. To his friend Russell she attributed these happy improvements; and, though he was not a tutor of her own original selection, yet her pride, on this occasion, yielded to gratitude, and she graciously declared, that she could not feel jealous of the pre-eminent power he had obtained
over her son, when she saw the admirable use he made of this influence. Vivian, like all candid and generous persons, being peculiarly touched by candour and generosity in others, felt his affection for his mother rapidly increased by this conduct; nor did his enthusiasm for his friend in the least abate, in consequence of the high approbation with which she honoured him, nor even in consequence of her ladyship’s frequent and rather injudicious expressions of her hopes, that her son would always preserve and show himself worthy of such a friend.
He joined in his mother’s entreaties to Russell to prolong his visit; and as her ladyship declared she thought it of essential consequence to her son’s interest and future happiness, that he should, at this turn of his life, have such a companion, Russell consented to remain with him some time longer. All parties were thus pleased with each other, and remained united by one common interest about the same objects, during several weeks of a delightful summer. But, alas! this family harmony, and this accord of reason and will, between the mother and son, were not of longer duration. As usual, there were faults on both sides.
Lady Mary Vivian, whose hopes of her son’s distinguishing himself by his abilities had been much exalted since his last return from Oxford, had indulged herself in pleasing anticipations of the time when he should make his appearance in the fashionable and in the political world. She foresaw the respect that would be paid to her, on his account, both by senators and by matrons; by ministers, who might want to gain a rising orator’s vote, and by mothers, who might wish to make an excellent match for their daughters: not only by all mothers who had daughters to marry, but by all daughters who had hearts or hands to dispose of, Lady Mary felt secure of having her society courted. Now, she had rather extravagant expectations for her son: she expected him to marry, so as to secure domestic happiness, and, at the same time, to have fashion, and beauty, and rank, and high connexions, and every amiable quality in a wife. This vision of a future daughter-in-law continually occupied her ladyship’s imagination. Already, with maternal Alnascharism, she had, in her reveries, thrown back her head with disdain, as she repulsed the family advances of some wealthy but low-born heiress, or as she rejected the alliance of some of the new nobility. Already she had arranged the very words of her answers to these, and determined the degrees and shades of her intimacies with those; already had she settled
“To whom to nod, whom take into her coach, Whom honour with her hand;”
when one morning, as she sat at work, absorbed in one of these reveries, she was so far “rapt into future times,” that, without perceiving that any body was present, she began to speak her thoughts, and said aloud to herself, “As if my son could possibly think of her!”
Her son, who was opposite to her, lying on a sofa, reading, or seeming to read, started up, and putting down his book, exclaimed, in a voice which showed at once that he was conscious of thinking of some particular person, and determined to persist in the thought, “As if your son could possibly think of her! —— Of whom, ma’am?”
“What’s the matter, child? Are you mad?”
“Not in the least, ma’am; but you said — —”
“What!” cried Lady Mary, looking round; “What did I say, that has occasioned so much disturbance? — I was not conscious of saying any thing. My dear Selina,” continued her ladyship, appealing to a young lady, who sat very intent upon some drawing beside her, “my dear Selina, you must have heard; what did I say?”
The young lady looked embarrassed; and the colour which spread over her face, brought a sudden suspicion into Lady Mary’s mind: her eye darted back upon her son — the suspicion, the fear was confirmed; and she grew instantly pale, silent, and breathless, in the attitude in which she was struck with this panic. The young lady’s blush and embarrassment had a very different effect on Vivian; joy suddenly sparkled in his eyes, and illumined his whole countenance, for this was the first instant he had ever felt any hope of having obtained an interest in her heart. He was too much transported at this moment to think either of prudence or of his mother; and, when he recollected himself, he was too little practised in dissimulation to repair his indiscretion. Something he did attempt to say, and blundered, and laughed at his blunder; and when his mother looked up at him, in serious silence, he only begged pardon for his folly, confessed he believed he was mad, and, turning away abruptly, left the room, exclaiming that he wondered where Russell had been all the morning, and that he must go and look for him. A long silence ensued between Vivian’s mother and the young lady, who were left alone together. Lady Mary first broke the silence, and, in a constrained tone, asked, as she took up the newspaper, “Whether Miss Sidney had found any news?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” answered Miss Sidney, in a voice scarcely articulate.
“I should have imagined there must be some news from the continent: but you did not find any, I think you say, Miss Sidney;” continued Lady Mary, with haughty, averted eyes. After turning over the pages of the paper, without knowing one word it contained, she laid it down, and rose to leave the room. Miss Sidney rose at the same time.
“Lady Mary, one instant; my dear Lady Mary.”
Lady Mary turned, and saw Selina’s supplicating eyes full of tears; but her ladyship, still retaining her severity of manner, coldly said, “Does Miss Sidney desire that I should stay? — Does Miss Sidney wish to speak to me?”
