CHAPTER X.
Suspense, curiosity, love, jealousy, remorse, any one of which is enough to keep a person awake all night, by turns agitated poor Vivian so violently, that for several hours he could not close his eyes; but at last, when quite exhausted, he fell into a profound sleep. The first image that came before his mind, when he awoke in the morning, was that of Lady Julia; his next recollection was of Russell.
“Is Mr. Russell up yet?” said Vivian to his servant, who was bringing in his boots.
“Up, sir! Oh, yes, hours ago! — He was off at daybreak!”
“Off!” cried Vivian, starting up in his bed; “off! — Where is he gone?”
“I can’t say, sir. Yes, indeed, sir, I heard Mr. Russell’s man say, that his master was going post to the north, to some old uncle that was taken ill, which he heard about at dinner from some of those gentlemen where he dined yesterday; but I can’t say positively. But here’s a letter he left for you with me.”
“A letter! — Give it me! — Why didn’t you give it me sooner?”
“Why really, sir, you lay so sound, I didn’t care to waken you; and I was up so late myself, too, last night.”
“Leave me now; I’ll ring when I want you.”
“TO C. VIVIAN, ESQ.
“I would not see you, after what passed yesterday, because I feared that I should not speak to you with temper. Lest you should misinterpret any thing I have formerly said, I must now solemnly assure you, that I never had the slightest suspicion of the secret you revealed to me till the moment when it was betrayed by your indiscretion. Still I can scarcely credit what appears to me so improbable; but, even under this uncertainty, I think it my duty to leave this family. Had the slightest idea of what you suggested ever crossed my imagination, I should then have acted as I do now. I say this, not to justify myself, but to convince you, that what I formerly hinted about reserve of manners and prudence was merely a general reflection.
“For my own part, I seem to act HEROICALLY; but I must disclaim that applause to which I am not entitled. All powerful as the temptation must appear to you, dangerous as it must have been, in other circumstances, to me, I cannot claim any merit for resisting its influence. My safety I owe neither to my own prudence or fortitude. I must now, Vivian, impart to you a secret which you are at liberty to confide where and when you think necessary — my heart is, and has long been, engaged. Whilst you were attached to Miss Sidney, I endeavoured to subdue my love for her; and every symptom of it was, I hope and believe, suppressed. This declaration cannot now give you any pain; except so far as it may, perhaps, excite in your mind some remorse for having unwarrantably, unworthily, and weakly, suffered yourself to feel suspicions of a true friend. Well as I know the infirmity of your character, and willing as I have always been to make allowance for a fault which I thought time and experience would correct, I was not prepared for this last stroke; I never thought your weakness of mind would have shown itself in suspicion of your best, your long-tried friend. — But I am at last convinced that your mind is not strong enough for confidence and friendship. I pity, but I see that I can no longer serve; and I feel that I can no longer esteem you. Farewell! Vivian. May you find a friend, who will supply to you the place of H. RUSSELL.”
Vivian knew Russell’s character too well to flatter himself that the latter part of this letter was written in anger that would quickly subside; from the tone of the letter he felt that Russell was deeply offended. In the whole course of his life he had depended on Russell’s friendship as a solid blessing, of which he could never be deprived by any change of circumstances — by any possible chance in human affairs; and now to have lost such a friend by his own folly, by his own weakness, was a misfortune of which he could hardly believe the reality. At the same moment, too, he learned how nobly Russell had behaved towards him, in the most trying situation in which the human heart can be placed. Russell’s love for Selina Sidney, Vivian had never till this instant suspected. “What force, what command of mind! — What magnanimity! — What a generous friend he has ever been to me! — and I—”
Poor Vivian, always sinning and always penitent, was so much absorbed by sorrow for the loss of Russell’s friendship, that he could not for some time think even of the interests of his love, or consider the advantage which he might derive from the absence of his rival, and from that rival’s explicit declaration, that his affections were irrevocably engaged. By degrees these ideas rose clearly to Vivian’s view; his hopes revived. Lady Julia would see the absolute impossibility of Russell’s returning, or of his accepting her affection; her good sense, her pride, would in time subdue this hopeless passion; and Vivian was generous enough, or sufficiently in love, to feel that the value of her heart would not be diminished, but rather increased in his opinion, by the sensibility she had shown to the talents and virtues of his friend. His friend, Vivian ventured now to call him; for with the hopes of love, the hopes of friendship rose.
