“What is all this?” cried she: “immersed in papers at such a time as this!”
“I so hate crowded assemblies,” said Vivian, huddling his papers together, and advancing to meet his mother.
“So do I,” said Lady Mary; “but I have been waiting with exemplary patience where I was stationed by Lady Sarah, at the card-table, every instant expecting your arrival, that I might have a few minutes’ conversation with you, and inquire how matters went on at the house, and congratulate — —”
Before she had finished the word congratulate, she stopped short; for she had, by this time, a full view of her son’s countenance: and she knew that countenance so well, that it was impossible to disguise it so as to deceive her maternal penetration.
“My dear son!” said she, “something is going wrong: I conjure you, tell me what is the matter!” — Her eye glanced upon the parchments, and she saw that it was a will. Vivian forced a laugh; and asked her if she had the weakness some people felt, of disliking to see a will, or of fancying that a man was going to die if he made his will. Then, to quiet her apprehensions, and to put a stop to her farther inquiries, he threw aside his papers, and returned with her to the company, where he exerted himself to appear as gay as the occasion required. Lord Glistonbury, who had called in for a few moments, was now playing the great man, as well as his total want of dignity of mind and manners would permit; he was answering, in whispers, questions about his marquisate, and sustaining with all his might his new part of the friend of government. Every thing conspired to strike Vivian with melancholy — yet he constrained himself so far, that his charming spirits delighted all who were uninterested in observing any but the external signs of gaiety; but his mother saw that his vivacity was forced. She made inquiries from all the gentlemen of her acquaintance about what had passed the preceding day both at the House of Commons, and to-day at the dinner at Lord Glistonbury’s: but those who had been at Lord Glistonbury’s dinner assured her that every thing had been as amicable as could be; and his ministerial friends said that every thing had gone on as smoothly as possible at the house: of what had passed between Mr. Wharton and Vivian in the coffee-room nobody could give her an account. Baffled, but not satisfied, the anxious mother sent to the hotel where Mr. Russell lodged, to inquire whether he was returned to town, and to beg to see him immediately. From him, she thought, she should learn the truth; or, by his influence over her son, she hoped that, if there was any danger of a quarrel, it might be in time prevented. Her servant, however, brought word that Mr. Russell was not expected from the country till ten o’clock the next morning; but that her note would be given to him directly on his arrival. She applied herself next to the study of her daughter’s countenance, whilst she asked two or three questions, calculated to discover whether Lady Sarah was under any anxiety about Vivian. But though Lady Sarah’s countenance exhibited not the slightest variation under this trial, yet this tranquillity was by no means decisively satisfactory; because, whatever might be her internal agitation, she knew that Lady Sarah could maintain the same countenance. Lady Sarah, who plainly discerned her mother’s anxious curiosity, thought it her duty to keep her husband’s secrets; and, imagining that she knew the whole truth, was not farther alarmed by these hints, nor did they lead her to suspect the real state of the case.
Lady Mary was at length tolerably well satisfied, by a conversation with her son; during the course of which she settled in her imagination that he had only been inserting in his will a bequest to his friend Russell; and that the depression of his spirits arose from the struggle he had had in determining to vote against his patriotic ideas. She rose to depart; and Vivian, as he conducted her down stairs, and put her into her carriage, could scarcely repress his feelings; and he took so tender a leave of her, that all her apprehensions revived; but there was a cry of “Lady — somebody’s carriage!” and Lady Mary’s coachman drove on immediately, without giving her time for one word more. After his mother’s departure, Vivian, instead of returning to the company, went to his study, and took this opportunity of finishing his will; but as the servants were all in attendance at supper he could not get any body to witness it; and for this he was obliged to wait till a very late hour, when all the company at last departed. The rattle of carriages at length died away; and when all was silence, just as he was about to ring for his witnesses, he heard Lady Sarah’s step coming along the corridor towards the study: he went out immediately to meet her, drew her arm within his affectionately, and took two or three turns with her, up and down the empty saloon, whilst a servant was extinguishing the lights. Vivian’s mind was so full that he could not speak; and he was scarcely conscious that he had not spoken, till Lady Sarah broke the silence by asking if he had finished his business.
