Vivian told his mother that he would take a night to reconsider the matter coolly; and, satisfied with having gained so much, she suffered him to go home. As he was quitting his own dressing-room, he paused, to consider whether he should consult his wife, who was, as yet, in ignorance of the whole transaction, and who knew nothing of the deranged state of his affairs. He did her the justice to believe that she would be willing to live with him in retirement, and to forego all the luxuries and pride of her rank, for the sake of her duty and of her love. He was convinced that, in any opposition between her father’s interests and her husband’s honour, she would strongly abide by her husband. He recollected all Lady Julia had said of the advantage that her sister’s firmness of mind might be in steadying his vacillating temper in any moment of trial. Here was the first great occasion, since his marriage, where his wife’s strength of mind could be of essential service to him: yet he hesitated whether he should avail himself of this advantage; and every moment, as he approached nearer to her apartment, he hesitated more and more; He did not, in the first place, like to humble himself so far as to ask her counsel; then he had not courage to confess those debts and embarrassments which he had hitherto concealed. All that his mother had suggested about the indelicacy of requiring or accepting great sacrifices from a woman whom, though he esteemed, he could not love — the horror of retirement with such a companion — the long years tête-à-tête — all these ideas combined, but chiefly the apprehension of the immediate present pain of speaking to her on a disagreeable subject, and of being obliged to hear her speak with that formal deliberation which he detested; added to this, the dread of her surprise, if not of her reproaches, when all his affairs should be revealed, operated so irresistibly upon his weakness, that he decided on the common resource — concealment. His hand was upon the lock of his chamber-door, and he turned it cautiously and softly, lest, in entering his apartment, he should waken Lady Sarah: but she was not asleep.
“What can have kept you so late, Mr. Vivian?” said she.
“Business, my dear,” answered he, with some embarrassment.
“May I ask what sort of business?”
“Oh! — only — political business.”
“Political business!” She looked earnestly at her husband; but, as if repressing her curiosity, she afterwards added, “our sex have nothing to do with politics,” and, turning away from the light, she composed herself to sleep.
“Very true, my dear,” replied Vivian — not a word more did he say: content with this evasion of the difficulty, he thus, by his weakness, deprived himself of the real advantage of his wife’s strength of mind. Whilst Lady Sarah, in total ignorance of the distress of her husband, slept in peace, he lay awake, revolving painful thoughts in the silence of the night. All that his mother had said about the pecuniary difficulties to which they must soon be reduced recurred with fresh force; the ideas of the unpaid election bills, all the masons’, carpenters’, painters’, glaziers’, and upholsterers’ bills, with “thousands yet unnamed behind,” rose, in dreadful array, before him, and the enthusiasm of his patriotism was appalled. With feverish reiteration, he ran over and over, in his mind, the same circle of difficulties, continually returning to the question, “Then what can be done?” Bitterly did he this night regret the foolish expenses into which he had early in life been led. If it were to do over again, he certainly would not turn his house into a castle; if he had foreseen how much the expense would surpass the estimates, assuredly nothing could have tempted him to such extravagance. The architect, the masons, the workmen, one and all, were knaves; but, one and all, they must be paid. Then what could he do? — And the debts incurred by the contested elections! — contested elections are cursed things, when the bills come to be paid; but, cursed or not, they must be paid. Then what could he do? — The distress in which he should involve his generous mother — the sacrifices he should require from his wife — the family quarrels — all that Lady Sarah would suffer from them — the situation of his wife. Then what could he do? — He MUST submit to Lord Glistonbury, and take the place that was offered to him.
Vivian sighed — and turned in his bed — and sighed — and thought — and turned — and sighed again — and the last sigh of expiring patriotism escaped him! —— To this end, to this miserable end, must all patriotism come, which is not supported by the seemingly inferior virtues of prudence and economy.
