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TALES AND NOVELS
BY MARIA EDGEWORTH.
IN TEN VOLUMES. WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.
VOL. VII.
PATRONAGE.
PATRONAGE.
"Above a patron--though I condescend
Sometimes to call a minister my friend."
TO THE READER.
My daughter again applies to me for my paternal _imprimatur_; and I hope
that I am not swayed by partiality, when I give the sanction which she
requires.
To excite the rising generation to depend upon their own exertions for
success in life is surely a laudable endeavour; but, while the young mind
is cautioned against dependence on the patronage of the great, and of
office, it is encouraged to rely upon such friends as may be acquired by
personal merit, good manners, and good conduct.
RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.
_Edgeworthstown,
Oct. 6, 1813._
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
The public has called for a third _impression_ of this book; it was,
therefore, the duty of the author to take advantage of the corrections
which have been communicated to her by private friends and public censors.
Whatever she has thought liable to just censure has in the present edition
been amended, as far as is consistent with the identity of the story. It is
remarkable that several incidents which have been objected to as impossible
or improbable were true. For instance, the medical case, in Chapter XIX.
A bishop was really saved from suffocation by a clergyman in his diocese
(no matter where or when), in the manner represented in Chapter X. The
bishop died long ago; and he never was an epicure. A considerable estate
was about seventy years ago regained, as described in Chapter XLII., by the
discovery of a sixpence under the seal of a deed, which had been coined
later than the date of the deed. Whether it be advantageous or prudent
to introduce such singular facts in a fictitious history is a separate
consideration, which might lead to a discussion too long for the present
occasion.
On some other points of more importance to the writer, it is necessary here
to add a few words. It has been supposed that some parts of PATRONAGE were
not written by Miss Edgeworth. This is not fact: the whole of these volumes
were written by her, the opinions they contain are her own, and she is
answerable for all the faults which may be found in them. Of ignorance
of law, and medicine, and of diplomacy, she pleads guilty; and of making
any vain or absurd pretensions to legal or medical learning, she hopes,
by candid judges, to be acquitted. If in the letters and history of her
lawyer and physician she has sometimes introduced technical phrases, it
was done merely to give, as far as she could, the colour of reality to
her fictitious personages. To fulfil the main purpose of her story it
was essential only to show how some lawyers and physicians may be pushed
forward for a time, without much knowledge either of law or medicine; or
how, on the contrary, others may, independently of patronage, advance
themselves permanently by their own merit. If this principal object of the
fiction be accomplished, the author's ignorance on professional subjects is
of little consequence to the moral or interest of the tale.
As to the charge of having drawn satirical portraits, she has already
disclaimed all personality, and all intention of satirizing any profession;
and she is grieved to find it necessary to repel such a charge. The author
of a slight work of fiction may, however, be consoled for any unjust
imputation of personal satire, by reflecting, that even the grave and
impartial historian cannot always escape similar suspicion. Tacitus says
that "there must always be men, who, from congenial manners, and sympathy
in vice, will think the fidelity of history a satire on themselves; and
even the praise due to virtue is sure to give umbrage."
_August 1, 1815._
PATRONAGE.
CHAPTER I.
"How the wind is rising!" said Rosamond.--"God help the poor people at sea
to-night!"
Her brother Godfrey smiled.--"One would think," said he, "that she had an
argosy of lovers at sea, uninsured."
"You gentlemen," replied Rosamond, "imagine that ladies are always thinking
of lovers."
"Not _always_," said Godfrey; "only when they show themselves particularly
disposed to humanity."
"My humanity, on the present occasion, cannot even be suspected," said
Rosamond; "for you know, alas! that I have no lover at sea or land."
"But a shipwreck might bless the lucky shore with some rich waif," said
Godfrey.
"Waifs and strays belong to the lady of the manor," said Rosamond; "and I
have no claim to them."
"My mother would, I dare say, make over her right to you," said Godfrey.
"But that would do me no good," said Rosamond; "for here is Caroline, with
superior claims of every sort, and with that most undisputed of all the
rights of woman--beauty."
"True: but Caroline would never accept of stray hearts," said Godfrey. "See
how her lip curls with pride at the bare imagination!"
"Pride never curled Caroline's lip," cried Rosamond: "besides, pride is
very becoming to a woman. No woman can be good for much without it, can
she, mother?"
"Before you fly off, Rosamond, to my mother as to an ally, whom you are
sure I cannot resist," said Godfrey, "settle first whether you mean to
defend Caroline upon the ground of her having or not having pride."
A fresh gust of wind rose at this moment, and Rosamond listened to it
anxiously.
"Seriously, Godfrey," said she, "do you remember the ship-wrecks last
winter?"
As she spoke, Rosamond went to one of the windows, and opened the shutter.
Her sister Caroline followed, and they looked out in silence.
"I see a light to the left of the beacon," said Caroline.--"I never saw a
light there before--What can it mean?"
"Only some fishermen," said Godfrey.
"But, brother, it is quite a storm," persisted Rosamond.
"Only equinoctial gales, my dear."
"Only equinoctial gales! But to drowning people it would be no comfort that
they were shipwrecked only by equinoctial gales. There! there! what do you
think of that blast?" cried Rosamond; "is not there some danger now?"
"Godfrey will not allow it," said Mrs. Percy: "he is a soldier, and it is
his trade not to know fear."
"Show him a _certain_ danger," cried Mr. Percy, looking up from a letter
he was writing,--"show him a _certain_ danger, and he will feel fear as
much as the greatest coward of you all. Ha! upon my word, it is an _ugly_
night," continued he, going to the window.
"Oh, my dear father!" cried Rosamond, "did you see that light--out at
sea?--There! there!--to the left."
"To the east--I see it."
"Hark! did you hear?"
"Minute guns!" said Caroline.
There was a dead silence instantly.--Every body listened.--Guns were heard
again.--The signal of some vessel in distress. The sound seemed near the
shore.--Mr. Percy and Godfrey hastened immediately to the coast.--Their
servants and some people from the neighbouring village, whom they summoned,
quickly followed. They found that a vessel had struck upon a rock, and from
the redoubled signals it appeared that the danger must be imminent.
The boatmen, who were just wakened, were surly, and swore that they would
not stir; that whoever she was, she might weather out the night, for that,
till daybreak, they couldn't get alongside of her. Godfrey instantly jumped
into a boat, declaring he would go out directly at all hazards.--Mr. Percy
with as much intrepidity, but, as became his age, with more prudence,
provided whatever assistance was necessary from the villagers, who declared
they would go any where with him; the boatmen, then ashamed, or afraid of
losing the offered reward, pushed aside the _land lubbers_, and were ready
to put out to sea.
Out they rowed--and they were soon so near the vessel, that they could hear
the cries and voices of the crew. The boats hailed her, and she answered
that she was Dutch, homeward bound--had mistaken the lights upon the
coast--had struck on a rock--was filling with water--and must go down in
half an hour.
The moment the boats came alongside of her, the crew crowded into them so
fast, and with such disorder and precipitation, that they were in great
danger of being overset, which, Mr. Percy seeing, called out in a loud and
commanding voice to stop several who were in the act of coming down the
ship's side, and promised to return for them if they would wait. But just
as he gave the order for his boatmen to _push off_, a French voice called
out "Monsieur!--Monsieur l'Anglois!--one moment."
Mr. Percy looked back and saw, as the moon shone full upon the wreck, a
figure standing at the poop, leaning over with out-stretched arms.
"I am Monsieur de Tourville, monsieur--a charge d'affaires--with papers of
the greatest importance--despatches."
"I will return for you, sir--it is impossible for me to take you now--our
boat is loaded as much as it can bear," cried Mr. Percy; and he repeated
his order to the boatmen to _push off_.
Whilst Godfrey and Mr. Percy were trimming the boat, M. de Tourville made
an effort to jump into it.
"Oh! don't do it, sir!" cried a woman with a child in her arms; "the
gentleman will come back for us: for God's sake, don't jump into it!"
"Don't attempt it, sir," cried Mr. Percy, looking up, "or you'll sink us
all."
M. de Tourville threw down the poor woman who tried to stop him, and he
leaped from the side of the ship. At the same moment Mr. Percy, seizing
an oar, pushed the boat off, and saved it from being overset, as it must
have been if M. de Tourville had scrambled into it. He fell into the
water. Mr. Percy, without waiting to see the event, went off as fast as
possible, justly considering that the lives of the number he had under his
protection, including his son's and his own, were not to be sacrificed for
one man, whatever his name or office might be, especially when that man had
persisted against all warning in his rash selfishness.
At imminent danger to themselves, Mr. Percy and Godfrey, after landing
those in the boat, returned once more to the wreck; and though they both
declared that their consciences would be at ease even if they found that M.
de Tourville was drowned, yet it was evident that they rejoiced to see him
safe on board. This time the boat held him, and all the rest of his fellow
sufferers; and Mr. Percy and his son had the satisfaction of bringing every
soul safely to shore.--M. de Tourville, as soon as he found himself on
terra firma, joined with all around him in warm thanks to Mr. Percy and
his son, by whom their lives had been saved.--Godfrey undertook to find
lodgings for some of the passengers and for the ship's crew in the village,
and Mr. Percy invited the captain, M. de Tourville, and the rest of
the passengers, to Percy-hall, where Mrs. Percy and her daughters had
prepared every thing for their hospitable reception. When they had warmed,
dried, and refreshed themselves, they were left to enjoy what they wanted
most--repose. The Percy family, nearly as much fatigued as their guests,
were also glad to rest--all but Rosamond, who was wide awake, and so much
excited by what had happened, that she continued talking to her sister,
who slept in the same room with her, of every circumstance, and filling
her imagination with all that might come to pass from the adventures of
the night, whilst Caroline, too sleepy to be able to answer judiciously,
or even plausibly, said, "Yes," "No," and "Very true," in the wrong place;
and at length, incapable of uttering even a monosyllable, was reduced to
inarticulate sounds in sign of attention. These grew fainter and fainter,
and after long intervals absolutely failing, Rosamond with some surprise
and indignation, exclaimed, "I do believe, Caroline, you are asleep!" And,
in despair, Rosamond, for want of an auditor, was compelled to compose
herself to rest.
In the course of a few hours the storm abated, and in the morning, when the
family and their shipwrecked guests assembled at breakfast, all was calm
and serene. Much to Rosamond's dissatisfaction, M. de Tourville did not
make his appearance. Of the other strangers she had seen only a glimpse the
preceding night, and had not settled her curiosity concerning what sort of
beings they were. On a clear view by daylight of the personages who now sat
at the breakfast-table, there did not appear much to interest her romantic
imagination, or to excite her benevolent sympathy. They had the appearance
of careful money-making men, thick, square-built Dutch merchants, who said
little and eat much--butter especially. With one accord, as soon as they
had breakfasted, they rose, and begged permission to go down to the wreck
to look after their property. Mr. Percy and Godfrey offered immediately to
accompany them to the coast.
Mr. Percy had taken the precaution to set guards to watch all night, from
the time he left the vessel, that no depredations might be committed.
They found that some of the cargo had been damaged by the sea-water, but
excepting this loss there was no other of any consequence; the best part of
the goods was perfectly safe. As it was found that it would take some time
to repair the wreck, the Prussian and Hamburgh passengers determined to
go on board a vessel which was to sail from a neighbouring port with the
first fair wind. They came, previously to their departure, to thank the
Percy family, and to assure them that their hospitality would never he
forgotten.--Mr. Percy pressed them to stay at Percy-hall till the vessel
should sail, and till the captain should send notice of the first change
of wind.--This offer, however, was declined, and the Dutch merchants,
with due acknowledgments, said, by their speaking partner, that "they
considered it safest and best to go with the goods, and so wished Mr. Percy
a good morning, and that he might prosper in all his dealings; and, sir,"
concluded he, "in any of the changes of fortune, which happen to men by
land as well as by sea, please to remember the names of Grinderweld,
Groensvelt, and Slidderchild of Amsterdam, or our correspondents, Panton
and Co., London."
So having said, they walked away, keeping an eye upon the goods.
When Mr. Percy returned home it was near dinner-time, yet M. de Tourville
had not made his appearance. He was all this while indulging in a
comfortable sleep. He had no goods on board the wreck except his clothes,
and as these were in certain trunks and portmanteaus in which Comtois, his
valet, had a joint concern, M. de Tourville securely trusted that they
would be obtained without his taking any trouble.
Comtois and the trunks again appeared, and a few minutes before dinner M.
de Tourville made his entrance into the drawing-room, no longer in the
plight of a shipwrecked mariner, but in gallant trim, wafting gales of
momentary bliss as he went round the room paying his compliments to the
ladies, bowing, smiling, apologizing,--the very pink of courtesy!--The
gentlemen of the family, who had seen him the preceding night in his
frightened, angry, drenched, and miserable state, could scarcely believe
him to be the same person.
