“Oh!—only—political business.”
“Political business!” She looked earnestly at her husband; but, as if repressing her curiosity, she afterwards added, “our sex have nothing to do with politics,” and, turning away from the light, she composed herself to sleep.
“Very true, my dear,” replied Vivian—not a word more did he say: content with this evasion of the difficulty, he thus, by his weakness, deprived himself of the real advantage of his wife’s strength of mind. Whilst Lady Sarah, in total ignorance of the distress of her husband, slept in peace, he lay awake, revolving painful thoughts in the silence of the night. All that his mother had said about the pecuniary difficulties to which they must soon be reduced recurred with fresh force; the ideas of the unpaid election bills, all the masons’, carpenters’, painters’, glaziers’, and upholsterers’ bills, with “thousands yet unnamed behind,” rose, in dreadful array, before him, and the enthusiasm of his patriotism was appalled. With feverish reiteration, he ran over and over, in his mind, the same circle of difficulties, continually returning to the question, “Then what can be done?” Bitterly did he this night regret the foolish expenses into which he had early in life been led. If it were to do over again, he certainly would not turn his house into a castle; if he had foreseen how much the expense would surpass the estimates, assuredly nothing could have tempted him to such extravagance. The architect, the masons, the workmen, one and all, were knaves; but, one and all, they must be paid. Then what could he do?—And the debts incurred by the contested elections!—contested elections are cursed things, when the bills come to be paid; but, cursed or not, they must be paid. Then what could he do?—The distress in which he should involve his generous mother—the sacrifices he should require from his wife—the family quarrels—all that Lady Sarah would suffer from them—the situation of his wife. Then what could he do?—He MUST submit to Lord Glistonbury, and take the place that was offered to him.
Vivian sighed—and turned in his bed—and sighed—and thought—and turned—and sighed again—and the last sigh of expiring patriotism escaped him!——To this end, to this miserable end, must all patriotism come, which is not supported by the seemingly inferior virtues of prudence and economy.
Poor Vivian endeavoured to comfort himself by the reflection that he should not act from merely mercenary considerations, but that he was compelled to yield to the solicitations of his mother and of his father-in-law; that he was forced to sacrifice his own public opinions to secure domestic peace, and to prevent the distress of his mother, the misery, and perhaps danger, of his wife and child. Dereliction of principle, in these circumstances, was something like an amiable, a pardonable weakness. And then, see it in what light you will, as Lord Glistonbury observed, “there are so many who will keep a patriot in countenance now-a-days, for merely changing sides in politics. A man is not even thought to be a man of talents till he gets something by his talents. The bargain he makes—the price he gains—is, in most people’s estimation, the value of the public man.”
All this Vivian said to himself to quiet his conscience; and all this, he knew, would be abundantly satisfactory to the generality of people with whom he associated; therefore, from them he could fear neither reproach nor contempt: but he could not bear even to think of Russell—he felt all the pangs of remorse, and agony of shame, as the idea of such a friend came into his mind. Again he turned in his bed, and groaned aloud—so loud, that Lady Sarah wakened, and, starting up, asked what was the matter; but receiving no answer, she imagined that she had been in a dream, or that her husband had spoken in his sleep. He groaned no more, nor did he even sigh: but fatigued with thinking and with feeling, he at last fell into a sort of slumber, which lasted till it was time to rise. Before Vivian was dressed, Lord Glistonbury called upon him—he went into his dressing-room. His lordship came with his best address, and most courteous face of persuasion; he held out his hand, in a frank and cordial manner, as he entered, begging his dear son’s pardon for the warmth and want of temper, he was free to confess, he had shown last night; but he was persuaded, he said, that Vivian knew his sincere regard for him, and convinced that, in short, they should never essentially differ: so that he was determined to come to talk the matter over with him when they were both cool; and that he felt assured that Vivian, after a night’s reflection, would always act so as to justify his preference of his son-in-law to his nephew, hey, Vivian?—Lord Glistonbury paused for an answer—Vivian cut himself as he was shaving, and was glad of a moment’s reprieve; instead of answering, he only exclaimed, “Cursed razor! cut myself!—My lord, won’t you sit down? will you do me the honour to—”
Lord Glistonbury seated himself; and, in regular order, with his tiresome parade of expletives, went through all the arguments that could be adduced to prove the expediency of Vivian’s taking this place, and assisting him, as he had taken it for granted his son-in-law would, on such an occasion. The letters of the great and little men who had negotiated the business of the marquisate were then produced, and an account given of all that had passed in confidence; and Lord Glistonbury finished by saying that the affair was absolutely concluded, he having passed his word and pledged his honour for Vivian; that he would not have spoken or acted for him if he had not felt that he was, when acting for his son-in-law, in fact acting for himself—his second self; that there had been no time to wait, no possibility of consulting Vivian; that the whole plan was suggested yesterday, in two hours after the house broke up, and was arranged in the evening; that search and inquiries had been made every where for Vivian; but, as he could not be found, Lord Glistonbury said he had ventured to decide for him, and, as he hoped, for his interest and for that of the family; and the thing, now done, could not be undone: his lordship’s word was sacred, and could not be retracted.
Vivian, in a feeble, irresolute tone, asked if there was no possibility of his being allowed to decline the place that was offered him, and suggested that he could take a middle course; to avoid voting against his lordship’s wishes, he could, and he believed that he would, accept of the Chiltern Hundreds, and go out of parliament for the session.
Lord Glistonbury remonstrated against what he termed the madness of the scheme.
“A man like you, my dear Vivian, who have distinguished yourself so much already in opposition, who will distinguish yourself so much more hereafter in place and in power——”