Poor Vivian endeavoured to comfort himself by the reflection that he should not act from merely mercenary considerations, but that he was compelled to yield to the solicitations of his mother and of his father-in-law; that he was forced to sacrifice his own public opinions to secure domestic peace, and to prevent the distress of his mother, the misery, and perhaps danger, of his wife and child. Dereliction of principle, in these circumstances, was something like an amiable, a pardonable weakness. And then, see it in what light you will, as Lord Glistonbury observed, “there are so many who will keep a patriot in countenance now-a-days, for merely changing sides in politics. A man is not even thought to be a man of talents till he gets something by his talents. The bargain he makes — the price he gains — is, in most people’s estimation, the value of the public man.”
All this Vivian said to himself to quiet his conscience; and all this, he knew, would be abundantly satisfactory to the generality of people with whom he associated; therefore, from them he could fear neither reproach nor contempt: but he could not bear even to think of Russell — he felt all the pangs of remorse, and agony of shame, as the idea of such a friend came into his mind. Again he turned in his bed, and groaned aloud — so loud, that Lady Sarah wakened, and, starting up, asked what was the matter; but receiving no answer, she imagined that she had been in a dream, or that her husband had spoken in his sleep. He groaned no more, nor did he even sigh: but fatigued with thinking and with feeling, he at last fell into a sort of slumber, which lasted till it was time to rise. Before Vivian was dressed, Lord Glistonbury called upon him — he went into his dressing-room. His lordship came with his best address, and most courteous face of persuasion; he held out his hand, in a frank and cordial manner, as he entered, begging his dear son’s pardon for the warmth and want of temper, he was free to confess, he had shown last night; but he was persuaded, he said, that Vivian knew his sincere regard for him, and convinced that, in short, they should never essentially differ: so that he was determined to come to talk the matter over with him when they were both cool; and that he felt assured that Vivian, after a night’s reflection, would always act so as to justify his preference of his son-in-law to his nephew, hey, Vivian? — Lord Glistonbury paused for an answer — Vivian cut himself as he was shaving, and was glad of a moment’s reprieve; instead of answering, he only exclaimed, “Cursed razor! cut myself! — My lord, won’t you sit down? will you do me the honour to—”
Lord Glistonbury seated himself; and, in regular order, with his tiresome parade of expletives, went through all the arguments that could be adduced to prove the expediency of Vivian’s taking this place, and assisting him, as he had taken it for granted his son-in-law would, on such an occasion. The letters of the great and little men who had negotiated the business of the marquisate were then produced, and an account given of all that had passed in confidence; and Lord Glistonbury finished by saying that the affair was absolutely concluded, he having passed his word and pledged his honour for Vivian; that he would not have spoken or acted for him if he had not felt that he was, when acting for his son-in-law, in fact acting for himself — his second self; that there had been no time to wait, no possibility of consulting Vivian; that the whole plan was suggested yesterday, in two hours after the house broke up, and was arranged in the evening; that search and inquiries had been made every where for Vivian; but, as he could not be found, Lord Glistonbury said he had ventured to decide for him, and, as he hoped, for his interest and for that of the family; and the thing, now done, could not be undone: his lordship’s word was sacred, and could not be retracted.
Vivian, in a feeble, irresolute tone, asked if there was no possibility of his being allowed to decline the place that was offered him, and suggested that he could take a middle course; to avoid voting against his lordship’s wishes, he could, and he believed that he would, accept of the Chiltern Hundreds, and go out of parliament for the session.
Lord Glistonbury remonstrated against what he termed the madness of the scheme.
“A man like you, my dear Vivian, who have distinguished yourself so much already in opposition, who will distinguish yourself so much more hereafter in place and in power — —”
“No,” said Vivian, rising as he finished shaving himself; “no, my lord, I shall never more distinguish myself, if I abandon the principles I believe to be just and true. What eloquence I have — if I have any — has arisen from my being in earnest: I shall speak ill — I shall not be able to speak at all — when I get up against my conscience.”
“Oh!” said Lord Glistonbury, laughing, “your romantic patriotism may be very nice in its feelings; but, believe me, it will not deprive you of the use of your speech. Look at every one of the fine orators of our times, and name me one, if you can, who has not spoken, and spoken equally well, on both sides of the house; ay, and on both sides of most political questions. Come, come, you’ll find you will get on quite as well as they got on before you, hey?”