A Frenchman, it will be allowed, can contrive to say more, and to tell
more of his private history in a given time, than could be accomplished by
a person of any other nation. In the few minutes before dinner he found
means to inform the company, that he was private secretary and favourite
of the minister of a certain German court. To account for his having taken
his passage in a Dutch merchant vessel, and for his appearing without
a suitable suite, he whispered that he had been instructed to preserve
a strict incognito, from which, indeed, nothing but the horrors of the
preceding night could have drawn him.
Dinner was served, and at dinner M. de Tourville was seen, according to
the polished forms of society, humbling himself in all the hypocrisy of
politeness; with ascetic good-breeding, preferring every creature's ease
and convenience to his own, practising a continual system of self-denial,
such as almost implied a total annihilation of self-interest and self-love.
All this was strikingly contrasted with the selfishness which he had
recently betrayed, when he was in personal danger. Yet the influence of
polite manners prevailed so far as to make his former conduct be forgotten
by most of the family.
After dinner, when the ladies retired, in the female privy council held
to discuss the merits of the absent gentlemen, Rosamond spoke first, and
during the course of five minutes pronounced as many contradictory opinions
of M. de Tourville, as could well be enunciated in the same space of
time.--At last she paused, and her mother smiled.
"I understand your smile, mother," said Rosamond; "but the reason I appear
a _little_ to contradict myself sometimes in my judgment of character is,
because I speak my thoughts just as they rise in my mind, while persons
who have a character for judgment to support always keep the changes of
their opinion snug to themselves, never showing the items of the account
on either side, and let you see nothing but their balance.--This is very
grand, and, if their balance be right, very glorious.--But ignominious
as my mode of proceeding may seem, exposing me to the rebukes, derision,
uplifted hands and eyes of my auditors, yet exactly because I am checked at
every little mistake I make in my accounts, the chance is in my favour that
my totals should at last be right, and my balance perfectly accurate."
"Very true, my dear: as long as you choose for your auditors only your
friends, you are wise; but you sometimes lay your accounts open to
strangers; and as they see only your errors, without ever coming to your
conclusion, they form no favourable opinion of your accuracy."
"I don't mind what strangers think of me--much," said Rosamond.--"At least
you will allow, mamma, that I have reason to be satisfied, if only those
who do not know me should form an unfavourable opinion of my judgment--and,
after all, ma'am, of the two classes of people, those who 'never said a
foolish thing, and never did a wise one,' and those who never did a foolish
thing, and never said a wise one, would not you rather that I should belong
to the latter class?"
"Certainly, if I were reduced to the cruel alternative: but is there an
unavoidable necessity for your belonging to either class?"
"I will consider of it, ma'am," said Rosamond: "in the meantime, Caroline,
you will allow that M. de Tourville is very agreeable?"
"Agreeable!" repeated Caroline; "such a selfish being? Have you forgotten
his attempting to jump into the boat, at the hazard of oversetting it,
and of drowning my father and Godfrey, who went out to save him--and when
my father warned him--and promised to return for him--selfish, cowardly
creature!"
"Oh! poor man, he was so frightened, that he did not know what he was
doing--he was not himself."
"You mean he was himself," said Caroline.
"You are very ungrateful, Caroline," cried Rosamond; "for I am sure M.
de Tourville admires you extremely--yes, in spite of that provoking,
incredulous smile, I say he does admire you exceedingly."
"And if he did," replied Caroline, "that would make no difference in my
opinion of him."
"I doubt _that_," said Rosamond: "I know a person's admiring me would make
a great difference in my opinion of his taste and judgment--and how much
more if he had sense enough to admire you!"
Rosamond paused, and stood for some minutes silent in reverie.
"It will never do, my dear," said Mrs. Percy, looking up at her; "trust me
it will never do; turn him which way you will in your imagination, you will
never make a hero of him--nor yet a brother-in-law."
"My dear mother, how could you guess what I was thinking of?" said
Rosamond, colouring a little, and laughing; "but I assure you--now let me
explain to you, ma'am, in one word, what I think of M. de Tourville."
"Hush! my dear, he is here."
The gentlemen came into the room to tea.--M. de Tourville walked to the
table at which Mrs. Percy was sitting; and, after various compliments on
the beauty of the views from the windows, on the richness of the foliage
in the park, and the superiority of English verdure, he next turned to
look at the pictures in the saloon, distinguished a portrait by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, then passing to a table on which lay several books--"Is it
permitted?" said he, taking up one of them--the Life of Lord Nelson.
M. de Tourville did not miss the opportunity of paying a just and what to
English ears he knew must be a delightful, tribute of praise to our naval
hero. Then opening several other books, he made a rash attempt to pronounce
in English their titles, and with the happy facility of a Frenchman,
he touched upon various subjects, dwelt upon none, but found means on
all to say something to raise himself and his country in the opinion of
the company, and at the same time to make all his auditors pleased with
themselves. Presently, taking a seat between Rosamond and Caroline, he
applied himself to draw out their talents for conversation. Nor did he
labour in vain. They did not shut themselves up in stupid and provoking
silence, nor did they make any ostentatious display of their knowledge
or abilities.--M. de Tourville, as Rosamond had justly observed, seemed
to be particularly struck with Miss Caroline Percy.--She was beautiful,
and of an uncommon style of beauty. Ingenuous, unaffected, and with
all the simplicity of youth, there was a certain dignity and graceful
self-possession in her manner, which gave the idea of a superior character.
She had, perhaps, less of what the French call _esprit_ than M. de
Tourville had been accustomed to meet with in young persons on the
continent, but he was the more surprised by the strength and justness of
thought which appeared in her plain replies to the _finesse_ of some of his
questions.
The morning of the second day that he was at Percy-hall, M. de Tourville
was admiring the Miss Percys' drawings, especially some miniatures of
Caroline's, and he produced his snuff-box, to show Mr. Percy a beautiful
miniature on its lid.
It was exquisitely painted. M. de Tourville offered it to Caroline to copy,
and Mrs. Percy urged her to make the attempt.
"It is the celebrated Euphrosyne," said he, "who from the stage was very
near mounting a throne."
M. de Tourville left the miniature in the hands of the ladies to be
admired, and, addressing himself to Mr. Percy, began to tell with much
mystery the story of Euphrosyne. She was an actress of whom the prince,
heir apparent at the _German court_ where he resided, had become violently
enamoured. One of the prince's young confidants had assisted his royal
highness in carrying on a secret correspondence with Euphrosyne, which
she managed so artfully that the prince was on the point of giving her
a written promise of marriage, when the intrigue was discovered, and
prevented from proceeding farther, by a certain Count Albert Altenberg,
a young nobleman who had till that moment been one of the prince's
favourites, but who by thus opposing his passion lost entirely his prince's
favour. The story was a common story of an intrigue, such as happens every
day in every country where there is a young prince; but there was something
uncommon in the conduct of Count Altenberg. Mr. Percy expressed his
admiration of it; but M. de Tourville, though he acknowledged, as in
morality bound, that the count's conduct had been admirable, just what it
ought to be upon this occasion, yet spoke of him altogether as _une tete
exaltee_, a young man of a romantic Quixotic enthusiasm, to which he had
sacrificed the interests of his family, and his own hopes of advancement
at court. In support of this opinion, M. de Tourville related several
anecdotes, and on each of these anecdotes Mr. Percy and M. de Tourville
differed in opinion. All that was produced to prove that the young
count had no judgment or discretion appeared to Mr. Percy proofs of his
independence of character and greatness of soul. Mr. Percy repeated the
anecdotes to Mrs. Percy and his daughters; and M. de Tourville, as soon
as he saw that the ladies, and especially Caroline, differed from him,
immediately endeavoured to slide round to their opinion, and assured
Caroline, with many asseverations, and with his hand upon his heart, that
he had merely been speaking of the light in which these things appeared to
the generality of men of the world; that for his own particular feelings
they were all in favour of the frankness and generosity of character
evinced by these imprudences--he only lamented that certain qualities
should expose their possessor to the censure and ridicule of those who were
like half the world, incapable of being moved by any motive but interest,
and unable to reach to the idea of the moral sublime.
The more M. de Tourville said upon the subject, and the more gesture and
emphasis he used to impress the belief in his truth, the less Caroline
believed him, and the more dislike and contempt she felt for the duplicity
and pitiful meanness of a character, which was always endeavouring to
seem, instead of to be.--He understood and felt the expression of her
countenance, and mortified by that dignified silence, which said more than
words could express, he turned away, and never afterwards addressed to her
any of his _confidential_ conversation.
From this moment Rosamond's opinion of M. de Tourville changed. She
gave him up altogether, and denied, or at least gave him grudgingly,
that praise, which he eminently deserved for agreeable manners and
conversational talents. Not a foible of his now escaped her quick
observation and her lively perception of ridicule.
Whether from accident, or from some suspicion that he had lost ground with
the ladies, M. de Tourville the next day directed the principal part of
his conversation to the gentlemen of the family: comforting himself with
the importance of his political and official character, he talked grandly
of politics and diplomacy. Rosamond, who listened with an air of arch
attention, from time to time, with a tone of ironical simplicity, asked
explanations on certain points relative to the diplomatic code of morality,
and professed herself much edified and enlightened by the answers she
received.
She wished, as she told Caroline, that some one would write Advice to
Diplomatists, in the manner of Swift's advice to Servants; and she observed
that M. de Tourville, charge d'affaires, &c., might supply anecdotes
illustrative, and might embellish the work with a portrait of a finished
diplomatist. Unfortunately for the public, on the third morning of the
diplomatist's visit, a circumstance occurred, which prevented the farther
development of his character, stopped his flow of anecdote, and snatched
him from the company of his hospitable hosts. In looking over his papers,
in order to show Mr. Percy a complimentary letter from some crowned head,
M. de Tourville discovered that an important packet of papers belonging
to his despatches was missing. He had in the moment of danger and terror
stuffed all his despatches into his great-coat pocket; in getting out of
the boat he had given his coat to Comtois to carry, and, strange to tell,
this charge d'affaires had taken it upon trust, from the assertion of his
valet, that all his papers were safe. He once, indeed, had looked them
over, but so carelessly that he never had missed the packet. His dismay was
great when he discovered his loss. He repeated at least a thousand times
that he was an undone man, unless the packet could be found.--Search was
made for it, in the boat, on the shore, in every probable and improbable
place--but all in vain; and in the midst of the search a messenger came to
announce that the wind was fair, that the ship would sail in one hour, and
that the captain could wait for no man. M. de Tourville was obliged to take
his departure without this precious packet.
Mrs. Percy was the only person in the family who had the humanity to pity
him. He was too little of a soldier for Godfrey's taste, too much of a
courtier for Mr. Percy, too frivolous for Caroline, and too little romantic
for Rosamond.
"So," said Rosamond, "here was a fine beginning of a romance with a
shipwreck, that ends only in five square merchants, who do not lose even
a guilder of their property, and a diplomatist, with whom we are sure of
nothing but that he has lost a bundle of papers for which nobody cares!"
In a few days the remembrance of the whole adventure began to fade from
her fancy. M. de Tourville, and his snuff-box, and his essences, and his
flattery, and his diplomacy, and his lost packet, and all the circumstances
of the shipwreck, would have appeared as a dream, if they had not been
maintained in the rank of realities by the daily sight of the wreck, and by
the actual presence of the Dutch sailors, who were repairing the vessel.
CHAPTER II.
A few days after the departure of M. de Tourville, Commissioner Falconer, a
friend, or at least a relation of Mr. Percy's, came to pay him a visit. As
the commissioner looked out of the window and observed the Dutch carpenter,
who was passing by with tools under his arm, he began to talk of the late
shipwreck. Mr. Falconer said he had heard much of the successful exertions
and hospitality of the Percy family on that occasion--regretted that he had
himself been called to town just at that time--asked many questions about
the passengers on board the vessel, and when M. de Tourville was described
to him, deplored that Mr. Percy had never thought of trying to detain this
foreigner a few days longer.
For, argued the commissioner, though M. de Tourville might not be an
accredited charge d'affaires, yet, since he was a person in some degree in
an official capacity, and intrusted with secret negotiations, government
might have wished to know something about him. "And at all events," added
the commissioner, with a shrewd smile, "it would have been a fine way of
paying our court to a certain great man."
"So, commissioner, you still put your trust in great men?" said Mr. Percy.
"Not in all great men, but in some," replied the commissioner; "for
instance, in your old friend, Lord Oldborough, who, I'm happy to inform
you, is just come into our neighbourhood to Clermont-park, of which he
has at last completed the purchase, and has sent down his plate and
pictures.--Who knows but he may make Clermont-park his summer residence,
instead of his place in Essex? and if he should, there's no saying of what
advantage it might be, for I have it from the very best authority, that
his lordship's influence in _a certain quarter_ is greater than ever. Of
course, Mr. Percy, you will wait upon Lord Oldborough, when he comes to
this part of the country?"
"No, I believe not," said Mr. Percy: "I have no connexion with him now."
"But you were so intimate with him abroad," expostulated Mr. Falconer.
"It is five-and-twenty years since I knew him abroad," said Mr. Percy; "and
from all I have heard, he is an altered man. When I was intimate with Lord
Oldborough, he was a generous, open-hearted youth: he has since become a
politician, and I fear he has sold himself for a riband to the demon of
ambition."
