“Well! well!—say no more about it,” said Vivian, impatiently; “spare me all farther logic and morality upon this subject, and I’ll do what you please—only tell me what you would have me do.”
“Gradually withdraw yourself for some time from this house, and the report will die away of itself.”
“Withdraw myself!—that would be very hard upon me!” cried Vivian; “for this house is the most agreeable house in town to me;—because you live in it, in the first place; and then, though the women are as stiff as pokers, one is always sure of meeting all the pleasant and clever men at Glistonbury’s good dinner. Let me tell you, good dinners, and good company, and good conversation, and good music, make altogether a very pleasant house, which I should be confoundedly sorry to be forced to give up.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Russell; “but we must often give up more even than this for the sake of acting with consistency and honour; we must sacrifice the less to the greater good; and it is on these occasions that people show strength or weakness of mind.”
Vivian felt the justice of his friend’s observations—resolved to follow his advice—and to withdraw himself gradually from the Glistonbury circle. He had not, however, steadiness enough to persist in this resolution; one engagement linked on another; and he would soon, probably, have relapsed into his habit of being continually of their parties, if accident had not for a time suspended this intimacy, by leading him into another, which seemed to him still more attractive.
Among the men of talents and political consequence whom he met at Lord Glistonbury’s was Mr. Wharton, whose conversation particularly pleased Vivian, and who now courted his acquaintance with an eagerness which was peculiarly flattering. Vivian knew him only as a man of great abilities; with his real character he was not acquainted. Wharton had prepossessing manners, and wit sufficient whenever he pleased to make the worse appear the better reason. In private or in public debate he had at his command, and could condescend to employ, all sorts of arms, and every possible mode of annoyance, from the most powerful artillery of logic to the lowest squib of humour. He was as little nice in the company he kept as in the style of his conversation. Frequently associating with fools, and willing even to be thought one, he made alternately his sport and advantage of the weakness and follies of mankind. Wharton was philosophically, politically, and fashionably profligate. After having ruined his private fortune by unbounded extravagance, he lived on—nobody knew how—in careless profusion. In public life he made a distinguished figure; and seemed, therefore, to think himself raised above the necessity of practising any of the minor virtues of economy, prudence, or justice, which common people find essential to their well-being in society. Far from attempting to conceal, he gloried in his faults; for he knew full well, that as long as he had the voice of numbers with him, he could bully, or laugh, or shame plain reason and rigid principle out of countenance. It was his grand art to represent good sense as stupidity, and virtue as hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was, in his opinion, the only vice which merited the brand of infamy; and from this he took sufficient care to prove, or at least to proclaim, himself free. Even whilst he offended against the decencies of life, there seemed to be something frank and graceful in his manner of throwing aside all disguise. There appeared an air of superior liberality in his avowing himself to be governed by that absolute selfishness, which other men strive to conceal even from their own hearts. He dexterously led his acquaintance to infer that he would prove as much better than his professions, as other people are often found to be worse than theirs. Where he wished to please, it was scarcely possible to escape the fascination of his manner; nor did he neglect any mode of courting popularity. He knew that a good table is necessary to attract even men of wit; and he made it a point to have the very best cook, and the very best wines. He paid his cook, and his cook was the only person he did pay, in ready money. His wine-merchant he paid in words—an art in which he was a professed and yet a successful adept, as hundreds of living witnesses were ready to attest. But though Wharton could cajole, he could not attach his fellow-creatures—he had a party, but no friend. With this distribution of things he was perfectly satisfied; for he considered men only as beings who were to be worked to his purposes; and he declared that, provided he had power over their interests and their humours, he cared not what became of their hearts. It was his policy to enlist young men of talents or fortune under his banners; and consequently Vivian was an object worthy of his attention. Such was the disorder of Wharton’s affairs, that either ready money or political power was necessary to his existence. Our hero could, at the same time, supply his extravagance and increase his consequence. Wharton thought that he could borrow money from Vivian, and that he might command his vote in parliament; but, to the accomplishment of these schemes, there were two obstacles—Vivian was attached to an amiable woman, and was possessed of an estimable friend. Wharton had become acquainted with Russell at Lord Glistonbury’s; and, in many arguments which they had held on public affairs, had discovered that Russell was not a man who ever preferred the expedient to the right, nor one who could be bullied or laughed out of his principles. He saw also that Russell’s influence over Vivian was so great, that it supplied him with that strength of mind in which Vivian was naturally deficient; and, if our hero should marry such a woman as Miss Sidney, Wharton foresaw that he should have no chance of succeeding in his designs; therefore his first objects were, to detach Vivian from his friend Russell and from Selina. One morning he called upon Vivian with a party of his friends, and found him writing.
“Poetry!” cried Wharton, carelessly looking at what he had, been writing, “poetry, I protest!—Ay, I know this poor fellow’s in love; and every man who is in love is a poet, ‘with a woeful ditty to his mistress’s eyebrow.’ Pray what colour may Miss Sidney’s eyebrows be?—she is really a pretty girl—I think I remember seeing her at some races.—Why does she never come to town?—But of course she is not to blame for that, but her fortune I suppose.—Marrying a girl without a fortune is a serious thing in these expensive days; but you have fortune enough for both yourself and your wife, so you may do as you please. Well, I thank God, I have no fortune! If I had been a young man of fortune I should have been the most unhappy rascal upon earth, for I should have always suspected that every woman liked me for my wealth—I should have had no pleasure in the smiles of an angel—angels, or their mothers, are so venal now-a-days, and so fond of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world!”
“I hope,” said Vivian, laughing, “you don’t include the whole sex in your satire.”
“No—there are exceptions—and every man has his angel of an exception, as every woman has her star:—it is well for weak women when these stars of theirs don’t lead them astray; and well for weak men when these angel exceptions before marriage don’t turn out very women or devils afterwards. But why do I say all this? because I am a suspicious scoundrel—I know and can’t help it. If other fellows of my standing in this wicked world would but speak the truth, however, they would show as much suspicion and more than I do. Bad as I am, and such as I am, you see, and have the whole of me—nobody can say Wharton’s a hypocrite; that’s some comfort. But, seriously, Vivian, I don’t mean to laugh at love and angels—I can just remember the time when I felt all your sort of romance—but that is in the preterpluperfect tense with me—completely past—ambition is no bad cure for love. My head is, at this present moment, so full of this new bill that we are bringing into parliament, that Cupid might empty his quiver upon me in vain.—Look! here is an impenetrable shield!” added he, wrapping round him a thick printed copy of an act of parliament. “Come, Vivian, you must come along with us to the house,
‘And, mix’d with men, a man you must appear.’”