“Complain!—My son!—He makes no complaints, my dear. You misunderstand me. My son does not complain that any thing is wrong on your part.”
“Then, madam, if no complaints are made on either side, all is as it should be, I presume, at present; and if in future I should fail in any point of duty, I shall hold myself obliged to your ladyship if you will then act as my monitor.”
Hopeless of penetrating Lady Sarah’s sevenfold fence of pride, the mother flew to her son, to try what could be done with his open and generous mind. He expressed a most earnest and sincere wish to make his wife happy. Conscious that he had given her exquisite pain, he endeavoured to make atonement by the sacrifices which he thought would be most grateful to her. He refrained often from company and conversation that was agreeable to him, and would resign himself for hours to her society. It was fortunate for Lady Julia Lidhurst that, by continuing with her good uncle the bishop, she did not see the consequences of the union which she had so strenuously advised. The advice of friends is often highly useful to prevent an imprudent match; but it seldom happens that marriages turn out happily which have been made from the opinion of others rather than from the judgment and inclinations of the parties concerned; for, let the general reasons on which the advice is grounded be ever so sensible, it is scarcely possible that the adviser can take in all the little circumstances of taste and temper, upon which so much of the happiness or misery of domestic life depends. Besides, people are much more apt to repent of having been guided by the judgment of another than of having followed their own; and this is most likely to be the case with the weakest minds. Strong minds can decide for themselves, not by the opinions but by the reasons that are laid before them: weak minds are influenced merely by opinions; and never, either before or after their decision, are firm in abiding by the preponderating reasons.
No letters, no intelligence from home, except a malicious hint now and then from her cousin Marmaduke, which she did not credit, gave her reason to suspect that the pair whom she had contributed to unite were not perfectly happy. So Lady Julia exulted in the success of her past counsels, and indulged her generous romantic disposition in schemes for forwarding a union between Russell and Selina, determining to divide her fortune amongst the children of her friends. She concluded one of her letters to Lady Sarah Vivian about this time with these words:—
“Could I but see one other person,—whom I must not name, rewarded for his virtues, as you are, by happy love, I should die content, and would write on my tomb:—
‘Je ne fus point heureux, mais j’ai fait leur bonheur.” [10]
Far removed from all romance and all generosity of sentiment, Lord Glistonbury, in the mean time, went on very comfortably, without observing any thing that passed in his family. Whatever uneasiness obtruded upon his attention he attributed to one cause, anxiety relative to the question on which his present thoughts were exclusively fixed, viz. whether Lady Sarah’s first child would be a boy or a girl. “Heaven grant a boy!” said his lordship; “for then, you know, there’s an end of Marmaduke as heir-at-law!” Whenever his lordship saw a cloud on the brows of Lady Mary, of Lady Sarah, or of Vivian, he had one infallible charm for dispelling melancholy;—he stepped up close to the patient, and whispered, “It will be a boy!—My life upon it, it will be a boy!” Sometimes it happened that this universal remedy, applied at random, made the patient start or smile; and then his lordship never failed to add, with a nod of great sagacity, “Ah! you didn’t know I knew what you were thinking of!—Well! well! you’ll see we shall cut out Marmaduke yet.”
With this hope of cutting out Marmaduke, Lord Glistonbury went on very happily, and every day grew fonder of the son-in-law, who was the enemy of his heir-at-law, or whom he considered as such. The easiness of Vivian’s temper was peculiarly agreeable to his lordship, who enjoyed the daily pleasure of governing a man of talents which were far superior to his own. This easiness of temper in our hero was much increased by the want of motive and stimulus. He thought that he had now lost his chance of happiness; he cared little for the more or less pain of each succeeding day; and so passive was his listlessness, that to a superficial observer, like Lord Glistonbury, it looked like the good-nature of perfect content.—Poor Vivian!—In this wreck of his happiness, one saving chance, however, yet remained. He had still a public character; he was conscious of, having preserved unblemished integrity as a member of the senate; and this integrity, still more than his oratorical talents, raised him far above most of his competitors, and preserved him not only in the opinion of others, but in his own. When parliament met, he went to town, took a very handsome house for Lady Sarah, determining to do all he could to oblige and please the wife whom he could not love. Lady Sarah had complete power, at home and abroad, of her time and her expenses: her dress, her equipages, her servants, her whole establishment, were above Vivian’s fortune, and equal to her ladyship’s birth and rank. She was mistress of every thing but of his heart. The less he liked her, the more he endeavoured to compensate for this involuntary fault, by allowing her that absolute dominion, and that external splendour, which he thought would gratify, and perhaps fill her mind. As for himself, he took refuge in the House of Commons. There he forgot for a time domestic uneasiness, and was truly animated by what so many affect—zeal for the good of his country. He was proud to recollect, that the profligate Wharton had failed in the attempt to laugh him out of his public virtue; he was proud that Wharton’s prophecies of his apostasy had never been accomplished; that, as a public! character at least, he had fulfilled the promise of his early youth, and was still worthy of himself, and of that friend whom he had lost. He clung to this idea, as to the only hope left him in life.
One night, in a debate on some question of importance, he made an excellent speech, which was particularly well received by the house, because it came from one who had an unblemished character. When Vivian went into the coffee-room to refresh himself, after he had done speaking, several of his acquaintance crowded round him, complimenting him upon his success—he broke from them all! for he saw, advancing towards him with a smile of approbation, the friend on whose approbation he set a higher value than he did even on the applauses of the house—the friend whose lost affection he had so long and so bitterly regretted. Russell stretched out his hand—Vivian eagerly seized it; and, before they had either of them spoken one word, they both understood each other perfectly, and their reconciliation was completely effected.
“Yes,” said Russell, as they walked out arm in arm together, “yes, it is fit that I should forget all private resentment, in the pride and pleasure I feel, not merely in your public success, but in your public virtue. Talents, even the rare talent of oratory, you know, I hold cheap in comparison with that which is so far more rare, as well as more valuable—political integrity. The abhorrence and contempt of political profligacy, which you have just expressed, as a member of the senate, and the consistent conduct by which you have supported your principles, are worthy of you; and, allow me to say, of your education.”