"No matter to whom he has sold himself, or for what," replied the
commissioner; "that is his affair, not ours. We must not be too nice. He
is well disposed towards you; and, my dear sir, I should take it as a very
particular favour if you would introduce me to his lordship."
"With great pleasure," said Mr. Percy, "the very first opportunity."
"We must make opportunities--not wait for them," said the commissioner,
smiling. "Let me entreat that you will pay your respects to his lordship as
soon as he comes into the country. It really is but civil--and take me in
your hand."
"With all my heart," said Mr. Percy; "but mine shall only be a visit of
civility."
Well satisfied with having obtained this promise, Commissioner Falconer
departed.
Besides his general desire to be acquainted with the great, the
commissioner had particular reasons for wishing to be introduced at this
time to Lord Oldborough, and he had a peculiar cause for being curious
about M. de Tourville.--Mr. Falconer was in possession of the packet which
that diplomatist had lost. It had been found by one of the commissioner's
sons, Mr. John Falconer; or rather by Mr. John Falconer's dog, Neptune, who
brought it to his master when he was bathing in the sea the day after the
shipwreck. It had been thrown by the tide among some sea-weed, where it
was entangled, and where it lay hid till it was discovered by the dog. Mr.
John Falconer had carried it home, and boasting of his dog's sagacity, had
produced it rather as a proof of the capital manner in which he had taught
Neptune to fetch and carry, than from any idea or care for the value of the
packet; John Falconer being one of those men who care for very little in
this world,
"Whilst they have their dog and their gun."
Not so the commissioner, who immediately began to examine the papers
with serious curiosity, to discover whether they could by any means be
productive of advantage to him or his family. The sea-water had injured
only the outer pages; but though the inner were not in the least damaged,
it was difficult to make out their contents, for they were written
in cipher. Commissioner Falconer, however, was skilled in the art of
deciphering, and possessed all the ingenuity and patience necessary for
the business. The title, superscription, and signature of the paper were
obliterated, so that he could not guess from whom they came, or to whom
they were addressed; he perceived that they were political; but of what
degree of importance they might be he could not decide, till he heard of
M. de Tourville the diplomatist, and of his distress at the loss of this
packet. The commissioner then resolved to devote the evening, ensuing
day, and night, if requisite, to the business, that he might have it in
readiness to carry with him when he went to pay his respects to Lord
Oldborough. Foreseeing that something might be made of this intercepted
despatch, and fearing that if he mentioned it to Mr. Percy, that gentleman
might object to opening the papers, Mr. Falconer left Percy-hall without
giving the most remote hint of the treasure which he possessed, or of the
use that he intended to make of his discovery.
Early in the ensuing week Mr. Percy went to pay his visit of civility, and
Mr. Falconer his visit of policy, to Lord Oldborough. His lordship was so
much altered, that it was with difficulty Mr. Percy recollected in him any
traces of the same person. The Lord Oldborough he had formerly known was
gay, gallant, and rather dissipated; of a frank, joyous air and manner. The
Lord Oldborough whom he now saw was a serious, reserved-looking personage,
with a face in which the lines of thought and care were deeply marked;
large eyebrows, vigilant eyes, with an expression of ability and decision
in his whole countenance, but not of tranquillity or of happiness. His
manner was well-bred, but rather cold and formal: his conversation
circumspect, calculated to draw forth the opinions, and to benefit by the
information of others, rather than to assert or display his own. He seemed
to converse, to think, to live, not with any enjoyment of the present, but
with a view to some future object, about which he was constantly anxious.
Mr. Percy and Mr. Falconer both observed Lord Oldborough attentively during
this visit: Mr. Percy studied him with philosophical curiosity, to discover
what changes had been made in his lordship's character by the operation
of ambition, and to determine how far that passion had contributed to his
happiness; Mr. Falconer studied him with the interested eye of a man of the
world, eager to discern what advantage could be made by ministering to that
ambition, and to decide whether there was about his lordship the making of
a good patron.
There was, he thought, the right twist, if he had but skill to follow,
and humour it in the working; but this was a task of much nicety. Lord
Oldborough appeared to be aware of the commissioner's views, and was not
disposed to burden himself with new _friends_. It seemed easy to go to a
certain point with his lordship, but difficult to get farther; easy to
obtain his attention, but impossible to gain his confidence.
The commissioner, however, had many resources ready; many small means of
fastening himself both on his lordship's private and public interests. He
determined to begin first with the despatch which he had been deciphering.
With this view he led Mr. Percy to speak of the shipwreck, and of M. de
Tourville. Lord Oldborough's attention was immediately awakened; and when
Mr. Falconer perceived that the regret for not having seen M. de Tourville,
and the curiosity to know the nature of his secret negotiations had been
sufficiently excited, the commissioner quitted the subject, as he could go
no farther whilst restrained by Mr. Percy's presence. He took the first
opportunity of leaving the room with his lordship's nephew, Col. Hauton, to
look at some horses, which were to run at the ensuing races.
Left alone with Mr. Percy, Lord Oldborough looked less reserved, for he
plainly saw, indeed Mr. Percy plainly showed, that he had nothing to ask
from the great man, but that he came only to see his friend.
"Many years since we met, Mr. Percy," said his lordship, sitting down and
placing his chair for the first time without considering whether his face
or his back were to the light.--"A great many years since we met, Mr.
Percy; and yet I should not think so from your appearance; you do not look
as if--shall I say it?--five-and-twenty years had passed since that time.
But you have been leading an easy life in the country--the happiest life: I
envy you."
Mr. Percy, thinking that these were words of course, the mere polite _cant_
of a courtier to a country gentleman, smiled, and replied, that few who
were acquainted with their different situations in the world would imagine
that Mr. Percy could be an object of envy to Lord Oldborough, a statesman
at the summit of favour and fortune.
"Not the summit," said Lord Oldborough, sighing; "and if I were even at
the summit, it is, you know, a dangerous situation. Fortune's wheel never
stands still--the highest point is therefore the most perilous." His
lordship sighed again as deeply as before; then spoke, or rather led to
the subject of general politics, of which Mr. Percy gave his opinions with
freedom and openness, yet without ever forgetting the respect due to Lord
Oldborough's situation. His lordship seemed sensible of this attention,
sometimes nodded, and sometimes smiled, as Mr. Percy spoke of public men or
measures; but when he expressed any sentiment of patriotism, or of public
virtue, Lord Oldborough took to his snuff-box, shook and levelled the
snuff; and if he listened, listened as to words superfluous and irrelevant.
When Mr. Percy uttered any principle favourable to the liberty of the
press, or of the people, his lordship would take several pinches of snuff
rapidly, to hide the expression of his countenance; if the topics were
continued, his averted eyes and compressed lips showed disapprobation, and
the difficulty he felt in refraining from reply. From reply, however, he
did absolutely refrain; and after a pause of a few moments, with a smile,
in a softer and lower voice than his usual tone, he asked Mr. Percy some
questions about his family, and turned the conversation again to domestic
affairs;--expressed surprise, that a man of Mr. Percy's talents should live
in such absolute retirement; and seeming to forget what he had said himself
but half an hour before, of the pains and dangers of ambition, and all that
Mr. Percy had said of his love of domestic life, appeared to take it for
granted that Mr. Percy would be glad to shine in public, if opportunity
were not wanting. Upon this supposition, his lordship dexterously pointed
out ways by which he might distinguish himself; threw out assurances of his
own good wishes, compliments to his talents; and, in short, sounded his
heart, still expecting to find corruption or ambition at the bottom. But
none was to be found. Lord Oldborough was convinced of it--and surprised.
Perhaps his esteem for Mr. Percy's understanding fell some degrees--he
considered him as an eccentric person, acting from unaccountable motives;
but still he respected him as that rarest of all things in a politician's
eye--a really honest independent man. He believed also that Mr. Percy had
some regard for him; and whatever portion it might be, it was valuable and
extraordinary--for it was disinterested: besides, they could never cross
in their objects--and as Mr. Percy lived out of the world, and had no
connexion with any party, he was a perfectly safe man. All these thoughts
acted so powerfully upon Lord Oldborough, that he threw aside his reserve,
in a manner which would have astonished and delighted Mr. Falconer. Mr.
Percy was astonished, but not delighted--he saw a noble mind corroded and
debased by ambition--virtuous principle, generous feeling, stifled--a
powerful, capacious understanding distorted--a soul, once expatiating
and full of high thoughts, now confined to a span--bent down to low
concerns--imprisoned in the precincts of a court.
"You pity me," said Lord Oldborough, who seemed to understand Mr. Percy's
thoughts; "you pity me--I pity myself. But such is ambition, and I cannot
live without it--once and always its slave."
"A person of such a strong mind as Lord Oldborough could emancipate himself
from any slavery--even that of habit."
"Yes, if he wished to break through it--but he does not."
"Can he have utterly--"
"Lost his taste for freedom? you would say. Yes--utterly. I see you pity
me," said his lordship with a bitter smile; "and," added he, rising
proudly, "I am unused to be pitied, and I am awkward, I fear, under the
obligation." Resuming his friendly aspect, however, in a moment or two, he
followed Mr. Percy, who had turned to examine a fine picture.
"Yes; a Corregio. You are not aware, my dear sir," continued he, "that
between the youth you knew at Paris, and the man who has now the honour to
speak to you, there is nothing in common--absolutely nothing--except regard
for Mr. Percy. You had always great knowledge of character, I remember; but
with respect to my own, you will recollect that I have the advantage of
possessing _la carte du pays_. You are grown quite a philosopher, I find;
and so am I, in my own way. In short, to put the question between us at
rest for ever, _there is nothing left for me in life but ambition_. Now let
us go to Corregio, or what you please."
Mr. Percy followed his lordship's lead immediately to Italy, to France, to
Paris, and talking over old times and youthful days, the conversation grew
gay and familiar. Lord Oldborough seemed enlivened and pleased, and yet,
as if it were a reminiscence of a former state of existence, he often
repeated, "Ah! those were young days--very young: I was a boy then--quite
a boy." At last Mr. Percy touched upon love and women, and, by accident,
mentioned an Italian lady whom they had known abroad.--A flash of pale
anger, almost of frenzy, passed across Lord Oldborough's countenance:
he turned short, darted full on Mr. Percy a penetrating, imperious,
interrogative look.--Answered by the innocence, the steady openness of Mr.
Percy's countenance, Lord Oldborough grew red instantly, and, conscious
of his unusual change of colour, stood actually abashed. A moment
afterward, commanding his agitation, he forced his whole person to an air
of tranquillity--took up the red book which lay upon his table, walked
deliberately to a window, and, looking earnestly through his glass, asked
if Mr. Percy could recollect who was member for some borough in the
neighbourhood? The conversation after this languished; and though some
efforts were made, it never recovered the tone of ease and confidence. Both
parties felt relieved from an indefinable sort of constraint by the return
of the other gentlemen. Mr. Falconer begged Mr. Percy to go and look at a
carriage of a new construction, which the colonel had just brought from
town; and the colonel accompanying Mr. Percy, the stage was thus left clear
for the commissioner to open his business about M. de Tourville's packet.
He did it with so much address, and with so little circumlocution, that
Lord Oldborough immediately comprehended how important the papers might
be to him, and how necessary it was to secure the decipherer. When Mr.
Percy returned, he found the commissioner and his lordship in earnest and
seemingly confidential conversation. Both Mr. Falconer and Mr. Percy were
now pressed to stay to dine and to sleep at Clermont-park; an invitation
which Mr. Percy declined, but which the commissioner accepted.
In the evening, when the company who had dined at Clermont-park were
settled to cards and music, Lord Oldborough, after walking up and down the
room with the commissioner in silence for some minutes, retired with him
into his study, rang, and gave orders that they should not be interrupted
on any account till supper. The servant informed his lordship that such and
such persons, whom he had appointed, were waiting.--"I cannot possibly see
them till to-morrow," naming the hour. The servant laid on the table before
his lordship a huge parcel of letters. Lord Oldborough, with an air of
repressed impatience, bid the man send his secretary, Mr. Drakelow,--looked
over the letters, wrote with a pencil, and with great despatch, a few words
on the back of each--met Mr. Drakelow as he entered the room--put the
unfolded letters all together into his hands--"The answers on the back--to
be made out in form--ready for signature at six to-morrow."
"Yes, my lord. May I ask--"
"Ask nothing, sir, if you please--I am busy--you have your directions."
Mr. Drakelow bowed submissive, and made his exit with great celerity.
"Now to our business, my dear sir," said his lordship, seating himself at
the table with Mr. Falconer, who immediately produced M. de Tourville's
papers.
It is not at this period of our story necessary to state precisely their
contents; it is sufficient to say, that they opened to Lord Oldborough a
scene of diplomatic treachery abroad, and of ungrateful duplicity at home.
From some of the intercepted letters he discovered that certain of his
colleagues, who appeared to be acting along with him with the utmost
cordiality, were secretly combined against him; and were carrying on an
underplot, to deprive him at once of popularity, favour, place, and power.
