“I understand that W——, wherever he goes, calls me a coward, as well as a scoundrel; and says that I have kept out of the way to avoid fighting him. He is mistaken. It is true, I had the utmost dread of having his life to answer for—and nothing should have provoked me to fire upon him;—but I had determined how to act—I would have met him, and have stood his fire. I should not be sorry, at present, to be put out of the world; and would rather fall by his hand than by any other. But since this is out of the question, and that things have taken another turn, I have only to live, as long as it shall please God, a life of remorse—and, at least, to try to make the unfortunate woman who has thrown herself upon my protection as happy as I can.
“If you have any remaining regard for a pupil who has so disgraced you, do me one favour—Go to Miss Sidney, and give her what comfort you can. Say nothing for me, or of me, but that I wish her to forget me as soon as possible. She discarded me from her heart when she first discovered this intrigue—before this last fatal step. Still I had hopes of recovering her esteem and affection; for I had resolved—But no matter what I resolved—all my resolutions failed; and now I am utterly unworthy of her love. This, and all that is good and happy in life, all the fair hopes and virtuous promises of my youth, I must give up. Early as it is in my day, my sun has set. I truly desire that she should forget me; for you know I am bound in honour—Honour! How dare I use the word? I am bound, after the divorce, to marry the woman I have seduced. Oh, Russell! what a wife for your friend!—What a daughter-in-law for my poor mother, after all her care of my education—all her affection—all her pride in me!—It will break her heart! Mine will not break. I shall drag on, perhaps, to a miserable old age. I am of too feeble a nature to feel these things as strong minds would—as you will for me; but do not blame yourself for my faults. All that man could do for me, you did. This must be some consolation to you, my dear and excellent friend! May I still call you friend?—or have I no friend left upon earth?
“C. VIVIAN.”
From this letter some idea may be formed of what this unhappy man suffered at this period of his life, from “the reflections of a mind not used to its own reproaches.” The view of the future was as dreadful as the retrospect of the past. His thoughts continually dwelt upon the public trial which was preparing—before him he saw all its disgraceful circumstances. Then the horror of marrying, of passing his whole future existence with a woman whom he could not esteem or trust! These last were secret subjects of anxiety and anguish, the more intensely felt, because he could not speak of them to any human being. Such as Mrs. Wharton was, she was to be his wife; and he was called upon to defend her against reproach and insult,—if possible, from contempt. During the course of six weeks, which they spent together in exile at Brussels, Vivian became so altered in his appearance, that his most intimate friends could scarcely have known him; his worst enemies, if he had had any, could not have desired the prolongation of his sufferings.
One evening, as he was sitting alone in his hotel, ruminating bitter thoughts, a letter was brought to him from Mr. Russell; the first he had received since he left England. Every one, who has been absent from his friends in a foreign country, must know the sort of emotion which the bare sight of a letter from home excites; but, in Vivian’s circumstances, abandoned as he felt himself, and deserving to be abandoned by his best friends, the sight of a letter from Russell so struck him, that he gazed upon the direction for some minutes, almost without power or wish to open it. At last he opened, and read, “Return to your country, your friends, and yourself, Vivian! Your day is not yet over! Your sun is not yet set!—Resume your energy—recover your self-confidence—carry your good resolutions into effect—and you may yet be an honour to your family, a delight to your fond mother, and the pride of your friend Russell. Your remorse has been poignant and sincere; let it be salutary and permanent in its consequences: this is the repentance which religion requires. The part of a man of sense and virtue is to make his past errors of use to his future conduct. Whilst I had nothing to say that could give you pleasure, I forbore to answer your letter; I forbore to overwhelm a mind sinking under remorse. My sacred duty is to waken the sinner to repentance, not to shut the gates of mercy on the penitent. Now, I can relieve your mind from part of the load by which it has been justly oppressed. You know that nothing can palliate your conduct in an intrigue with a married woman—from this I had hoped your moral and religious education would have preserved you. But of the premeditated guilt of deceiving the husband, and laying a plan to seduce the wife, I never suspected you; and I may now tell you, that you have not betrayed Mr. Wharton; he has betrayed you. You have not seduced Mrs. Wharton; you have been seduced by her. You are not bound to marry her—Wharton cannot obtain a divorce—he dare not bring the affair to trial; if he does, he is undone. There has been collusion between the parties. The proof of this you will find in the enclosed paper, which will be sworn to, in due legal form, whenever it is necessary. Even when you see them, you will scarcely believe these ‘damning proofs’ of Wharton’s baseness. But I always knew, I always told you, that this pretence to honour and candour, frankness and friendship, with this avowed contempt of all principle and all virtue, could not be safe, could not be sincere, would not stand the test.