“All may yet be well!” said he to himself. “Russell will forgive me when he hears how I was worked upon by those parasites and prudish busybodies, who infused their vile suspicions into my mind. Weak as it is, I never will allow that it is incapable of confidence or of friendship! — No! Russell will retract that harsh sentence. When he is happy, as I am sure I ardently hope he will be, in Selina’s love, he will restore me to his favour. Without his friendship, I could not be satisfied with myself, or happy in the full accomplishment of all my other fondest hopes.”
By the time that hope had thus revived and renovated our hero’s soul; by the time that his views of things had totally changed, and that the colour of his future destiny had turned from black to white — from all gloom to all sunshine; the minute-hand of the clock had moved with unfeeling regularity, or, in plain unmeasured prose, it was now eleven o’clock, and three times Vivian had been warned that breakfast was ready. When he entered the room, the first thing he heard, as usual, was Miss Bateman’s voice, who was declaiming upon some sentimental point, in all “the high sublime of deep absurd.” Vivian, little interested in this display, and joining neither in the open flattery nor in the secret ridicule with which the gentlemen wits and amateurs listened to the Rosamunda, looked round for Lady Julia. “She breakfasts in her own room this morning,” whispered Lord Glistonbury, before Vivian had even pronounced her ladyship’s name.
“So!” said Mr. Pickering, “we have lost Mr. Russell this morning!”
“Yes,” said Lord Glistonbury, “he was forced to hurry away to the north, I find, to an old sick uncle.”
“Lord Lidhurst, I’m afraid, will break his heart for want of him,” cried the lawyer, in a tone that might either pass for earnest or irony, according to the fancy of the interpreter.
“Lord Lidhurst, did you say?” — cried the captain: “are you sure you meant Lord Lidhurst? I don’t apprehend that a young nobleman ever broke his heart after his tutor. But I was going to remark — —”
What farther the captain was going to remark can never be known to the world; for Lord Glistonbury so startled him by the loud and rather angry tone in which he called for the cream, which stood with the captain, that all his few ideas were put to flight. Mr. Pickering, who noticed Lord Glistonbury’s displeasure, now resumed the conversation about Mr. Russell in a new tone; and the lawyer and he joined in a eulogy upon that gentleman. Lord Glistonbury said not a word, but looked embarrassed. Miss Strictland cleared her throat several times, and looked infinitely more rigid and mysterious than usual. Lady Glistonbury and Lady Sarah, ditto — ditto. Almost every body, except such visitors as were strangers at the castle, perceived that there was something extraordinary going on in the family; and the gloom and constraint spread so, that, towards the close of breakfast, nothing was uttered, by prudent people, but awkward sentences about the weather — the wind — and the likelihood of there being a mail from the continent. Still through all this, regardless and unknowing of it all, the Rosamunda talked on, happily abstracted, egotistically secured fro
m the pains of sympathy or of curiosity by the all-sufficient power of vanity. Even her patron, Lord Glistonbury, was at last provoked and disgusted. He was heard, under his breath, to pronounce a contemptuous Pshaw! and, as he rose from the breakfast table he whispered to Vivian, “There’s a woman, now, who thinks of nothing living but herself! — All talkèe talkèe! — I begin to be weary of her. —— Gentlemen,” continued his lordship, “I’ve letters to write this morning. —— You’ll ride — you’ll walk — you’re for the billiard-room, I suppose. —— Mr. Vivian, I shall find you in my study, I hope, an hour hence; but first I have a little business to settle.” With evident embarrassment Lord Glistonbury retired. Lady Glistonbury, Lady Sarah, and Miss Strictland, each sighed; then, with looks of intelligence, rose and retired. The company separated soon afterwards; and went to ride, to walk, or to the billiard-room, and Vivian to the study, to wait there for Lord Glistonbury, and to meditate upon what might be the nature of his lordship’s business. As Vivian crossed the gallery, the door of Lady Glistonbury’s dressing-room opened, and was shut again instantaneously by Miss Strictland; but not before he saw Lady Julia kneeling at her father’s feet, whilst Lady Glistonbury and Lady Sarah were standing like statues, on each side of his lordship. Vivian waited a full hour afterwards in tedious suspense in the study. At last he heard doors open and footsteps, and he judged that the family council had broken up; he laid down a book, of which he had read the same page over six times, without any one of the words it contained having conveyed a single idea to his mind. Lord Glistonbury came in, with papers and parchments in his hands.