The strength, firmness, hardness of mind, which Lord Oldborough exhibited
at the moment of this discovery, perfectly amazed Mr. Falconer. His
lordship gave no sign of astonishment, uttered no indignant exclamation,
nor betrayed any symptoms of alarm; but he listened with motionless
attention, when Mr. Falconer from time to time interrupted his reading, and
put himself to great expense of face and lungs to express his abhorrence
of "such inconceivable treachery." Lord Oldborough maintained an absolute
silence, and waiting till the commissioner had exhausted himself in
invective, would point with his pencil to the line in the paper where he
had left off, and calmly say--"Have the goodness to go on--Let us proceed,
sir, if you please."
The commissioner went on till he came to the most important and interesting
point, and then glancing his eye on his intended patron's profile, which
was towards him, he suddenly stopped. Lord Oldborough, raising his head
from the hand on which it leaned, turned his full front face upon Mr.
Falconer.
"Let me hear the whole, if you please, sir.--To form a judgment upon any
business, it is necessary to have the whole before us.--You need not fear
to shock my feelings, sir. I wish always to see men and things as they
are." Mr. Falconer still hesitating, and turning over the leaves--"As my
friend in this business, Mr. Falconer," continued his lordship, "you will
comprehend that the essential point is to put me as soon as possible in
possession of the facts--then I can decide, and act. If it will not fatigue
you too much, I wish to go through these papers before I sleep."
"Fatigue! Oh, my lord, I am not in the least--cannot be fatigued! But the
fact is, I cannot go on; for the next pages I have not yet deciphered--the
cipher changes here."
Lord Oldborough looked much disappointed and provoked; but, after a few
minutes' pause, calmly said, "What time will it take, sir, to decipher the
remainder?"
The commissioner protested he did not know--could not form an idea--he and
his son had spent many hours of intense labour on the first papers before
he could make out the first cipher--now this was a new one, probably more
difficult, and whether he could make it out at all, or in what time, he
was utterly unable to say. Lord Oldborough replied, "Let us understand one
another at once, Commissioner Falconer, if you please. My maxim, and the
maxim of every man in public life is, or ought to be--Serve me, and I will
serve you. I have no pretensions to Mr. Falconer's friendship on any other
grounds, I am sensible; nor on any other terms can he have a claim to
whatever power of patronage I possess. But I neither serve nor will be
served by halves: my first object is to make myself master, as soon as
possible, of the contents of the papers in your hands; my next to secure
your inviolable secrecy on the whole transaction."
The commissioner was going to make vows of secrecy and protestations of
zeal, but Lord Oldborough cut all that short with "Of course--of course,"
pronounced in the driest accent, and went on with, "Now, sir, you know
my object; will you do me the honour to state yours?--you will excuse my
abruptness--time in some circumstances is every thing--Do me and yourself
the justice to say at once what return I can make for the service you have
done or may do me and government."
"My only hesitation in speaking, my lord, was--"
"Have no hesitation in speaking, I beseech you, sir."
I _beseech_, in tone, was in effect, I _command_ you, sir;--and Mr.
Falconer, under the influence of an imperious and superior mind, came at
once to that point, which he had not intended to come to for a month, or to
approach till after infinite precaution and circumlocution.
"My object is to push my son Cunningham in the diplomatic line, my
lord--and I wish to make him one of your secretaries."
The commissioner stopped short, astonished to find that the truth, and the
whole truth, had absolutely passed his lips, and in such plain words; but
they could not be recalled: he gasped for breath--and began an apologetical
sentence about poor Mr. Drakelow, whom he should be sorry to injure or
displace.
"Never mind that now--time enough to think of Drakelow," said Lord
Oldborough, walking up and down the room--then stopping short, "I must see
your son, sir."
"I will bring him here to-morrow, if your lordship pleases."
"As soon as possible! But he can come surely without your going for
him--write, and beg that we may see him at breakfast--at nine, if you
please."
The letter was written, and despatched immediately. Lord Oldborough, whilst
the commissioner was writing, noted down the heads of what he had learned
from M. de Tourville's packet: then locked up those of the papers which had
been deciphered, put the others into Mr. Falconer's charge, and recommended
it to him to use all possible despatch in deciphering the remainder.--The
commissioner declared he would sit up all night at the task; this did
not appear to be more than was expected.--His lordship rung, and ordered
candles in Mr. Falconer's room, then returned to the company in the saloon,
without saying another word. None could guess by his countenance or
deportment that any unusual circumstance had happened, or that his mind was
in the least perturbed. Mrs. Drakelow thought he was wholly absorbed in a
rubber of whist, and Miss Drakelow at the same time was persuaded that he
was listening to her music.
Punctual to the appointed hour--for ambition is as punctual to appointments
as love--Mr. Cunningham Falconer made his appearance at nine, and was
presented by his father to Lord Oldborough, who received him, not with
any show of gracious kindness, but as one who had been forced upon him by
circumstances, and whom, for valuable considerations, he had bargained
to take into his service. To try the young diplomatist's talents, Lord
Oldborough led him first to speak on the subject of the Tourville papers,
then urged him on to the affairs of Germany, and the general interests and
policy of the different courts of Europe. Trembling, and in agony for his
son, the commissioner stood aware of the danger of the youth's venturing
out of his depth, aware also of the danger of showing that he dared not
venture, and incapable of deciding between these equal fears: but soon he
was re-assured by the calmness of his son. Cunningham, who had not so much
information or capacity, but who had less sensibility than his father,
often succeeded where his father's timidity prognosticated failure. Indeed,
on the present occasion, the care which the young diplomatist took not to
commit himself, the dexterity with which he "helped himself by countenance
and gesture," and "was judicious by signs," proved that he was well skilled
in all those arts of _seeming wise_, which have been so well noted for
use by "the greatest, wisest, meanest of mankind." Young though he was,
Cunningham was quite sufficiently slow, circumspect, and solemn, to deserve
to be ranked among those whom Bacon calls _Formalists_, "who do nothing, or
little, very solemnly--who seem always to keep back somewhat; and when they
know within themselves that they speak of what they do not know, would,
nevertheless, seem to others to know that of which they may not well
speak."
Lord Oldborough listened to whatever he said, and marked all that he did
not say with an air of attentive composure, which, as Mr. Falconer thought,
augured well for his son; but now and then there was, for scarcely a
definable portion of time, an expression of humour in his lordship's eye, a
sarcastic smile, which escaped the commissioner's observation, and which,
even if he had observed, he could not, with his limited knowledge of Lord
Oldborough's character, have rightly interpreted. If his lordship had
expressed his thoughts, perhaps, they might have been, though in words less
quaint, nearly the same as those of the philosophic statesman, who says,
"It is a ridiculous thing, and fit for a satire to persons of judgment,
to see what shifts these _formalists_ have, and what prospectives to make
superficies to seem body that hath depth and bulk."
But Lord Oldborough philosophizing, and Lord Oldborough acting, were two
different people. His perception of the ridicule of the young secretary's
solemnity, and of the insufficiency of his information and capacity, made
no alteration in the minister's determination. The question was not whether
the individual was fit for this place, or that employment, but whether
it was expedient he should have it for the security of political power.
Waiving all delicacy, Lord Oldborough now, as in most other cases, made it
his chief object to be understood and obeyed; therefore he applied directly
to the universal motive, and spoke the universal language of interest.
"Mr. Falconer," said he, "if you put me in possession of the remainder of
M. de Tourville's papers this night, I will to-morrow morning put this
young gentleman into the hands of my present secretary, Mr. Drakelow, who
will prepare him for the situation you desire. Mr. Drakelow himself will,
probably, soon leave me, to be employed more advantageously for his
majesty's service, in some other manner."
The decipherers, father and son, shut themselves up directly, and set
to work with all imaginable zeal. The whole packet was nearly expounded
before night, and the next morning Lord Oldborough performed his part of
the agreement. He sent for Mr. Drakelow, and said, "Mr. Drakelow, I beg
that, upon your return to town, you will be so good as to take this young
gentleman, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, to your office. Endeavour to prepare
him to supply your place with me whenever it may be proper for his
majesty's service, and for your interest, to send you to Constantinople,
or elsewhere."
Mr. Drakelow, though infinitely surprised and displeased, bowed all
submission. Nothing else he knew was to be done with Lord Oldborough. His
lordship, as soon as his secretary had left the room, turned to Cunningham,
and said, "You will not mention anything concerning M. de Tourville's
intercepted papers to Mr. Drakelow, or to any other person. Affairs call me
to town immediately: to-morrow morning at six, I set off. You will, if you
please, sir, be ready to accompany me. I will not detain you longer from
any preparations you may have to make for your journey."
No sooner had the father and son quitted Lord Oldborough's presence than
Mr. Falconer exclaimed with exultation, "I long to see our good cousin
Percy, that I may tell him how I have provided already for one of my sons."
"But remember, sir," said Cunningham, "that Mr. Percy is to know nothing of
the Tourville packet."
"To be sure not," said Mr. Falconer; "he is to know nothing of the means,
he is to see only the end--the successful end. Ha! cousin Percy, I think we
know rather better than you do how to make something of every thing--even
of a shipwreck."
"To prevent his having any suspicions," continued Cunningham, "it will be
best to give Mr. Percy some probable reason for Lord Oldborough's _taking
to us_ so suddenly. It will be well to hint that you have opportunities of
obliging about the borough, or about the address at the county-meeting,
or--"
"No, no; no particulars; never go to particulars," said old Falconer:
"stick to generals, and you are safe. Say, in general, that I had an
opportunity of obliging government. Percy is not curious, especially about
_jobbing_. He will ask no questions; or, if he should, I can easily put him
upon a wrong scent. Now, Cunningham, listen to me: I have done my best, and
have pushed you into a fine situation: but remember, you cannot get on in
the diplomatic line without a certain degree of diplomatic information. I
have pointed this out to you often; you have neglected to make yourself
master of these things, and, for want of them in office, you will come, I
fear, some day or other to shame."
"Do not be afraid of that--no danger of my coming to shame any more than
a thousand other people in office, who never trouble themselves about
diplomatic information, and all that. There is always some clerk who knows
the forms, and with those, and looking for what one wants upon the spur
of the occasion in books and pamphlets, and so forth, one may go on very
well--if one does but know how to keep one's own counsel. You see I got
through with Lord Oldborough to-day--"
"Ay--but I assure you I trembled for you, and I could have squeezed myself
into an auger-hole once, when you blundered about that treaty of which I
knew that you knew nothing."
"Oh! sir, I assure you I had turned over the leaves. I was correct enough
as to the dates; and, suppose I blundered, as my brother Buckhurst says,
half the world never know what they are saying, and the other half never
find it out.--Why, sir, you were telling me the other night such a blunder
of Prince Potemkin's--"
"Very true," interrupted the commissioner; "but you are not Prince
Potemkin, nor yet a prime minister; if you were, no matter how little you
knew--you might get other people to supply your deficiencies. But now,
in your place, and in the course of making your way upwards, you will be
called upon to supply _others_ with the information they may want. And you
know I shall not be always at your elbow; therefore I really am afraid--"
"Dear sir, fear nothing," said Cunningham: "I shall do as well as others
do--the greatest difficulty is over. I have taken the first step, and it
has cost nothing."
"Well, get on, my boy--honestly, if you can--but get on."
CHAPTER III.
With the true genius of a political castle-builder, Mr. Falconer began to
add story after story to the edifice, of which he had thus promptly and
successfully laid the foundation. Having by a lucky hit provided for one of
his sons, that is to say, put him in a fair way of being provided for, the
industrious father began to form plans for the advancement of his two other
sons, Buckhurst and John: Buckhurst was destined by his father for the
church; John for the army. The commissioner, notwithstanding he had been
closeted for some hours with Lord Oldborough, and notwithstanding his son
Cunningham was to be one of his lordship's secretaries, was well aware that
little or no progress had been made in Lord Oldborough's real favour or
confidence. Mr. Falconer knew that he had been literally _paid by the job_,
that he was considered and treated accordingly; yet, upon the whole, he was
well pleased that it should be so, for he foresaw the possibility of his
doing for his lordship many more jobs, public and private. He lost no time
in preparing for the continuity of his secret services, and in creating
a political necessity for his being employed in future, in a manner that
might ensure the advancement of the rest of his family. In the first place,
he knew that Lord Oldborough was desirous, for the enlargement of the
grounds at Clermont-park, to purchase certain adjoining lands, which, from
some ancient pique, the owner was unwilling to sell. The proprietor was a
tenant of Mr. Falconer's: he undertook to negotiate the business, and to
use his influence to bring his tenant to reason. This offer, made through
Cunningham, was accepted by Lord Oldborough, and the negotiation led to
fresh communications.--There was soon to be a county meeting, and an
address was to be procured in favour of certain measures of government,
which it was expected would be violently opposed. In the commissioner's
letters to his son, the private secretary, he could say and suggest
whatever he pleased; he pointed out the gentlemen of the county who ought
to be conciliated, and he offered his services to represent things properly
to some with whom he was intimate. The sheriff and the under-sheriff also
should know, without being informed directly from ministry, what course
in conducting the meeting would be agreeable in a certain quarter--who so
proper to say and do all that might be expedient as Mr. Falconer, who was
on the spot, and well acquainted with the county?--The commissioner was
informed by the private secretary, that his services would be acceptable.
