Vivian’s countenance contradicted this last assertion most positively.—Mrs. Wharton understood this; and her attitude of despondency was the most graceful imaginable.
“My dear Mrs. Wharton”—(it was the first time our hero had ever called her “his dear Mrs. Wharton;” but it was only a platonic dear)—“you take trifles much too seriously—Wharton was hurried by business—a moment’s impatience must be forgiven.”
“A moment!” replied Mrs. Wharton, casting up to heaven her beautiful eyes—“Oh! Mr. Vivian, how little do you know of him!—I am the most miserable creature that ever existed; but there is not a man upon earth to whom I would say so except yourself.”
Vivian could not help feeling some gratitude for this distinction; and, as he leaned over her harp with an air of unusual interest, he said he hoped that he should ever prove himself worthy of her esteem and confidence.
At this instant Wharton interrupted the conversation, by passing hastily through the room.—“Come, Vivian,” said he; “we shall be very late at the house.”
“We shall see you again of course at dinner,” said Mrs. Wharton to Vivian in a low voice. Our hero replied by an assenting bow.
Five minutes afterwards he repented that he had accepted the invitation, because he foresaw that he should resume a conversation which was at once interesting and embarrassing. He felt that it was not right to become the depository of this lady’s complaints against her husband; yet he had been moved by her tears, and the idea that he was the only man in the world to whom she would open her heart upon such a delicate subject, interested him irresistibly in her favour. He returned in the evening, and was flattered by observing, that amongst the crowd of company by which she was surrounded he was instantly distinguished. He was perfectly persuaded of the innocence of her intentions; and, as he was attached to another woman, he fancied that he could become the friend of the beautiful Mrs. Wharton without danger. The first time he had an opportunity of speaking to her in private, he expressed this idea in the manner that he thought the most delicately flattering to her self-complacency. Mrs. Wharton seemed to be perfectly satisfied with this conduct; and declared, that unless she had been certain that he was not a man of gallantry, she should never have placed any confidence in his friendship.
“I consider you,” said she, “quite as a married man:—by-the-bye, when are you to be married, and what sort of a person is Miss Sidney?—I am told she is excessively handsome, and amiable, and sensible.—What a happy creature she is!—just going to be united to the man she loves!” Here the lady gave a profound sigh; and Vivian had an opportunity of observing that she had the longest dark eyelashes that he had ever seen.
“I was married,” continued she, “before I knew what I was about. You know Mr. Wharton can be so charming when he pleases—and then he was so much in love with me, and swore he would shoot himself if I would not have him—and all that sort of thing.—I protest I was terrified; and I was quite a child, you know. I had been out but six weeks, and I thought I was in love with him. That was because I did not know what love was—then;—besides, he hurried and teased me to such a degree!—After all, I’m convinced I married him more out of compassion than any thing else; and now you see how he treats me!—most barbarously and tyrannically!—But I would not give the least hint of this to any man living but yourself. I conjure you to keep my secret—and—pity me!—that is all I ask—pity me sometimes, when your thoughts are not absorbed in a happier manner.”
Vivian’s generosity was piqued: he could not be so selfish as to be engrossed exclusively by his own felicity. He thought that delicacy should induce him to forbear expatiating upon Selina’s virtues and accomplishments, or upon his passion. He carried this delicacy so far, that sometimes for a fortnight or three weeks he never mentioned her name. He could not but observe that Mrs. Wharton did not like him the less for this species of sacrifice. It may be observed, that Mrs. Wharton managed her attack upon Vivian with more art than could be expected from so silly a woman; but we must consider that all her faculties were concentrated on one object; so that she seemed to have an instinct for coquetry. The most silly animals in the creation, from the insect tribe upwards, show, on some occasions, where their interests are immediately concerned, a degree of sagacity and ingenuity, which, compared with their usual imbecility, appears absolutely wonderful. The opinion which Vivian had early formed of the weakness of this lady’s understanding prevented him from being on his guard against her artifices: he could not conceive it possible that he should be duped by a person so obviously his inferior. With a woman of talents and knowledge, he might have been suspicious; but there was nothing in Mrs. Wharton to alarm his pride or to awaken his fears: he fancied that he could extricate himself in a moment, and with the slightest effort, from any snares which she could contrive; and, under this persuasion, he neglected to make even that slight effort, and thus continued from hour to hour in voluntary captivity.