“I do — as soon as I can,” said Selina in a faltering voice; but, raising her eyes, and perceiving the contemptuous expression of Lady Mary’s countenance, her own instantly changed. With the firm tone of conscious innocence, she repeated, “I do wish to speak to your ladyship, if you will hear me with your usual candour; I do not expect or solicit your usual indulgence.”
“Miss Sidney,” replied Lady Mary, “before you say more, it becomes me to point out to you, that the moment is past for confidence between us two; and that in no moment could I wish to hear from any person, much less from one whom I had considered as my friend, confessions, extorted by circumstances, degrading and unavailing.”
“Your ladyship need not be apprehensive of hearing from me any degrading confessions,” said Miss Sidney; “I have none to make: and since, without any just cause, without any cause for suspicion, but what a blush, perhaps, or a moment’s embarrassment of manner may have created, you think it becomes you to point out to me that the moment for confidence between us is past, I can only lament my mistake in having believed that it ever existed.”
Lady Mary’s countenance and manner totally changed. The pride of rank yielded before the pride of virtue; and perhaps the hope that she had really no cause for suspicion at once restored her affection for her young friend. “Let us understand one another, my dear Selina,” said she; “if I said a hasty or a harsh word, forgive it. You know my affection for you, and my real confidence; in actions, not in words, I have shown it. — In thought, as well as in actions, my confidence in you has been entire; for, upon my word, and you know this is not an asseveration I lightly use, upon my word, till that unfortunate moment, a suspicion of you never crossed my imagination. The proof — if there could need any proof to you of what I assert — the proof is, the delight I take in your society, the urgent manner in which I have so frequently, this summer, begged your company from your mother. You know this would have not only been the height of insincerity, but of folly and madness, if I had not felt a reliance upon you that made me consider it as an absolute impossibility that you could ever disappoint my friendship.”
“I thank your ladyship,” said Selina, softened by the kind tone in which Lady Mary now spoke, yet still retaining some reserve of manner; “I thank your ladyship for all your kindness — it has flattered me much — touched me deeply — commanded my gratitude, and influenced my conduct uniformly — I can and do entirely forgive the injustice of a moment; and I now bid you adieu, my dear Lady Mary, with the conviction that, if we were never to meet again, I should always hold that place in your esteem and affection with which you have ho
noured me, and which, if it be not too proud an expression, I hope I have deserved —— Won’t you bid me farewell?”
The tears gushed from Lady Mary’s eyes. “My dear, charming, and prudent Selina, I understand you perfectly — and I thank you: it grieves me to part with you — but I believe you are right — I believe there is no other safety — no other remedy. How, indeed, could I expect that my son could see and hear you — live in the house with you, and become intimately acquainted with such a character as yours, without danger! I have been very imprudent, unaccountably imprudent, to expose him to such a temptation; but I hope, I trust, that your prudence will repair, in time, the effects of my rashness — and again and again I thank you, my dear young friend — but, perhaps it might be still better that you should not leave us abruptly. Still better than your absence, I think, would be the conviction you might impress on his mind of the impossibility of his hopes: if you were to stay a day or two, and convince him by your indifference that — —” “Excuse me, that is what I cannot undertake,” said Selina, blushing, and conscious of blushing. Lady Mary was too polite and too delicate to seem to observe her confusion, but, embracing her, said—”If we must part, then take with you my highest esteem, affection, and gratitude; and this much let me add, that my most sanguine expectations for my son’s happiness would be realized, if amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice, he could meet with one of half your merit, and half your attractions.”
“Amongst the women to whom family interests must restrict his choice,” repeated Selina to herself many times, as she journeyed homewards; and she pondered much upon the meaning of this phrase. Vivian was sole heir to a very large property, without encumbrances of any kind; what, therefore, was the necessity that restricted his choice? The imaginary necessity of ambition, which confined him to a certain circle of fashionable, or highly connected people. Selina Sidney, though she was not rich, was of a very good gentleman’s family; her father had been a colonel in the British army: during his life, Mrs. Sidney had been in the habit of living a great deal in what is called the world, and in the best company; and though, since his death, she had lived in retirement, Miss Sidney had received an education which put her upon a footing with young ladies of the highest accomplishments and refinement in the kingdom. With every solid and amiable quality, she had all those external advantages of appearance and manner which Lady Mary Vivian valued most highly. Selina, who was convinced that Lady Mary appreciated her character, and was peculiarly fond of her company and conversation, could not but feel surprise, mixed with some indignation, perhaps with a little resentment, when she perceived that her ladyship’s prejudices and ambition made her act so completely in contradiction to her better judgment, to her professions, and to her feelings of affection. Whatever Miss Sidney thought upon this subject, however, she determined to continue to avoid seeing Vivian any more — an excellent resolution, in which we leave her, and return to her lover.
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