There happened also, at this time, to be some disputes and grievances in
that part of the country about tax-gatherers. Mr. Falconer hinted, that he
could soften and accommodate matters, if he were empowered to do so--and he
was so empowered. Besides all this, there was a borough in that county, in
which the interest of government had been declining; attempts were made to
_open the borough_--Mr. Falconer could be of use in _keeping it close_--and
he was commissioned to do every thing in his power in the business. In a
short time Mr. Falconer was acting on all these points as an agent and
partizan of Lord Oldborough's. But there was one thing which made him
uneasy; he was acting here, as in many former instances, merely upon vague
hopes of future reward.
Whilst his mind was full of these thoughts, a new prospect of advantage
opened to him in another direction. Colonel Hauton, Lord Oldborough's
nephew, stayed, during his uncle's absence, at Clermont-park, to be in
readiness for the races, which, this year, were expected to be uncommonly
fine. Buckhurst Falconer had been at school and at the university with the
colonel, and had frequently helped him in his Latin exercises. The colonel
having been always deficient in scholarship, he had early contracted an
aversion to literature, which at last amounted to an antipathy even to the
very sight of books, in consequence, perhaps, of his uncle's ardent and
precipitate desire to make him apply to them whilst his head was full of
tops and balls, kites and ponies. Be this as it may, Commissioner Falconer
thought his son Buckhurst might benefit by his school friendship, and might
now renew and improve the connexion. Accordingly, Buckhurst waited upon
the colonel,--was immediately recognized, and received with promising
demonstrations of joy.
It would be difficult, indeed impossible, to describe Colonel Hauton, so
as to distinguish him from a thousand other young men of the same class,
except, perhaps, that he might be characterized by having more exclusive
and inveterate selfishness. Yet this was so far from appearing or being
suspected on a first acquaintance, that he was generally thought a
sociable, good-natured fellow. It was his absolute dependence upon others
for daily amusement and ideas, or, rather, for knowing what to do with
himself, that gave him this semblance of being sociable; the total want of
proper pride and dignity in his whole deportment, a certain _slang_ and
familiarity of tone, gave superficial observers the notion that he was
good-natured. It was Colonel Hauton's great ambition to look like his own
coachman; he succeeded only so far as to look like his groom: but though he
kept company with jockeys and coachmen, grooms and stable-boys, yet not the
stiffest, haughtiest, flat-backed Don of Spain, in Spain's proudest days,
could be more completely aristocratic in his principles, or more despotic
in his habits. This could not break out to his equals, and his equals cared
little how he treated his inferiors. His present pleasure, or rather his
present business, for no man made more a business of pleasure than Colonel
Hauton, was _the turf_. Buckhurst Falconer could not here assist him as
much as in making Latin verses--but he could admire and sympathize; and the
colonel, proud of being now the superior, proud of his _knowing style_ and
his _capital_ stud, enjoyed Buckhurst's company particularly, pressed him
to stay at Clermont-park, and to accompany him to the races. There was to
be a _famous_ match between Colonel Hauton's High-Blood and Squire Burton's
Wildfire; and the preparations of the horses and of their riders occupied
the intervening days. With all imaginable care, anxiety, and solemnity,
these important preparations were conducted. At stated hours, Colonel
Hauton, and with him Buckhurst, went to see High-Blood rubbed down,
and fed, and watered, and exercised, and minuted, and rubbed down, and
littered. Next to the horse, the rider, Jack Giles, was to be attended
to with the greatest solicitude; he was to be weighed--and starved--and
watched--and drammed--and _sweated_--and weighed again--and so on in daily
succession; and harder still, through this whole course he was to be
kept in humour: "None that ever sarved man or beast," as the stable-boy
declared, "ever worked harder for their bread than his master and master's
companion did this week for their pleasure." At last the great, the
important day arrived, and Jack Giles was weighed for the last time in
public, and so was Tom Hand, Squire Burton's rider--and High-Blood and
Wildfire were brought out; and the spectators assembled in the stand,
and about the scales, were all impatience, especially those who had
betted on either of the horses. And, Now, Hauton!--Now, Burton!--Now,
High-Blood!--Now, Wildfire!--Now, Jack Giles!--and Now, Tom Hand! resounded
on all sides. The gentlemen on the race-ground were all on tiptoe in their
stirrups. The ladies in the stand stretched their necks of snow, and nobody
looked at them.--Two men were run over, and nobody took them up.--Two
ladies fainted, and two gentlemen betted across them. This was no time
for nice observances--Jack Giles's spirit began to flag--and Tom Hand's
judgment _to tell_--High-Blood, on the full stretch, was within view of
the winning-post, when Wildfire, quite in wind, was put to his speed by
the judicious Tom Hand--he sprang forward, came up with High-Blood--passed
him--Jack Giles strove in vain to regain his ground--High-Blood was blown,
beyond the power of whip or spur--Wildfire reached the post, and Squire
Burton won the match hollow.
His friends congratulated him and themselves loudly, and extolled Tom Hand
and Wildfire to the skies. In the moment of disappointment, Colonel Hauton,
out of humour, said something that implied a suspicion of unfairness on the
part of Burton or Tom Hand, which the honest squire could not brook either
for self or rider. He swore that his Tom Hand was as honest a fellow as any
in England, and he would back him for such. The colonel, depending on his
own and his uncle's importance, on his party and his flatterers, treated
the squire with some of the haughtiness of rank, which the squire retorted
with some rustic English humour. The colonel, who had not wit at will to
put down his antagonist, became still more provoked to see that such a
low-born fellow as the squire should and could laugh and make others laugh.
For the lack of wit the colonel had recourse to insolence, and went on
from one impertinence to another, till the squire, enraged, declared that
he would not be browbeat by any lord's nephew or jackanapes colonel that
ever wore a head; and as he spoke, tremendous in his ire, Squire Burton
brandished high the British horsewhip. At this critical moment, as it has
been asserted by some of the bystanders, the colonel _quailed_ and backed a
few paces; but others pretend that Buckhurst Falconer pushed before him. It
is certain that Buckhurst stopped the blow--wrested the horsewhip from the
squire--was challenged by him on the spot--accepted the challenge--fought
the squire--_winged_ him--appeared on the race ground afterwards, and was
admired by the ladies in public, and by his father in private, who looked
upon the duel and horsewhipping, from which he thus saved his patron's
nephew, as the most fortunate circumstance that could have happened to his
son upon his entrance into life.
"Such an advantage as this gives us such a claim upon the colonel--and,
indeed, upon the whole family. Lord Oldborough, having no children of his
own, looks to the nephew as his heir; and though he may be vexed now and
then by the colonel's extravagance, and angry that he could not give this
nephew more of a political turn, yet such as he is, depend upon it he can
do what he pleases with Lord Oldborough. Whoever has the nephew's ear, has
the uncle's heart; or I should say, whoever has the nephew's heart, has the
uncle's ear."
"Mayn't we as well put hearts out of the question on all sides, sir?" said
Buckhurst.
"With all my heart," said his father, laughing, "provided we don't put a
good living out of the question on our side."
Buckhurst looked averse, and said he did not know there was any such thing
in question.
"No!" said his father: "was it then from the pure and abstract love of
being horsewhipped, or shot at, that you took this quarrel off his hands?"
"Faith! I did it from spirit, pure spirit," said Buckhurst: "I could not
stand by, and see one who had been my schoolfellow horsewhipped--if he did
not stand by himself, _yet_ I could not but stand by _him_, for you know I
was there as one of his party--and as I backed his bets on High-Blood, I
could do no less than back his cause altogether.--Oh! I could not stand by
and see _a chum_ of my own horsewhipped."
"Well, that was all very spirited and generous; but now, as you are
something too old for mere schoolboy notions," said the commissioner, "let
us look a little farther, and see what we can make of it. It's only a
silly boyish thing as you consider it; but I hope we can turn it to good
account."
"I never thought of turning it to account, sir."
"Think of it now," said the father, a little provoked by the careless
disinterestedness of the son. "In plain English, here is a colonel in his
majesty's service saved from a horsewhipping--a whole noble family saved
from disgrace: these are things not to be forgotten; that is, not to be
forgotten, if you force people to remember them: otherwise--my word for
it--I know the great--the whole would be forgotten in a week. Therefore,
leave me to follow the thing up properly with the uncle, and do you never
let it sleep with the nephew: sometimes a bold stroke, sometimes a delicate
touch, just as the occasion serves, or as may suit the company present--all
that I trust to your own address and judgment."
"Trust nothing, sir, to my address or judgment; for in these things I have
neither. I always act just from impulse and feeling, right or wrong--I have
no talents for _finesse_--leave them all to Cunningham--that's his trade,
and he likes it, luckily: and you should be content with having one such
genius in your family--no family could bear two."
"Come, come, pray be serious, Buckhurst. If you have not or will not use
any common sense and address to advance yourself, leave that to me. You
see how I have pushed up Cunningham already, and all I ask of you is to be
quiet, and let me push you up."
"Oh! dear sir, I am very much obliged to you: if that is all, I will be
quite quiet--so that I am not to do any thing shabby or dirty for it. I
should be vastly glad to get a good place, and be provided for handsomely."
"No doubt; and let me tell you that many I could name have, with inferior
claims, and without any natural connexion or relationship, from the mere
favour of proper friends, obtained church benefices of much greater value
than the living we have in our eye: you know--"
"I do not know, indeed," said Buckhurst; "I protest I have no living in my
eye."
"What! not know that the living of Chipping-Friars is in the gift of
Colonel Hauton--and the present incumbent has had one paralytic stroke
already. There's a prospect for you, Buckhurst!"
"To be frank with you, sir, I have no taste for the church."
"No taste for nine hundred a year, Buckhurst? No desire for fortune, Mr.
Philosopher?"
"Pardon me, a very strong taste for that, sir--not a bit of a
philosopher--as much in love with fortune as any man, young or old: is
there no way to fortune but through the church?"
"None for you so sure and so easy, all circumstances considered," said his
father. "I have planned and settled it, and you have nothing to do but to
get yourself ordained as soon as possible. I shall write to my friend the
bishop for that purpose this very night."
"Let me beg; father, that you will not be so precipitate. Upon my word,
sir, I cannot go into orders. I am not--in short, I am not fit for the
church."
The father stared with an expression between anger and astonishment.
"Have not you gone through the university?"
"Yes, sir:--but--but I am scarcely sober, and _staid_, and moral enough for
the church. Such a wild fellow as I am, I really could not in conscience--I
would not upon any account, for any living upon earth, or any emolument, go
into the church, unless I thought I should do credit to it."
"And why should not you do credit to the church? I don't see that you are
wilder than your neighbours, and need not be more scrupulous. There is
G----, who at your age was wild enough, but he took up in time, and is now
a plump dean. Then there is the bishop that is just made: I remember him
such a youth as you are. Come, come, these are idle scruples. Let me hear
no more, my dear Buckhurst, of your conscience."
"Dear sir, I never pleaded my conscience on any occasion before--you know
that I am no puritan--but really on this point I have some conscience, and
I beg you not to press me farther. You have other sons; and if you cannot
spare Cunningham, that treasure of diplomacy!--there's John; surely you
might contrive to spare him for the church."
"Spare him I would, and welcome. But you know I could never get John into
orders."
"Why not, sir? John, I'll swear, would have no objection to the church,
provided you could get him a good fat living."
"But I am not talking of _his_ objections. To be sure he would make no
objection to a good fat living, nor would any body in his senses, except
yourself. But I ask you how I could possibly get your brother John into the
church? John's a dunce,--and you know it."
"Nobody better, sir: but are there no dunces in the church?--And as you are
so good as to think that I'm no wilder than my neighbours, you surely will
not say that my brother is more a dunce than his neighbours. Put him into
the hands of a clever grinder or crammer, and they would soon cram the
necessary portion of Latin and Greek into him, and they would get him
through the university for us readily enough; and a degree once obtained,
he might snap his fingers at Latin and Greek all the rest of his life. Once
in orders, and he might sit down upon his fat living, or lie down content,
all his days, only taking care to have some poor devil of a curate up and
about, doing duty for him."
"So I find you have no great scruples for your brother, whatever you may
have for yourself?"
"Sir, I am not the keeper of my brother's conscience--Indeed, if I were,
you might congratulate me in the words of Sir B. R. upon the possession of
a sinecure place."
"It is a pity, Buckhurst, that you cannot use your wit for yourself as well
as for other people. Ah! Buckhurst! Buckhurst! you will, I fear, do worse
in the world than any of your brothers; for wits are always _unlucky_:
sharp-sighted enough to every thing else, but blind, stone blind to their
own interest. Wit is folly, when one is talking of serious business."
"Well, my dear father, be _agreeable_, and I will not be witty.--In fact,
in downright earnest, the sum total of the business is, that I have a great
desire to go into the army, and I entreat you to procure me a commission."