“No, my dear, I have more to do yet; but you will oblige me if you will go to rest — you must be fatigued — mind and body.”
“You seem fatigued almost to death,” said Lady Sarah: “and cannot you finish the remainder of your business as well to-morrow?”
“No,” replied Vivian; “it must be finished before to-morrow. I am bound in duty to finish it before to-morrow.”
“If it is a point of duty, I have no more to say,” replied Lady Sarah; “but,” continued she, in a tone of proud humility, “but if I might so far intrude upon your confidence, as to inquire — —”
“Make no inquiries, my dear; for I cannot answer any, even of yours,” said Vivian. “And let me beg of you to go to rest; my mind will then be more at ease. I cannot command my thoughts whilst I am anxious about you; and I am anxious — more anxious than ever I was in my life — about you at this moment. You will oblige me if you will go to rest.”
“I CANNOT rest, but I will leave you, since you desire it — I have no idle curiosity — Good night!”
“Good night! and thank you once more, my excellent wife, for all your kindness.”
“There cannot be a better woman!” said Vivian to himself as she retired. “Why have I not loved her as she deserved to be loved? If I live, I will do my utmost to make her happy — if I live, I will yet repair all. And, if I die, she will have but little reason to deplore the loss of such a husband.”
Vivian now executed his will — wrote several letters of business — burnt letters and arranged papers — regretted that Russell, who was to be his executor, was not near him — made many bitter reflections on the past, many good resolutions for the future, in case he should survive; then, overpowered with fatigue of mind, slept for some time, and was awakened by the clock striking seven. By eight o’clock he was at the place appointed — Mr. Wharton appeared a few minutes afterwards. Their seconds having measured out the distance, they took their ground. As Vivian had given the challenge, Wharton had the first fire. He fired — Vivian staggered some paces back, fired his pistol into the air, and fell. The seconds ran to his assistance, and raised him from the ground. The bullet had entered his chest. He stretched out his hand to Mr. Wharton in token of forgiveness, and, as soon as he could speak, desired the seconds to remember that it was he who gave the challenge, and that he thought he deserved to bear the blame of the quarrel. Wharton, callous as he was, seemed struck with pity and remorse: he asked what friends Vivian would wish to have apprised of his situation. A surgeon was in attendance. Vivian, faint from loss of blood, just pronounced Russell’s name, and the name of the hotel where he was to be found, adding “nobody else.” Wharton rode off, undertaking to find Mr. Russell; and Vivian was carried into a little public-house, by the orders of the surgeon, who thought that he could not bear the motion of a carriage. Wharton met Mr. Russell, who was coming from town. He had come to London earlier than he had intended, and, in consequence of Lady Mary Vivian’s note, which he had received immediately on his arrival, had made such inquiries as convinced him that her apprehensions were just; and having discovered the place where the parties were to meet, he had hastened thither, in hopes of preventing the fatal event. The moment he saw Mr. Wharton he knew that he w
as too late. Without asking any other question than, “Is Vivian alive?” he pressed forwards. The surgeon, who was the next person he saw, gave him no hopes of his friend’s recovery, but said he might last till night, or linger perhaps for a day or two. Vivian had by this time recovered his senses and his speech; but when Russell entered the room where he lay, he was so much struck by the grief in his countenance that he could not recollect any one of the many things he had to say. Russell, the firm Russell, was now quite overcome.