“You will find that I shall be of no use to you — that I shall be a dead weight on your hands.”
“You a dead weight! you, who are formed to be — now, really, without flattery — you know there’s no occasion for flattery between you and me — to be the soul, and, in time, the head of a party —— Stay! — I know all you are going to say, but give me leave to judge — You know there’s my own nephew, a very clever young man, no doubt, he is allowed to be; and yet, you see, I make no comparison between you. I assure you I am a judge in these matters, and you see the house has confirmed my judgment; and, what is more — for I can keep nothing from you — if it won’t make you too vain, and make you set too high a price upon yourself, which will be very troublesome in the present case; but, I say, be that as it may, I will frankly own to you, that I believe you have been of essential service in procuring me this great favourite object of my life, the marquisate.”
“I, my lord! impossible! — for I never took the slightest step toward procuring it.”
“Pardon me, you took the most effectual step, without knowing it, perhaps. You spoke so well in opposition, that you made it the interest of ministry to muzzle you; and there was no way so effectual of getting at you as through me, I being your father-in-law and you my heir. You don’t see the secret concatenation of these things with a glance as I do, who have been used to them so long. And there was no way of coming to the point with me without the marquisate — that was my sine qua non; and you see I gained my point — by your means, chiefly, I am free to allow — though Marmaduke would gladly persuade me it was by his negotiating. But I do you justice; I did you justice, too, in more than words, when I stipulated for that place for you, which, in fact, I knew you could not go on much longer without. So, my dear Vivian, all this explained to our mutual satisfaction, we have nothing more to do but to shake hands upon it and go down stairs; for I have engaged myself and Secretary —— to breakfast with you, and he has full powers, and is to carry back our capitulation — and,” continued Lord Glistonbury, looking out of the window, “here’s our friend’s carriage.”
“Oh, my lord, it is not yet too late!” cried Vivian; “it may yet be arranged otherwise. Is there no way — no possibility — —”
A loud knock at the house door.
“I wish to Heaven, my lord! — —”
“So do I wish to Heaven, with all my soul, that you would finish this nonsense, my dear Vivian, and come down to breakfast. Come, come, come! — Hey, hey, hey! — This is absolutely too ridiculous, and I must go, if you don’t. Only consider a political breakfast of this nature!”
Lord Glistonbury hurried down stairs: — reluctantly, and with a heavy heart and repugnant conscience, Vivian followed. At this instant, he wished for Russell, to prevent what he knew would be the consequence of this interview. But Russell was absent — the keeper of his conscience, the supporter of his resolution, was not at hand. Woe to him who is not the keeper of his own conscience — the supporter of his own resolution! The result of this political breakfast was just what every reader, who knows the world but half as well as Lord Glistonbury knew it, has probably long since anticipated. The capitulation of the patriots of the Glistonbury band, with Vivian at their head, was settled. Lord Glistonbury lost no character by this transaction, for he had none to lose — he was quite at his ease, or quite callous. But Vivian bartered, for a paltry accommodation of his pecuniary difficulties, a reputation which stood high in the public opinion — which was invaluable in his own — which was his last stake of happiness. He knew this — he felt it with all the anguish of exquisite but USELESS sensibility.
Lord Glistonbury and his new friend, Secretary —— , who was a man of wit as well as a politician, rallied Vivian upon his gravity and upon his evident depression of spirits.
“Really, my dear Vivian,” cried Lord Glistonbury, “my patience is now exhausted, and I must not let you expose yourself here, before our friend, as a novice — Hey! hey! — Why, will you never open your eyes, and see the world as it is! Why! what! — Did you never read the fable of the dog and his master’s meat? — Well! it is come to that now in England; and he is a foolish dog, indeed, who, when he can’t save the meat, won’t secure his share — hey?”
His lordship and the secretary laughed in concert.
“Look, how Vivian preserves his solemnity!” continued Lord Glistonbury; “and he really looks as if he was surprised at us. My dear Vivian, it requires all my knowledge of your bonne foi to believe that you are in earnest, and not acting the part of a patriot of older times.”