"Then the sum total of the business is, that I will not; for I cannot
afford to purchase you a commission, and to maintain you in the army--"
"But by using interest, perhaps, sir," said Buckhurst.
"My interest must be all for your brother John; for I tell you I can do
nothing else for him but put him into the army.--He's a dunce.--I must get
him a commission, and then I have done with him."
"I wish I were a dunce," said Buckhurst, sighing; "for then I might go into
the army--instead of being forced into the church."
"There's no force upon your inclinations, Buckhurst," said his father in a
soft tone; "I only show you that it is impossible I should maintain you in
the army, and, therefore, beg you to put the army out of your head. And I
don't well see what else you could do. You have not application enough for
the bar, nor have I any friends among the attorneys except Sharpe, who,
between you and me, might take your dinners, and leave you without a brief
afterwards. You have talents, I grant," continued the commissioner, "and
if you had but application, and if your uncle the judge had not died last
year--"
"Oh, sir, he is dead, and we can't help it," interrupted Buckhurst. "And as
for me, I never had, and never shall have, any application: so pray put the
bar out of your mind."
"Very cavalier, indeed!--but I will make you serious at once, Buckhurst.
You have nothing to expect from my death--I have not a farthing to leave
you--my place, you know, is only for life--your mother's fortune is all in
annuity, and two girls to be provided for--and to live as we must live--up
to and beyond my income--shall have nothing to leave. Though you are my
eldest son, you see it is in vain to look to my death--so into the church
you must go, or be a beggar--and get a living or starve. Now I have done,"
concluded the commissioner, quitting his son; "and I leave you to think of
what has been said."
Buckhurst thought and thought; but still his interest and his conscience
were at variance, and he could not bring himself either to be virtuous or
vicious enough to comply with his father's wishes. He could not decide to
go into the church merely from interested motives--from that his conscience
revolted; he could not determine to make himself fit to do credit to
the sacred profession--against this his habits and his love of pleasure
revolted. He went to his brother John, to try what could be done with him.
Latin and Greek were insuperable objections with John; besides, though
he had a dull imagination in general, John's fancy had been smitten with
one bright idea of an epaulette, from which no considerations, fraternal,
political, moral, or religious, could distract his attention.--His genius,
he said, was for the army, and into the army he would go.--So to his
genius, Buckhurst, in despair, was obliged to leave him.--The commissioner
neglected not to push the claim which he had on Colonel Hauton, and he
chose his time so well, when proper people were by, and when the colonel
did not wish to have the squire, and the horse-whip, and the duel, brought
before the public, that he obtained, if not a full acknowledgment of
obligation, a promise of doing any thing and every thing in his power
for his friend Buckhurst. Any thing and every thing were indefinite,
unsatisfactory terms; and the commissioner, bold in dealing with the
timid temper of the colonel, though he had been cautious with the
determined character of the uncle, pressed his point--named the living of
Chipping-Friars--showed how well he would be satisfied, and how well he
could represent matters, if the promise were given; and at the same time
made it understood how loudly he could complain, and how disgraceful his
complaints might prove to the Oldborough family, if his son were treated
with ingratitude. The colonel particularly dreaded that he should be
suspected of want of spirit, and that his uncle should have the transaction
laid before him in this improper point of view. He pondered for a few
moments, and the promise for the living of Chipping-Friars was given. The
commissioner, secure of this, next returned to the point with his son, and
absolutely insisted upon his--going into orders. Buckhurst, who had tried
wit and raillery in vain, now tried persuasion and earnest entreaties; but
these were equally fruitless: his father, though an easy, good-natured man,
except where his favourite plans were crossed, was peremptory, and, without
using harsh words, he employed the harshest measures to force his son's
compliance. Buckhurst had contracted some debts at the university, none of
any great consequence, but such as he could not pay immediately.--The bets
he had laid and lost upon High-Blood were also to be provided for; debts
of honour claimed precedency, and must be directly discharged. His father
positively refused to assist him, except upon condition of his compliance
with his wishes; and so far from affording him any means of settling with
his creditors, it has been proved, from the commissioner's _private_
answers to some of their applications, that he not only refused to pay
a farthing for his son, but encouraged the creditors to threaten him in
the strongest manner with the terrors of law and arrest. Thus pressed
and embarrassed, this young man, who had many honourable and religious
sentiments and genuine feelings, but no power of adhering to principle or
reason, was miserable beyond expression one hour--and the next he became
totally forgetful that there was any thing to be thought of but the
amusement of the moment. Incapable of coming to any serious decision, he
walked up and down his room talking, partly to himself, and partly, for
want of a better companion, to his brother John.
"So I must pay Wallis to-morrow, or he'll arrest me; and I must give my
father an answer about the church to-night--for he writes to the bishop,
and will wait no longer. Oh! hang it.' hang it, John! what the devil shall
I do? My father won't pay a farthing for me, unless I go into the church!"
"Well, then, why can't you go into the church!" said John: "since you are
through the university, the worst is over."
"But I think it so wrong, so base--for money--for emolument! I cannot
do it. I am not fit for the church--I know I shall disgrace it," said
Buckhurst, striking his forehead: "I cannot do it--I can not--it is against
my conscience."
John stopped, as he was filling his shooting-pouch, and looked at
Buckhurst (his mouth half open) with an expression of surprise at these
demonstrations of sensibility. He had some sympathy for the external
symptoms of pain which he saw in his brother, but no clear conception of
the internal cause.
"Why, Buckhurst," said he, "if you cannot do it, you can't, you know,
Buckhurst: but I don't see why you should be a disgrace to the church more
than another, as my father says. If I were but through the university, I
had as lieve go into the church as not--that's all I can say. And if my
genius were not for the military line, there's nothing I should relish
better than the living of Chipping-Friars, I'm sure. The only thing that I
see against it is, that that paralytic incumbent may live many a year: but,
then, you get your debts paid now by only going into orders, and that's a
great point. But if it goes against your conscience--you know best--if you
can't, you can't."
"After all, I can't go to jail--I can't let myself be arrested--I can't
starve--I can't be a beggar," said Buckhurst; "and, as you say, I should
be so easy if these cursed debts were paid--and if I got this living of
nine hundred a year, how comfortable I should be! Then I could marry, by
Jove! and I'd propose directly for Caroline Percy, for I'm confoundedly in
love with her--such a sweet tempered, good creature!--not a girl so much
admired! Colonel Hauton, and G----, and P----, and D----, asked me, 'Who is
that pretty girl?'--She certainly is a very pretty girl."
"She certainly is," repeated John. "This devil of a fellow never cleans my
gun."
"Not regularly handsome, neither," pursued Buckhurst; "but, as Hauton says,
fascinating and new; and a new face in public is a great matter. Such a
fashionable-looking figure, too--though she has not _come out_ yet; dances
charmingly--would dance divinely, if she would let herself out; and she
sings and plays like an angel, fifty times better than our two precious
sisters, who have been _at it_ from their cradles, with all the Signor
_Squalicis_ at their elbows. Caroline Percy never exhibits in public: the
mother does not like it, I suppose."
"So I suppose," said John. "Curse this flint!--flints are growing worse
and worse every day--I wonder what in the world are become of all the good
flints there used to be!"
"Very unlike our mother, I am sure," continued Buckhurst. "There are
Georgiana and Bell at all the parties and concerts as regularly as any of
the professors, standing up in the midst of the singing men and women,
favouring the public in as fine a bravura style, and making as ugly faces
as the best of them. Do you remember the Italian's compliment to Miss
* * * * *?--I vish, miss, I had your _assurance_.'"
"Very good, ha!--very fair, faith!" said John. "Do you know what I've done
with my powder horn?"
"Not I--put it in the oven, may be, to dry," said Buckhurst. "But as I was
saying of my dear Caroline--_My_ Caroline! she is not mine yet."
"Very true," said John.
"Very true! Why, John, you are enough to provoke a saint!"
"I was agreeing with you, I thought," said John.
"But nothing is so provoking as always agreeing with one--and I can tell
you, Mr. Verytrue, that though Caroline Percy is not mine yet, I have
nevertheless a little suspicion, that, such even as I am, she might readily
be brought to love, honour, and obey me."
"I don't doubt it, for I never yet knew a woman that was not ready enough
to be married," quoth John. "But this is not the right ramrod, after all."
"There you are wrong, John, on the other side," said Buckhurst; "for I can
assure you, Miss Caroline Percy is not one of your young ladies who would
marry any body. And even though she might like me, I am not at all sure
that she would marry me--for obedience to the best of fathers might
interfere."
"There's the point," said John; "for thereby hangs the fortune; and it
would be a _deuced_ thing to have the girl without the fortune."
"Not so _deuced_ a thing to me as you think," said Buckhurst, laughing;
"for, poor as I am, I can assure you the fortune is not my object--I am not
a mercenary dog."
"By-the-bye," cried John, "now you talk of dogs, I wish to Heaven above,
you had not given away that fine puppy of mine to that foolish old man, who
never was out a shooting in his days--the dog's just as much thrown away as
if you had drowned him. Now, do you know, if I had had _the making_ of that
puppy--"
"Puppy!" exclaimed Buckhurst: "is it possible you can be thinking of
a puppy, John, when I am talking to you of what is of so much
consequence?--when the whole happiness of my life is at stake?"
"Stake!--Well, but what can I do more!" said John: "have not I been
standing here this half hour with my gun in my hand this fine day,
listening to you prosing about I don't know what?"
"That's the very thing I complain of--that you do not know what: a pretty
brother!" said Buckhurst.
John made no further reply, but left the room sullenly, whistling as he
went.
Left to his own cogitations, Buckhurst fell into a reverie upon the charms
of Caroline Percy, and upon the probable pleasure of dancing with her at
the race-ball; after this, he recurred to the bitter recollection, that he
must decide about his debts, and the church. A bright idea came into his
mind, that he might have recourse to Mr. Percy, and, perhaps, prevail upon
him to persuade his father not to force him to a step which he could not
reconcile either to his conscience or his inclination.--No sooner thought
than done.--He called for his horse and rode as hard as he could to
Percy-hall.--When a boy he had been intimate in the Percy family; but
he had been long absent at school and at the university; they had seen
him only during the vacations, and since his late return to the country.
Though Mr. Percy could not entirely approve of his character, yet he
thought there were many good points about Buckhurst; the frankness and
candour with which he now laid his whole mind and all his affairs open
to him--debts--love--fears--hopes--follies--faults--without reserve or
extenuation, interested Mr. Percy in his favour.--Pitying his distress,
and admiring the motives from which he acted, Mr. Percy said, that though
he had no right to interfere in Mr. Falconer's family affairs, yet that
he could, and would, so far assist Buckhurst, as to lend him the money
for which he was immediately pressed, that he might not be driven by
necessity to go into that profession, which ought to be embraced only from
the highest and purest motives. Buckhurst thanked him with transports
of gratitude for this generous kindness, which was far beyond his
expectations, and which, indeed, had never entered into his hopes. Mr.
Percy seized the moment when the young man's mind was warmed with good
feelings, to endeavour to bring him to serious thoughts and rational
determinations about his future life. He represented, that it was
unreasonable to expect that his father should let him go into the army,
when he had received an education to prepare himself for a profession, in
which his literary talents might be of advantage both to himself and his
family; that Mr. Falconer was not rich enough to forward two of his sons
in the army; that if Buckhurst, from conscientious motives, declined the
provision which his father had in view for him in the church, he was bound
to exert himself to obtain an independent maintenance in another line
of life; that he had talents which would succeed at the bar, if he had
application and perseverance sufficient to go through the necessary
drudgery at the commencement of the study of the law.
Here Buckhurst groaned.--But Mr. Percy observed that there was no other way
of proving that he acted from conscientious motives respecting the church;
for otherwise it would appear that he preferred the army only because
he fancied it would afford a life of idleness and pleasure.--That this
would also be his only chance of winning the approbation of the object of
his affections, and of placing himself in a situation in which he could
marry.--Buckhurst, who was capable of being strongly influenced by good
motives, especially from one who had obliged him, instantly, and in the
most handsome manner, acknowledged the truth and justice of Mr. Percy's
arguments, and declared that he was ready to begin the study of the law
directly, if his father would consent to it; and that he would submit to
any drudgery rather than do what he felt to be base and wrong. Mr. Percy,
at his earnest request, applied to Mr. Falconer, and with all the delicacy
that was becoming, claimed the right of relationship to speak of Mr.
Falconer's family affairs, and told him what he had ventured to do about
Buckhurst's debts; and what the young man now wished for himself.--The
commissioner looked much disappointed and vexed.
"The bar!" cried he: "Mr. Percy, you don't know him as well as I do. I will
answer for it, he will never go through with it--and then he is to change
his profession again!--and all the expense and all the trouble is to fall
on me!--and I am to provide for him at last!--In all probability, by the
time Buckhurst knows his own mind, the paralytic incumbent will be dead,
and the living of Chipping-Friars given away.--And where am I to find nine
hundred a year, I pray you, at a minute's notice, for this conscientious
youth, who, by that time, will tell me his scruples were all nonsense, and
that I should have known better than to listen to them? Nine hundred a year
does not come in a man's way at every turn of his life; and if he gives it
up now, it is not my fault--let him look to it."