—No—nothing should make me trust to the private honour of a man so corrupt in public life as Mr. Wharton. A man who sells his conscience for his interest will sell it for his pleasure. A man who will betray his country will betray his friend. It is in vain to palter with our conscience: there are not two honours—two honesties. How I rejoice at this moment, in the reflection that your character, as a public man, is yet untarnished You have still this great advantage:—feel its value. Return, and distinguish yourself among your countrymen: distinguish yourself by integrity still more than by talents. A certain degree of talents is now cheap in England: integrity is what we want—true patriotism, true public spirit, noble ambition not that vile scramble for places and pensions, which some men call ambition; not that bawling, brawling, Thersites character, which other men call public spirit; not that marketable commodity with which Wharton, and such as he, cheat popular opinion for a season;—but that fair virtue which will endure, and abide by its cause to the last; which, in place or out, shall be the same; which, successful or unsuccessful, shall sustain the possessor’s character through all changes of party; which, whilst he lives, shall command respect from even the most profligate of his contemporaries; upon which, when he is dying, he may reflect with satisfaction; which, after his death, shall be the consolation of his friends, and the glory of his country. All this is yet in your power, Vivian.—Come, then, and fulfil the promise of your early years! Come, and restore to your mother a son worthy of her!—Come, and surpass the hopes of your true friend,
“H. RUSSELL.”
The rapid succession of feelings with which Vivian read this letter can scarcely be imagined. The paper it enclosed was from a former waiting-maid of Mrs. Wharton’s; a woman who was expected to be the principal evidence on Mr. Wharton’s side. She had been his mistress; one of those innumerable mistresses, to whom he had, of course, addressed his transferable promises of eternal constancy. She too, of course, had believed the vow, in spite of all experience and probability; and while she pardoned his infidelities to her mistress, &c. all which she deemed very natural for a gentleman like him, yet she was astonished and outrageous when she found him faithless to her own charms. In a fit of jealousy she flew to Mr. Russell, whom she knew to be Vivian’s friend; and, to revenge herself on Wharton, revealed the secrets which she had in her power; put into Russell’s hands the proofs of collusion between Mr. Wharton and his wife; and took malicious pains to substantiate her evidence, to a lawyer’s full satisfaction; knowing that she might prevent the possibility of a divorce, and that she should thus punish her perjured inconstant in the most sensible manner, by at once depriving him of twenty thousand pounds damages, and by chaining him again to a wife whom he abhorred.
The same post which brought Vivian this woman’s deposition and Russell’s letter brought Mrs. Wharton notice that the whole plan of collusion was discovered: she was therefore prepared for Vivian’s reproaches, and received the first burst of his astonishment and indignation with a studied Magdalen expression of countenance: then she attempted a silly apology, laying all the blame on her husband, and vowing that she had acted under terror, and that her life would not have been safe in his hands if she had not implicitly obeyed and executed his horrid plans. She wept and kneeled in vain. Finding Vivian immoveable in his purpose to return immediately to England, she suddenly rose from her knees, and, all beautiful as she was, looked in Vivian’s eyes like a fiend, whilst, with an unnatural smile, she said to him, “You see, fool as I am thought to be, I have been too clever for some people; and I can tell Mr. Wharton that I have been too clever for him too. His heart is set upon a divorce; but he can’t have it. He can’t marry Miss P——, nor yet her fortune, nor ever shall! I shall remain at Brussels—I have friends here—and friends who were my friends before I was forced to give my hand to Mr. Wharton, or my smiles to you, sir!—people who will not tease me with talking of remorse and repentance, and such ungallant, ungentlemanlike stuff; nor sit bewailing themselves, like a country parson, instead of dashing out with me here in a fashionable style, as a man of any spirit would have done. But you!—you’re neither good nor bad; and no woman will ever love you, nor ever did. Now you know my whole mind.”
“Would to Heaven I had known it sooner!” said Vivian. “No—I rejoice that I did not sooner know, and that I never could have suspected, such depravity!—under such a form, too.”
Mrs. Wharton’s eye glanced with satisfaction upon the large mirror opposite to her. Vivian left her in utter disgust and horror. “Drive on!” cried he, as he threw himself into the chaise that was to carry him away; “Faster! faster!”