“Oh!” cried the secretary, with a facetious air, “Mr. Vivian assuredly knows, as well as we do, that —
‘A patriot is a fool in ev’ry age, Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage.’
But off the stage we lay aside heroics, or how should we ever get on? — Did you hear, my lord,” continued the secretary, turning to Lord Glistonbury, “that there is another blue riband fallen in to us by the death of Lord G —— ?”
“I had a great regard for poor Lord G —— . Many applications, I suppose, for the vacant riband?”
From the vacant riband they went on to talk over this man’s pension and the other man’s job; and considered who was to get such and such a place when such and such a person should resign or succeed to something better. Then all the miserable mysteries of ministerial craft were unveiled to Vivian’s eyes. He had read, he had heard, he had believed, that public affairs were conducted in this manner; but he had never, till now, actually seen it: he was really novice enough still to feel surprise at finding that, after all the fine professions made on all sides, the main, the only object of these politicians, was to keep their own, or to get into the places of others. Vivian felt every moment his disgust and his melancholy increase. “And it is with these people I have consented to act! And am I to be hurried along by this stream of corruption to infamy and oblivion! Then Russell—”
Vivian resolved to retract the engagement he had just made with Lord Glistonbury and the secretary, and he waited only for a pause in their conversation to explain himself. But, before any pause occurred, more company came in, — the secretary hurried away, saying to Vivian, who would have stopped him at the door, “Oh, my dear sir, every thing is settled now, and you must be with us in the house to-night — and you will find the whole business will go on as smoothly as possible, if gentlemen will but act together, and strengthen the hands of government. I beg pardon for breaking away — but so many people are waiting for me — and any thing further we can settle when we meet in the house.”
Lord Glistonbury also refu
sed to listen to farther explanations — said that all was settled, and that it was impossible to make any recantations.
CHAPTER XV.
The hour of going to the House of Commons at length arrived; Lord Glistonbury saw that Vivian was so much out of spirits, and in such confusion of mind, that he began to fear that our hero’s own account of himself was just, and that he would not be able to command ideas, or even words, when he was to speak in opposition to what he called his principles and his conscience. “This son of mine, instead of being our great Apollo, will be a dead weight on our hands, unless we can contrive to raise his spirits.”
So, to raise his spirits, Lord Glistonbury accompanied him to the coffee-room of the house, and insisted upon his taking some refreshment before he should attempt to speak. His lordship fortified him with bumper after bumper, till at last Vivian came up to the speaking point. He took his seat in his new place in the house, and, endeavouring to brave away the sense of shame, rose to speak. Notwithstanding the assistance of the wine, and the example of Mr. Marmaduke Lidhurst, who spoke before him with undaunted assurance, Vivian could scarcely get on with a hesitating, confused, inconsistent speech, uttered in so low and indistinct a voice, that the reporters in the gallery complained that they could not catch this honourable member’s meaning, or that his words did not reach them. Conscious of his failure, and still more conscious of its cause, he retired again to the coffee-room as soon as he had finished speaking, and again Lord Glistonbury plied him with wine, saying that he would find he would do very well in reply presently. It happened that Lord Glistonbury was called away — Vivian remained. Mr. Wharton, with a party of his friends, entered the coffee-room. Wharton seemed much heated both with wine and anger — he was talking eagerly to the gentlemen with him, and he pronounced the words, “Infamous conduct! — Shabby! — Paltry fellow!” so loud, that all the coffee-room turned to listen. Colonel S —— , a gentleman who was one of Wharton’s party, but who had a good opinion of Vivian, at this moment took him by the arm, and, drawing him aside, whispered, in confidence, that he was persuaded there had been some mistake in the arrangements, which, as it was reported, Lord Glistonbury had just made with the ministry, for that Mr. Wharton and many of his lordship’s former party, complained of having been shamefully deserted. “And to break our word and honour to our party, is a thing no gentleman can do. Wharton had a direct promise from his lordship, that he never would come in till he should come in along with him. And now it is confidently said, that Lord Glistonbury has made his bargain for his own marquisate, and provided only for himself, his nephew, and his son-in-law.”
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