“Yes, my dear friend,” said Vivian; “this is the end of all your care — of all your hopes of me! — Oh, my poor, poor mother! What will become of her! Where can we find consolation for her! — You and Selina Sidney! You know how fond my mother was of her — how fond she was of my mother — till I, the cause of evil to all my friends, separated them. You must reunite them. You must repair all. This hope — this hope of your happiness, my beloved friend, will soothe my last moments! —— How much happier Selina will be with you than — —”
Russell sobbed aloud.—”Yes, yield to your feelings, for I know how strong they are,” said Vivian: “you, that have always felt more for me than I have ever felt for myself! But it is well for you that my life ends; for I have never been any thing but a torment and a disgrace to you! — And yet I had good dispositions! — but there is no time for regret about myself; I have others to think of, better worth thinking of.”
Vivian called for pen, ink, and paper, had himself raised in his bed, and supported, whilst he wrote to Selina, and to his mother.
“Do not stop me,” cried he to Russell; “it is the only act of friendship — the only thing I can do in this world now with pleasure, and let me do it.”
His notes contained nearly what he had just said to Russell — he put them open into his friend’s hand; then, good-natured to the last, Vivian took up his pen again, with no small difficulty, and wrote a few affectionate words to his wife. “She well deserves this from me,” said he. “Be a friend to her, Russell — when I am gone, she will, I know, want consolation,” After Russell had assured him that he would do all he desired, Vivian said, “I believe there is no one else in the world who will regret my death, except, perhaps, Lady Julia Lidhurst. How generous she was to forgive me! — Tell her, I remembered it when I was dying! — Weakness, weakness of mind! — the cause of all my errors! —— Oh, Russell! how well you knew me from the first! — But all is over now! — My experience can be of no use to me — Every thing swims before my eyes. —— One comfort is, I have not the blood of a fellow-creature to answer for. My greatest error was making that profligate man my friend — he was my ruin. I little thought, a few years ago, that I should die by his hand — but I forgive him, as I hope to be forgiven myself! Is the clergyman who was sent for come? — My dear Russell, this would be too severe a task for you. — He is come? Then let me see him.”
Vivian was left for some time to his private devotions. The clergyman afterwards summoned Russell to return: — he found his friend calmed and resigned. Vivian stretched out his hand — thanked him once more — and expired!
“Oh! worthy of a better fate!” thought Russell.—”With such a heart! — With such talents! — And so young! — With only one fault of character! — Oh, my friend! is it all over? — and all in vain?”
Vivian’s mother and widow arrived just at this moment; and Russell and Lord Glistonbury, who followed breathless, could not stop them from entering the apartment. The mother’s grief bordered on distraction; but it found relief in tears and cries. Lady Sarah shed no tear, and uttered no exclamation; but advancing, insensible of all opposition, to the bed on which her dead husband lay, tried whether there was any pulse, any breath left; then knelt down beside him in silent devotion. Lord Glistonbury, striking his forehead continually, and striding up and down the room, repeated, “I killed him! — I killed him! — I was the cause of his death! — My victim! — My victim! — But take her away! — Take her away — I cannot. — For mercy’s sake, force her away, Mr. Russell!”
“There is no need of force,” said Lady Sarah, rising, as her father approached; “I am going to leave my husband for ever.” —— Then, turning to Mr. Russell, she inquired if his friend had left any message or letter for her — desired to see the letter — retired with it — still without shedding a tear — a few hours afterwards was taken ill, and, before night, was delivered of a dead son.
Lady Sarah survived, but has never since appeared in what is called the WORLD.
THE ABSENTEE.
CHAPTER I.
“Are you to be at Lady Clonbrony’s gala next week?” said Lady Langdale to Mrs. Dareville, whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the crush-room of the opera-house.
“Oh, yes! every body’s to be there, I hear,” replied Mrs. Dareville. “Your ladyship, of course?”
“Why, I don’t know; if I possibly can. Lady Clonbrony makes it such a point with me, that I believe I must look in upon her for a few minutes. They are going to a prodigious expense on this occasion. Soho tells me the reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the most magnificent style.”
“At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing on,” said colonel Heathcock. “Up to any thing.”
“Who are they? — these Clonbronies, that one hears of so much of late?” said her grace of Torcaster. “Irish absentees, I know. But how do they support all this enormous expense?” “The son will have a prodigiously fine estate when some Mr. Quin dies,” said Mrs. Dareville.