“Mr. Vivian, I am afraid you have been waiting for me — have a thousand pardons to ask — I really could not come any sooner — I wished to speak to you — Won’t you sit down? — We had better sit down quietly — there’s no sort of hurry.”
His lordship, however, seemed to be in great agitation-of spirits; and Vivian was convinced that his mind must be interested in an extraordinary manner, because he did not, as was his usual practice, digress to fifty impertinent episodes before he came to the point. He only blew his nose sundry times; and then at once said, “I wish to speak to you, Mr. Vivian, about the proposal you did me the honour to make for my daughter Julia. Difficulties have occurred on our side — very extraordinary difficulties — Julia, I understand, has hinted to you, sir, the nature of those difficulties. — Oh, Mr. Vivian,” said Lord Glistonbury, suddenly quitting the constrained voice in which he spoke, and giving way to his natural feelings, “you are a man of honour and feeling, and a father may trust you! —— Here’s my girl — a charming girl she is; but knowing nothing of the world — self-willed, romantic, open-hearted, imprudent beyond conception; do not listen to any of the foolish things she says to you. You are a man of sense, you love her, and you are every way suited to her; it is the first wish of my heart — I tell you frankly — to see her your wife: then do not let her childish folly persuade you that her affections are engaged — don’t listen to any such stuff. We all know what the first loves of a girl of sixteen must be — But it’s our fault — my fault, my fault, since they will have it so. I care not whose fault it is; but we have had very improper people about her — very! — very! — But all may be well yet, if you, sir, will be steady, and save her — save her from herself. I would farther suggest — —”
Lord Glistonbury was going on, probably, to have weakened by amplification the effect of what he had said, when Lady Julia entered the room; and, advancing with dignified determination of manner, said, “I have your commands, father, that I should see Mr. Vivian again: — I obey.”
“That is right — that is my darling Julia; I always knew she would justify my high opinion of her.” Lord Glistonbury attempted to draw her towards him fondly; but, with an unaltered manner, that seemed as if she suppressed strong emotion, she answered, “I do not deserve your caresses, father; do not oppress me with praise that I cannot merit: I wish to speak to Mr. Vivian without control and without witness.”
Lord Glistonbury rose; and growing red and almost inarticulate with anger, exclaimed, “Remember, Julia! remember, Lady Julia Lidhurst! that if you say what you said you would say, and what I said you should not say — I — Lord Glistonbury, your father — I, as well as all the rest of your family, utterly disclaim and cast you off for ever! — You’ll be a thing without fortune — without friends — without a name — without a being in the world — Lady Julia Lidhurst!”
“I am well aware of that,” replied Lady Julia, growing quite pale, yet without changing the determination of her countenance, or abating any thing from the dignity of her manner: “I am well aware, that on what I am about to do depends my having, or my ceasing from this moment to have, fortune, friends, and a father.”
Lord Glistonbury stood still for a moment — fixed his eyes upon her as if he would have read her soul; but, without seeking to elude his inquiry, her countenance seemed to offer itself to his penetration.
“By Heaven, there is no understanding this girl!” cried his lordship. “Mr. Vivian, I trust her to your honour — to your knowledge of the world — to your good sense; — in short, sir, to your love and constancy.”
“And I, sir,” said Lady Julia, turning to Vivian, after her father had left the room, and looking at Vivian so as to stop him short as he approached, and to disconcert him in the commencement of a passionate speech; “and I, too, sir, trust to your honour, whilst I deprecate your love. Imprudent as I was in the first confidence I reposed in you, and much as I have suffered by your rashness, I now stand determined to reveal to you another yet more important, yet more humiliating secret — You owe me no gratitude, sir! — I am compelled, by the circumstances in which I am placed, either to deceive or to trust you. I must either become your wife, and deceive you most treacherously; or I must trust you entirely, and tell you why it would be shameful that I should become your wife — shameful to me and to you.”