Mr. Percy replied, "that Buckhurst had declared himself ready to abide
by the consequences, and that he promised he would never complain of the
lot he had chosen for himself, much less reproach his father for his
compliance, and that he was resolute to maintain himself at the bar."
"Yes: very fine.--And how long will it be before he makes nine hundred a
year at the bar?"
Mr. Percy, who knew that none but worldly considerations made any
impression upon this father, suggested that he would have to maintain
his son during the life of the paralytic incumbent, and the expense of
Buckhurst's being at the bar would not probably be greater; and though it
might be several years before he could make nine hundred, or, perhaps,
one hundred a year at the bar, yet that if he succeeded, which, with
Buckhurst's talents, nothing but the want of perseverance could prevent, he
might make nine thousand a year by the profession of the law--more than in
the scope of human probability, and with all the patronage his father's
address could procure, he could hope to obtain in the church.
"Well, let him try--let him try," repeated the commissioner, who, vexed as
he was, did not choose to run the risk of disobliging Mr. Percy, losing a
good match for him, or undergoing the scandal of its being known that he
forced his son into the church.
For obtaining this consent, however reluctantly granted by the
commissioner, Buckhurst warmly thanked Mr. Percy, who made one condition
with him, that he would go up to town immediately to commence his studies.
This Buckhurst faithfully promised to do, and only implored permission to
declare his attachment to Caroline.--Caroline was at this time not quite
eighteen, too young, her father said, to think of forming any serious
engagement, even were it with a person suited to her in fortune and in
every other respect.
Buckhurst declared that he had no idea of endeavouring even to obtain from
Miss Caroline Percy any promise or engagement.--He had been treated, he
said, too generously by her father, to attempt to take any step without his
entire approbation.
He knew he was not, and could not for many years, be in circumstances
that would enable him to support a daughter of Mr. Percy's in the station
to which she was, by her birth and fortune, entitled.--All he asked, he
repeated, was to be permitted to declare to her his passion.
Mr. Percy thought it was more prudent to let it be declared openly than
to have it secretly suspected; therefore he consented to this request,
trusting much to Buckhurst's honour and to Caroline's prudence.
To this first declaration of love Caroline listened with a degree of
composure which astonished and mortified her lover. He had flattered
himself that, at least, her vanity or pride would have been apparently
gratified by her conquest.--But there was none of the flutter of vanity in
her manner, nor any of the repressed satisfaction of pride. There were in
her looks and words only simplicity and dignity.--She said that she was at
present occupied happily in various ways, endeavouring to improve herself,
and that she should be sorry to have her mind turned from these pursuits;
she desired to secure time to compare and judge of her own tastes, and of
the characters of others, before she should make any engagement, or form an
attachment on which the happiness of her life must depend. She said she was
equally desirous to keep herself free, and to avoid injuring the happiness
of the man who had honoured her by his preference; therefore she requested
he would discontinue a pursuit, which she could not encourage him to hope
would ever be successful.--Long before the time when she should think it
prudent to marry, even if she were to meet with a character perfectly
suited to hers, she hoped that her cousin Buckhurst would be united to some
woman who would be able to return his affection.
The manner in which all this was said convinced Buckhurst that she spoke
the plain and exact truth. From the ease and frankness with which she had
hitherto conversed with him, he had flattered himself that it would not
be difficult to prepossess her heart in his favour; but now, when he saw
the same ease and simplicity unchanged in her manner, he was convinced
that he had been mistaken. He had still hopes that in time he might make
an impression upon her, and he urged that she was not yet sufficiently
acquainted with his character to be able to judge whether or not it would
suit hers. She frankly told him all she thought of him, and in doing
so impressed him with the conviction that she had both discerned the
merits and discovered the defects of his character: she gave him back a
representation of himself, which he felt to be exactly just, and yet which
struck him with all the force of novelty.
"It is myself," he exclaimed: "but I never knew myself till now."
He had such pleasure in hearing Caroline speak of him, that he wished even
to hear her speak of his faults--of these he would, however, have been
better pleased, if she had spoken with less calmness and indulgence.
"She is a great way from love as yet," thought Buckhurst. "It is
astonishing, that with powers and knowledge on all other subjects so far
above her age, she should know so little even of the common language of
sentiment; very extraordinary, that with so much kindness, and such an
amiable disposition, she should have so little sensibility."
The novelty of this insensibility, and of this perfect simplicity, so
unlike all he had observed in the manners and minds of other young ladies
to whom he had been accustomed, had, however, a great effect upon her
lover. The openness and unaffected serenity of Caroline's countenance at
this moment appeared to him more charming than any other thing he had ever
beheld in the most finished coquette, or the most fashionable beauty.
What a divine creature she will be a few years hence! thought he. The time
will come, when Love may waken this Psyche!--And what glory it would be to
me to produce to the world such perfection!
With these mixed ideas of love and glory, Buckhurst took leave of Caroline;
still he retained hope in spite of her calm and decided refusal. He knew
the power of constant attention, and the display of ardent passion, to win
the female heart. He trusted also in no slight degree to the reputation he
had already acquired of being a favourite with the fair sex.
CHAPTER IV.
Buckhurst Falconer returned to Percy-hall.
He came provided with something like an excuse--he had business--his father
had desired him to ask Mr. Percy to take charge of a box of family papers
for him, as he apprehended that, when he was absent from the country, his
steward had not been as careful of them as he ought to have been.
Mr. Percy willingly consented to take charge of the papers, but he desired
that, before they were left with him, Buckhurst should take a list of them.
Buckhurst was unprepared for this task.
His head was intent on a ball and on Caroline. However, he was obliged to
undergo this labour; and when he had finished it, Mr. Percy, who happened
to be preparing some new leases of considerable farms, was so busy, in the
midst of his papers, that there was no such thing as touching upon the
subject of the ball. At length the ladies of the family appeared, and all
the parchments were at last out of the way--Buckhurst began upon his real
business, and said he meant to delay going to town a few days longer,
because there was to be a ball early in the ensuing week.--"Nothing more
natural," said Mr. Percy, "than to wish to go to a ball; yet," added he,
gravely, "when a man of honour gives his promise that nothing shall prevent
him from commencing his studies immediately, I did not expect that the
first temptation--"
"Oh! my dear Mr. Percy," said Buckhurst, endeavouring to laugh away the
displeasure, or rather the disappointment which he saw in Mr. Percy's
countenance, "a few days can make no difference."
"Only the difference of a term," said Mr. Percy; "and the difference
between promising and performing. You thought me unjust yesterday, when
I told you that I feared you would prefer present amusement to future
happiness."
"Amusement!" exclaimed Buckhurst, turning suddenly towards Caroline; "do
you imagine _that_ is my object?" Then approaching her, he said in a low
voice, "It is a natural mistake for you to make, Miss Caroline Percy--for
you--who know nothing of love. Amusement! It is not amusement that detains
me--can you think I would stay for a ball, unless I expected to meet you
there?"
"Then I will not go," said Caroline: "it would be coquetry to meet you
there, when, as I thought, I had distinctly explained to you yesterday--"
"Oh! don't repeat that," interrupted Buckhurst: "a lady is never bound to
remember what she said yesterday--especially if it were a cruel sentence; I
hope hereafter you will change your mind--let me live upon hope."
"I will never give any false hopes," said Caroline; "and since I cannot add
to your happiness, I will take care not to diminish it. I will not be the
cause of your breaking your promise to my father: I will not be the means
of tempting you to lower yourself in his opinion--I will not go to this
ball."
Buckhurst smiled, went on with some commonplace raillery about cruelty,
and took his leave, fancying that Caroline could not be in earnest in
her threat, as he called it.--As his disobedience would have the excuse
of _love_, he thought he might venture to transgress the letter of the
promise.
When the time came, he went to the ball, almost certain that Caroline would
break her resolution, as he knew that she had never yet been at a public
assembly, and it was natural that one so sure of being admired would be
anxious to be seen. His surprise and disappointment were great when no
Caroline appeared.
He asked Rosamond if her sister was not well?
"Perfectly well."
"Then why is not she here?"
"Don't you recollect her telling you that she would not come?"
"Yes: but I did not think she was in earnest."
"How little you know of Caroline," replied Rosamond, "if you imagine that
either in trifles, or in matters of consequence, _she_ would say one thing
and do another."
"I feel," said Buckhurst, colouring, "what that emphasis on _she_ means.
But I did not think you would have reproached me so severely. _I thought_
my cousin Rosamond was my friend."
"So I am--but not a friend to your faults."
"Surely it is no great crime in a young man to like going to a ball better
than going to the Temple! But I am really concerned," continued Buckhurst,
"that I have deprived Miss Caroline Percy of the pleasure of being here
to-night--and this was to have been her first appearance in public--I am
quite sorry."
"Caroline is not at all impatient to appear in public; and as to the
pleasure of being at a ball, it costs her little to sacrifice that, or any
pleasure of her own, for the advantage of others."
"When Miss Caroline Percy said something about my falling in her father's
opinion for such a trifle, I could not guess that she was serious."
"She does not," replied Rosamond, "think it a trifle to break a promise."
Buckhurst looked at his watch. "The mail-coach will pass through this town
in an hour. It shall take me to London--Good bye--I will not stay another
moment--I am gone. I wish I had gone yesterday--pray, my dear, good
Rosamond, say so for me to Caroline."
At this moment a beautiful young lady, attended by a large party, entered
the ball-room. Buckhurst stopped to inquire who she was.
"Did you never see my sister before?" replied Colonel Hauton--"Oh! I must
introduce you, and you shall dance with her."
"You do me a great deal of honour--I shall be very happy--that is, I should
be extremely happy--only unfortunately I am under a necessity of setting
off immediately for London--I'm afraid I shall be late for the mail--Good
night."
Buckhurst made an effort, as he spoke, to pass on; but Colonel Hauton
bursting into one of his horse laughs, held him fast by the arm, swore he
must be drunk, for that he did not know what he was saying or doing.
Commissioner Falconer, who now came up, whispered to Buckhurst, "Are you
mad? You can't refuse--you'll affront for ever!"
"I can't help it," said Buckhurst: "I'm sorry for it--I cannot help it."
He still kept on his way towards the door.
"But," expostulated the commissioner, following him out, "you can surely
stay, be introduced, and pay your compliments to the young lady--you are
time enough for the mail. Don't affront people for nothing, who may be of
the greatest use to you."
"But, my dear father, I don't want people to be of use to me."
"Well, at any rate turn back just to see what a charming creature Miss
Hauton is. Such an entree! So much the air of a woman of fashion! every eye
riveted--the whole room in admiration of her!"
"I did not see any thing remarkable about her," said Buckhurst, turning
back to look at her again. "If you think I should affront--I would not
really affront Hauton, who has always been so civil to me--I'll go and be
introduced and pay my compliments, since you say it is necessary; but I
shall not stay five minutes."
Buckhurst returned to be introduced to Miss Hauton. This young lady was
so beautiful that she would, in all probability, have attracted general
attention, even if she had not been the sister of a man of Colonel Hauton's
fortune, and the niece of a nobleman of Lord Oldborough's political
consequence; but undoubtedly these circumstances much increased the power
of her charms over the imaginations of her admirers. All the gentlemen
at this hall were unanimous in declaring that she was a most fascinating
creature. Buckhurst Falconer and Godfrey Percy were introduced to her
nearly at the same time. Godfrey asked her to dance--and Buckhurst could
not help staying to see her. She danced so gracefully, that while he
thought he had stayed only five minutes, he delayed a quarter of an hour.
Many gentlemen were ambitious of the honour of Miss Hauton's hand; but, to
their disappointment, she declined dancing any more; and though Buckhurst
Falconer had determined not to have stayed, nor to dance with her, yet
an undefinable perverse curiosity induced him to delay a few minutes to
determine whether she conversed as well as she danced. The sound of her
voice was sweet and soft, and there was an air of languor in her whole
person and manner, with an apparent indifference to general admiration,
which charmed Godfrey Percy, especially as he perceived, that she could
be animated by his conversation. To Buckhurst's wit she listened with
politeness, but obviously without interest. Buckhurst looked at his watch
again--but it was now too late for the mail. Rosamond was surprised to
see him still in the ball-room. He laid all the blame on his father, and
pleaded that he was detained by parental orders which he could not disobey.
He sat beside Rosamond at supper, and used much eloquence to convince her
that he had obeyed against his will.
In the mean time Godfrey, seated next to his fair partner, became every
moment more and more sensible of the advantages of his situation. Towards
the end of supper, when the buzz of general conversation increased, it
happened that somebody near Miss Hauton spoke of a marriage that was likely
to take place in the fashionable world, and all who thought themselves, or
who wished to be thought good authorities, began to settle _how_ it would
be, and _when_ it would be: but a gentleman of Godfrey's acquaintance, who
sat next to him, said, in a low voice, "It will never be."--"Why?" said
Godfrey.--The gentleman answered in a whisper, "There is an insuperable
objection: the _mother_--don't you recollect?--the mother was a _divorcee_;
and no man of sense would venture to marry the daughter--"
"No, certainly," said Godfrey; "I did not know the fact."
