The words, “and no woman will ever love you, nor ever, did,” rung upon Vivian’s ear. “There she is mistaken, thank Heaven!” said he to himself: yet the words still dwelt upon his mind, and gave him exquisite pain. Upon looking again at Russell’s letter, he observed that Selina Sidney’s name was never mentioned; that she was neither directly nor indirectly alluded to in the whole letter. What omen to draw from this he could not divine. Again he read it; and all that Russell said of public life, and his exhortations to him to come and distinguish himself in public and in the political world, struck him in a new light. It seemed as if Russell was sensible that, there were no farther hopes of Selina, and that therefore he tried to turn Vivian’s mind from love to ambition. Fourteen times he read over this letter before he reached England; but he could not discover from it any thing as to the point on which his heart was most interested. He reached London in this, uncertainty.
“Put me out of suspense, my best friend,” cried he, the moment he saw Russell: “tell me, is Selina living?”
“Yes—she has been very ill, but is now recovered—quite recovered, and with your mother, who is grown fonder of her than ever she was.”
“Selina alive! well! and with my mother!—and may I—I don’t mean may I now,—but may I ever hope?—Believe me, I feel myself capable of any exertions, any forbearance, to obtain her forgiveness—to merit—May I ever hope for it?—Speak!”
Russell assured him that he need not dread Miss Sidney’s resentment, for that she felt none; she had expressed pity more than anger—that she had taken pains to sooth his mother; and had expressed sincere satisfaction on hearing of his release from his unworthy bondage, and at his return home to his friends.
The tone in which Russell spoke, and the seriousness and embarrassment of his manner, alarmed Vivian inexpressibly. He stood silent, and dared not ask farther explanation for some minutes.—At length he broke silence, and conjured his friend to go immediately to Miss Sidney and his mother, and to request permission for him to see them both in each other’s presence. Russell said, that if Vivian insisted, he would comply with his request; but that he advised him not to attempt to see Miss Sidney at present; not till he had been some time in London—till he had given some earnest of the steadiness of his conduct—till he had appeared again, and distinguished himself in public life. “This might raise you again in her esteem; and,” continued Russell, “you must be aware that her love depends on her esteem—at least, that the one cannot exist without the other.”
“Will you deliver a letter to her from me?” said Vivian. “If you think I had better not attempt to see her yet, you will deliver a letter for me?”
After some hesitation, or rather some deliberation, Russell answered, in a constrained voice, “I will deliver your letter, if you insist upon it.”
Vivian wrote:—Russell undertook to deliver the letter, though with evident reluctance. In the mean time Vivian went to see his mother, whom he longed, yet dreaded to meet. Her manner was not now severe and haughty, as when she last addressed him; but mild and benign: she held out her hand to him, and said, “Thank God! my son is restored to me, and to himself!”
She could say no more; but embraced him tenderly. Russell had shown Lady Mary that her son had been the dupe of a preconcerted scheme to work upon his passions. She deplored his weakness, but she had been touched by his sufferings; and was persuaded that his remorse would guard him against future errors. Therefore not a word or look of reproach escaped from her. When he spoke of Selina, Lady Mary, with great animation of countenance and warmth of eulogium, declared, that it was the first wish of her heart to see her son married to a woman of such a noble character and angelic temper; “but,” added her ladyship, her manner changing suddenly, as she pronounced the word but—before she could explain the but, Russell came into the room, and told Vivian that Miss Sidney desired to see him. Vivian heard the words with joy; but his joy was checked by the great gravity and embarrassment of his friend’s countenance, and by a sigh of ill omen from his mother. Eager to relieve his suspense, he hastened to Selina, who, as Russell told him, was in Lady Mary’s dressing-room—the room in which he had first declared his passion for her. Hope and fear alternately seized him—fear prevailed the moment that he beheld Selina. Not that any strong displeasure appeared in her countenance—no, it was mild and placid; but it was changed towards him, and its very serenity was alarming. Whilst she welcomed him to his native country and to his friends, and while she expressed hopes for his future happiness, all hope forsook him, and, in broken sentences, he attempted to stammer out some answer; then, throwing himself into a chair, he exclaimed, “I see all future happiness is lost for me—and I deserve it!”