“To me! — Impossible!” cried Vivian, bursting into some passionate expressions of love and admiration.
“Listen to me, sir; and do not make any of those rash professions, of which you will soon repent. You think you are speaking to the same Lady Julia you saw yesterday — No! — you are speaking to a very different person — a few hours have made a terrible change. You see before you, sir, one who has been, till this day, the darling and pride of her father; who has lived in the lap of luxury; who has been flattered, admired, by almost all who approached her; who had fortune, and rank, and fair prospects in life, and youth, and spirits, and all the pride of prosperity; who had, I believe, good dispositions, perhaps some talents, and, I may say, a generous heart; who might have been, — but that is all over — no matter what she might have been — she is
‘A tale for ev’ry prating she.’
Fallen! — fallen! fallen under the feet of those who worshipped her! — fallen below the contempt of the contemptible! — Worse! worse! fallen in her own opinion — never to rise again.”
Lady Julia’s voice failed, and she was forced to pause. She sunk upon a seat, and hid her face — for some moments she neither saw nor heard; but at last, raising her head, she perceived Vivian.
“You are in amazement, sir! and I see you pity me; but let me beg of you to restrain your feelings — my own are as much as I can bear. O that I could recall a few hours of my existence! But I have not yet been able to tell you what has passed. My father, my friends, wish to conceal it from you: but, whatever I have done, however low I have sunk, I will not deceive, nor be an accomplice in deceit. From my own lips you shall hear all. This morning at daybreak, not being able to sleep, and having some suspicion that Mr. Russell would leave the castle, I rose, and whilst I was dressing, I heard the trampling of horses in the court. I looked out of my window, and saw Mr. Russell’s man saddling his master’s horse. I heard Mr. Russell, a moment afterwards, order the servant to take the horses to the great gate on the north road, and wait for him there, as he intended to walk through the park.
I thought these were the last words I should ever hear him speak. — Love took possession of me — I stole softly down the little staircase that leads from my turret to one of the back doors, and got out of the castle, as I thought, unobserved: I hurried on, and waited in the great oak wood, through which I knew Mr. Russell would pass. When I saw him coming nearer and nearer to me, I would have given the world to have been in my own room again — I hid myself among the trees — yet, when he walked on in reverie without noticing me, taking me probably for one of the servants, I could not bear to think that this was the last moment I should ever see him, and I exclaimed — I know not what; but I know that at the sound of my voice Mr. Russell started, and never can I forget the look — Spare me the rest! — No! — I will not spare myself — I offered my heart, my hand, — and they were rejected! — In my madness I told him I regarded neither wealth, nor rank, nor friends, nor — That I would rather live with him in obscurity than be the greatest princess upon earth — I said this and more — and I was rejected — And even at this moment, instead of the vindictive passions which are said to fill the soul of a woman scorned, I feel admiration for your noble friend: I have not done him justice; I cannot repeat his words, or describe his manner. He persuaded, by his eloquence compelled, me to return to this castle. He took from me all hope; he destroyed by one word all my illusions — he told me that he loves another. He has left me to despair, to disgrace; and yet I love, esteem, and admire him, above all human beings! Admire one who despises me! — Is it possible? I know not, but it is so — I have more to tell you, sir! — As I returned to the castle, I was watched by Miss Strictland. How she knew all that had passed, I cannot divine; perhaps it was by means of some spy who followed me, and whom I did not perceive: for I neither saw nor heard any thing but my passion. Miss Strictland communicated her discovery immediately to my father. I have been these last two hours before a family tribunal. My mother, with a coldness a thousand times worse than my poor father’s rage, says, that I have only accomplished her prophecies; that she always knew and told my father that I should be a disgrace to my family. But no reproaches are equal to my own; I stand self-condemned. I feel like one awakened from a dream. A few words! — a single look from Mr. Russell! — how they have altered all my views, all my thoughts! Two hours’ reflection — Two hours, did I say? — whole years — a whole existence — have passed to me in the last two hours: I am a different creature. But it is too late — too late! — Self-esteem is gone! — happiness is over for me in this world.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 527
