CHAPTER XIII.
“Before you open this letter, you will have heard, probably, that my uncle, the Bishop of ——, has taken me under his protection. I cannot sufficiently regret that I was not a few years, a few months, sooner, blessed with such a Mentor. I never, till now, knew how much power kindness has to touch the mind in the moment of distress; nor did I ever, till now, feel how deeply the eloquence of true piety sinks into the heart. This excellent friend will, I hope, in time restore me to my better self. From the abstraction, the selfishness of passion, I think I am already somewhat recovered. After being wholly absorbed by one sentiment, I begin to feel again the influence of other motives, and to waken to the returning sense of social duty. Among the first objects to which, in recovering from this trance, or this fever of the soul, I have power to turn my attention, your happiness, sir, next to that of my own nearest relations, I find interests me most. After giving you this assurance, I trust you will believe that, to insure the felicity, or even to restore the health and preserve the life of any relation or friend I have upon earth, I should not think myself justified in attempting to influence your mind to any thing which I did not sincerely and firmly believe would be for your permanent advantage as well as for theirs. Under the solemn faith of this declaration, I hope that you will listen to me with patience and confidence. From all that I have myself seen, and from all that I have heard of your character, I am convinced that your wife should be a woman of a disposition precisely opposite, in many respects, to mine. Your character is liable to vary, according to the situations in which you are placed; and is subject to sudden but transient impressions from external circumstances. You have hitherto had a friend who has regulated the fluctuations of your passions; now that he is separated from you, how much will you feel the loss of his cool and steady judgment! Should you not, therefore, in that bosom friend, a wife, look for a certain firmness and stability of character, capable of resisting, rather than disposed to yield, to sudden impulse; a character, not of enthusiasm, but of duty; a mind, which, instead of increasing, by example and sympathy, any defects of your own—pardon the expression—should correct or compensate these by opposite qualities? And supposing that, with such sobriety and strength of character as I have described, there should be connected a certain slowness, formality, and coldness of manner, which might not at first be attractive to a man of your vivacity, let not this repel you: when once you have learned to consider this manner as the concomitant and indication of qualities essential to your happiness, it would, I am persuaded, become agreeable to you; especially as, on nearer observation, you would soon discover that, beneath that external coldness, under all that snow and ice, there is an accumulated and concentrated warmth of affection.
“Of this, sir, you must lately have seen an example in my own family. At the moment when my poor mother was struck with palsy, you saw my sister’s energy; and her character, probably, then appeared to you in a new point of view. From this burst of latent affection for a parent, you may form some idea what the power of the passion of love would be in her soul; some idea, I say; for I am persuaded that none but those who know her as well as I do can form an adequate notion of the strength of attachment of which she is capable.
“You will be surprised, perhaps, sir, to hear me reason so coolly for others on a subject where I have acted so rashly for myself; and you may feel no inclination to listen to the advice of one who has shown so little prudence in her own affairs: therefore, having stated my reasons, and suggested my conclusions, I leave you to apply them as you think proper; and I shall only add, that the accomplishment of my wishes, on this subject, would give me peculiar satisfaction. It would relieve my mind from part of a weight of self-reproach. I have made both my parents unhappy. I have reason to fear that the shock my mother received, by my means, contributed much to her late illness. An event that would restore my whole family to happiness must, therefore, be to me the most desirable upon earth. I should feel immediate relief and delight, even in the hope of contributing to it by any influence I can have over your mind. And, independently of the pleasure and pride I should feel in securing my sister’s happiness and yours, I should enjoy true satisfaction, sir, in that intimate friendship with you, which only the ties of such near relationship could permit or justify. You will accept of this assurance, instead of the trite and insulting, because unmeaning or unsafe, offer of friendship, which ladies sometimes make to those who have been their lovers.
“JULIA LIDHURST.
“—— Palace:”
At the first reading of this letter, Vivian felt nothing but a renewal of regret for having lost all chance of obtaining the affections of the person by whom it was written: on a second perusal, he was moved by the earnest expression of her wishes for his happiness; and the desire to gratify her, on a point on which she was so anxious, influenced him much more than any of her arguments. Whatever good sense the letter contained was lost upon him; but all the sentiment operated with full force, yet not with sufficient power to conquer the repugnance he still felt to Lady Sarah’s person and manners. Lord Glistonbury made no inquiries concerning the contents of his daughter Julia’s letter; but, as far as politeness would permit, he examined Vivian’s countenance when he returned to the drawing-room. Lady Glistonbury’s manner was as calm as usual; but the slight shake of her head was a sufficient indication of her internal feelings. Lady Sarah looked pale, but so perfectly composed, that Vivian was convinced she, at least, knew nothing of her sister’s letter. So great indeed was the outward composure, and so immoveable was Lady Sarah, that it provoked Lady Mary past endurance; and as they drove home in the evening, she exclaimed, “I never saw such a young woman as Lady Sarah Lidhurst! She is a stick, a stone, a statue—she has completely satisfied my mind on one point. I own that when I found Lady Julia was out of the question, I did begin to think and wish that Lady Sarah might be my daughter-in-law, because she has really been so carefully brought up, and the connexion with the Glistonbury family is so desirable: then I had a notion, before I saw her this morning, that the girl liked you, and might be really capable of attachment; but now, indeed, I am convinced of the folly of that notion. She has no feeling—none upon earth—scarcely common sense! She thinks of nothing but how she holds her elbows. The formality and importance with which she went on cutting off ends of worsted from that frightful tapestry work, whilst I talked of you, quite put me out of all manner of patience. She has no feeling—none upon earth!”
“Oh, ma’am,” said Vivian, “you do her injustice: she certainly has feeling—for her mother.”