“Yes, every body who comes from Ireland will have a fine estate when somebody dies,” said her grace. “But what have they at present?”
“Twenty thousand a year, they say,” replied Mrs. Dareville.
“Ten thousand, I believe,” cried Lady Langdale.
“Ten thousand, have they? — possibly,” said her grace. “I know nothing about them — have no acquaintance among the Irish. Torcaster knows something of Lady Clonbrony; she has fastened herself by some means upon him; but I charge him not to commit me. Positively, I could not for any body, and much less for that sort of person, extend the circle of my acquaintance.”
“Now that is so cruel of your grace,” said Mrs. Dareville, laughing, “when poor Lady Clonbrony works so hard, and pays so high to get into certain circles.”
“If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, breathe, like an Englishwoman, you would pity her,” said Lady Langdale.
“Yes, and you cawnt conceive the peens she teekes to talk of the teebles and cheers, and to thank Q, and with so much teeste to speak pure English,” said Mrs. Dareville.
“Pure cockney, you mean,” said Lady Langdale.
“But does Lady Clonbrony expect to pass for English?” said the duchess.
“Oh, yes! because she is not quite Irish bred and born — only bred, not born,” said Mrs. Dareville. “And she could not be five minutes in your grace’s company, before she would tell you that she was Henglish, born in Hoxfordshire.”
“She must be a vastly amusing personage — I should like to meet her if one could see and hear her incog.,” said the duchess. “And Lord Clonbrony, what is he?”
“Nothing, nobody,” said Mrs. Dareville: “one never even hears of him.”
“A tribe of daughters, too, I suppose?”
“No, no,” said Lady Langdale; “daughters would be past all endurance.”
“There’s a cousin, though, a Miss Nugent,” said Mrs. Dareville, “that Lady Clonbrony has with her.”
“Best part of her, too,” said Colonel Heathcock—”d —— d fine girl! — never saw her look better than at the opera to-night!”
“Fine complexion! as Lady Clonbrony says, when she means a high colour,” said Lady Langdale.
“Miss Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Has she any fortune, colonel?”
“‘Pon honour, don’t know,” said the colonel.
“There’s a son, somewhere, is not there?” said Lady Langdale.
&nbs
p; “Don’t know, ‘pon honour,” replied the colonel.
“Yes — at Cambridge — not of age yet,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Bless me! here is Lady Clonbrony come back. I thought she was gone half an hour ago!”
“Mamma,” whispered one of Lady Langdale’s daughters, leaning between her mother and Mrs. Dareville, “who is that gentleman that passed us just now?”
“Which way?”
“Towards the door. — There now, mamma, you can see him. He is speaking to Lady Clonbrony — to Miss Nugent — now Lady Clonbrony is introducing him to Miss Broadhurst.”
“I see him now,” said Lady Langdale, examining him through her glass; “a very gentlemanlike looking young man indeed.”
“Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,” said her grace.
“Heathcock!” said Lady Langdale, “who is Miss Broadhurst talking to?”
“Eh! now really—’pon honour — don’t know,” replied Heathcock.
“And yet he certainly looks like somebody one should know,” pursued Lady Langdale, “though I don’t recollect seeing him any where before.”
“Really now!” was all the satisfaction she could gain from the insensible, immovable colonel. However, her ladyship, after sending a whisper along the line, gained the desired information, that the young gentleman was Lord Colambre, son, only son, of Lord and Lady Clonbrony — that he was just come from Cambridge — that he was not yet of age — that he would be of age within a year; that he would then, after the death of somebody, come into possession of a fine estate by the mother’s side; “and therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,” said she, turning round to the daughter who had first pointed him out, “you understand we should never talk about other people’s affairs.”
“No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, Lord Colambre did not hear what you and Mrs. Dareville were saying!”
“How could he, child? — He was quite at the other end of the world.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 536