He turned, as he finished speaking, to ask Miss Hauton if she would permit
him to help her to something that stood before him; but to his surprise
and alarm he perceived that she was pale, trembling, and scarcely able to
support herself.--He, for the first moment, thought only that she was taken
suddenly ill, and he was going to call Lady Oldborough's attention to her
indisposition--but Miss Hauton stopped him, and said in a low, tremulous
voice--"Take no notice." He then poured out a glass of water, put it within
her reach, turned away in obedience to her wishes, and sat in such a manner
as to screen her from observation. A confused recollection now came across
his mind of his having heard many years ago, when he was a child, of the
divorce of some Lady Anne Hauton, and the truth occurred to him, that this
was Miss Hauton's mother, and that Miss Hauton had overheard the whisper.
In a few moments, anxious to see whether she had recovered, and yet afraid
to distress her by his attention, he half turned his head, and looking down
at her plate, asked if she was better.
"Quite well, thank you."
He then raised his eyes, and looking as unconcernedly as he could,
resumed his former attitude, and began some trifling conversation; but
whatever effort he made to appear the same as before, there was some
constraint, or some difference in his voice and manner, which the young
lady perceived--her voice immediately changed and faltered--he spoke
quickly--both spoke at the same time, without knowing what either said
or what they said themselves--their eyes met, and both were silent--Miss
Hauton blushed deeply. He saw that his conjecture was right, and she
saw, by Godfrey's countenance, that her secret was discovered: her eyes
fell, she grew pale, and instantly fainted. Lady Oldborough came to her
assistance, but she was too helpless a fine lady to be of the least use:
she could only say that it must be the heat of the room, and that she
should faint herself in another moment.
Godfrey whispered to his mother--and Miss Hauton was carried into the open
air. Lady Oldborough and her smelling-bottle followed. Godfrey, leaving the
young lady with them, returned quickly to the supper-room, to prevent any
one from intruding upon her. He met Buckhurst Falconer and Colonel Hauton
at the door, and stopped them with assurances that Miss Hauton had all the
assistance she could want.
"I'll tell you what she wants," cried the Colonel to Buckhurst; "a jaunt to
Cheltenham, which would do her and me, too, a d--d deal of good; for now
the races are over, what the devil shall we do with ourselves here? I'll
rattle Maria off the day after to-morrow in my phaeton. No--Buckhurst, my
good fellow, I'll drive you in the phaeton, and I'll make Lady Oldborough
take Maria in the coach."
Godfrey Percy, who, as he passed, could not avoid hearing this invitation,
did not stay to learn Buckhurst's answer, but went instantly into the room.
No one, not even the gentleman whose whisper had occasioned it, had the
least suspicion of the real cause of Miss Hauton's indisposition. Lady
Oldborough had assigned as the occasion of the young lady's illness "the
heat of the room," and an old medical dowager was eager to establish that
"it was _owing_ to some strawberry ice, as, to her certain knowledge,
ice, in some shape or other, was the cause of most of the mischief in the
world."
Whilst the partizans of heat and ice were still battling, and whilst the
dancers had quite forgotten Miss Hauton, and every thing but themselves,
the young lady returned to the room. Godfrey went to order Mrs. Percy's
carriage, and the Percy family left the ball.
When Godfrey found himself in the carriage with his own family, he began
eagerly to talk of Miss Hauton; he was anxious to know what all and each
thought of her, in general, and in particular: he talked so much of her,
and seemed so much surprised that any body could wish to talk or think of
any thing else, that Mrs. Percy could not help smiling. Mr. Percy, leaning
back in the carriage, said that he felt inclined to sleep.
"To sleep!" repeated Godfrey: "is it possible that you can be sleepy, sir?"
"Very possible, my dear son--it is past four o'clock, I believe."
Godfrey was silent for some minutes, and he began to think over every word
and look that had passed between him and Miss Hauton. He had been only
amused with her conversation, and charmed by her grace and beauty in the
beginning of the evening; but the sensibility she had afterwards shown had
touched him so much, that he was extremely anxious to interest his father
in her favour. He explained the cause of her fainting, and asked whether
she was not much to be pitied. All pitied her--and Godfrey, encouraged
by this pity, went on to prove that she ought not to be blamed for her
mother's faults; that nothing could be more unjust and cruel than to think
ill of the innocent daughter, because her mother had been imprudent.
"But, Godfrey," said Rosamond, "you seem to be answering some one who has
attacked Miss Hauton--whom are you contending with?"
"With himself," said Mr. Percy. "His prudence tells him that the gentleman
was quite right in saying that no man of sense would marry the daughter
of a woman who had conducted herself ill, and yet he wishes to make an
exception to the general rule in favour of pretty Miss Hauton."
"Pretty! My dear father, she is a great deal more than pretty: if she were
only pretty, I should not be so much interested about her. But putting her
quite out of the question, I do not agree with the general principle that
a man should not marry the daughter of a woman who has conducted herself
ill."
"I think you did agree with it till you knew that it applied to Miss
Hauton's case," said Mr. Percy: "as well as I remember, Godfrey, I heard
you once answer on a similar occasion, 'No, no--I will have nothing
to do with any of the daughters of that mother--black cats have black
kittens'--or 'black dogs have black puppies'--I forget which you said."
"Whichever it was, I am ashamed of having quoted such a vulgar proverb,"
said Godfrey.
"It may be a vulgar proverb, but I doubt whether it be a vulgar error,"
said Mr. Percy: "I have great faith in the wisdom of nations. So much so in
the present instance, that I own I would rather a son of mine were to marry
a well-conducted farmer's daughter of _honest parentage_, than the daughter
of an ill-conducted lady of rank or fashion. The farmer's daughter might
be trained into a gentlewoman, and might make my son at least a faithful
wife, which is more than he could expect, or than I should expect, from
the young lady, who had early seen the example of what was bad, and whose
predispositions would be provided with the excuse of the old song."
Godfrey took fire at this, and exclaimed against the injustice of a
doctrine which would render wretched for life many young women who might
possess every amiable and estimable quality, and who could never remedy the
misfortune of their birth. Godfrey urged, that whilst this would render the
good miserable, it would be the most probable means of driving the weak
from despair into vice.
Rosamond eagerly joined her brother's side of the question. Mr. Percy,
though he knew, he said, that he must appear one of the "fathers with
flinty hearts," protested that he felt great compassion for the unfortunate
individuals, as much as a man who was not in love with any of them could
reasonably be expected to feel.
"But now," continued he, "granting that all the consequences which Godfrey
has predicted were to follow from my doctrine, yet I am inclined to believe
that society would, upon the whole, be the gainer by such severity, or, as
I am willing to allow it to be, such apparent injustice. The adherence to
this principle would be the misery, perhaps the ruin, of a few; but would,
I think, tend to the safety and happiness of so many, that the evil would
be nothing in comparison to the good. The certainty of shame descending
to the daughters would be a powerful means of deterring mothers from
ill-conduct; and might probably operate more effectually to restrain
licentiousness in high life than heavy damages, or the now transient
disgrace of public trial and divorce. As to the apparent injustice of
punishing children for the faults of their parents, it should be considered
that in most other cases children suffer discredit more or less for the
faults of their parents of whatever kind; and that, on the other hand, they
enjoy the advantage of the good characters which their parents establish.
This _must_ be so from the necessary effect of experience, and from the
nature of human belief, except in cases where passion operates to destroy
or suspend the power of reason--"
"That is not my case, I assure you, sir," interrupted Godfrey.
Mr. Percy smiled, and continued:--"It appears to me highly advantageous,
that _character_, in general, should descend to posterity as well as riches
or honours, which are, in fact, often the representations, or consequences,
in other forms, of different parts of character--industry, talents,
courage. For instance, in the lower ranks of life, it is a common saying,
that a good name is the richest legacy a woman can leave her daughter. This
idea should be impressed more fully than it is upon the higher classes. At
present, money too frequently forms a compensation for every thing in high
life. It is not uncommon to see the natural daughters of men of rank, or
of large fortune, portioned so magnificently, either with solid gold, or
promised _family protection_, that their origin by the mother's side, and
the character of the mother, are quite forgotten. Can this be advantageous
to good morals? Surely a mother living in open defiance of the virtue of
her sex should not see her illegitimate offspring, instead of being her
shame, become her glory.--On the contrary, nothing could tend more to
prevent the ill conduct of women in high life than the certainty that men
who, from their fortune, birth, and character, might be deemed the most
desirable matches, would shun alliances with the daughters of women of
tainted reputation."
Godfrey eagerly declared his contempt for those men who married for money
or ambition either illegitimate or legitimate daughters. He should be
sorry, he said, to do any thing that would countenance vice, which ought
to be put out of countenance by all means--if possible. But he was not the
guardian of public morals; and even if he were, he should still think it
unjust that the innocent should suffer for the guilty. That for his own
part, if he could put his father's disapprobation out of the question,
he should easily settle his mind, and overcome all objections in a
_prudential_ point of view to marrying an amiable woman who had had the
misfortune to have a worthless mother.
Mrs. Percy had not yet given her opinion--all eyes turned towards her. As
usual, she spoke with persuasive gentleness and good sense; she marked
where each had, in the warmth of argument, said more than they intended,
and she seized the just medium by which all might be conciliated. She
said that she thought the important point to be considered was, what the
_education_ of the daughter had been; on this a prudent man would form his
opinion, not on the mere accident of her birth. He would inquire whether
the girl had lived with the ill-conducted mother--had been in situations
to be influenced by her example, or by that of the company which she kept.
If such had been the case, Mrs. Percy declared she thought it would be
imprudent and wrong to marry the daughter. But if the daughter had been
separated in early childhood from the mother, had never been exposed to the
influence of her example, had, on the contrary, been educated carefully
in strict moral and religious principles, it would be cruel, because
unnecessary, to object to an alliance with such a woman. The objection
would appear inconsistent, as well as unjust, if made by, those who
professed to believe in the unlimited power of education.
Godfrey rubbed his hands with delight--Mr. Percy smiled, and acknowledged
that he was compelled to admit the truth and justice of this statement.
"Pray do you know, Godfrey," said Rosamond, "whether Miss Hauton lived with
her mother, or was educated by her?"
"I cannot tell," said Godfrey; "but I will make it my business to find out.
At all events, my dear mother," continued he, "a child cannot decide by
whom she will be educated. It is not her fault if her childhood be passed
with a mother who is no fit guardian for her."
"I acknowledge," said Mrs. Percy, "that is her misfortune."
"And would you make it an irreparable misfortune?" said Godfrey, in an
expostulatory tone: "my dear mother--only consider."
"My dear son, I do consider," said Mrs. Percy; "but I cannot give up the
point of education. I should be very sorry to see a son of mine married
to a woman who had been in this unfortunate predicament. But," added
Mrs. Percy, after a few minutes' silence, "if from the time her own will
and judgment could be supposed to act, she had chosen for her companions
respectable and amiable persons, and had conducted herself with uniform
propriety and discretion, I think I might be brought to allow of an
exception to my general principle." She looked at Mr. Percy.
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Percy; "exceptions must not merely be allowed,
but will force themselves in favour of superior merit, of extraordinary
excellence, which will rise above every unfavourable circumstance in any
class, in any condition of life in which it may exist, which will throw off
any stigma, however disgraceful, counteract all prepossessions, however
potent, rise against all power of depression--redeem a family--redeem a
race."
"Now, father, you speak like yourself!" cried Godfrey: "this is all I
ask--all I wish."
"And here," continued Mr. Percy, "is an adequate motive for a good and
great mind--yes, _great_--for I believe there are great minds in the female
as well as in the male part of the creation; I say, here is an adequate
motive to excite a woman of a good and great mind to exert herself to
struggle against the misfortunes of her birth."
"For instance," said Rosamond, "my sister Caroline is just the kind of
woman, who, if she had been one of these unfortunate daughters, would have
made herself an exception."
"Very likely," said Mr. Percy, laughing; "but why you should go so far
out of your way to make an unfortunate daughter of poor Caroline, and why
you should picture to yourself, as Dr. Johnson would say, what would be
probable in an impossible situation, I cannot conceive, except for the
pleasure of exercising, as you do upon most occasions, a fine romantic
imagination."
"At all events _I_ am perfectly satisfied," said Godfrey. "Since you admit
of exceptions, sir, I agree with you entirely."
"No, not entirely. I am sure you cannot agree with me entirely, until I
admit Miss Hauton to be one of my exceptions."
"That will come in time, if she deserve it," said Mrs. Percy.
Godfrey thanked his mother with great warmth, and observed, that she was
always the most indulgent of friends.
"But remember my _if_," said Mrs. Percy: "I know nothing of Miss Hauton
at present, except that she is very pretty, and that she has engaging
manners--Do you, my dear Godfrey?"
"Yes, indeed, ma'am, I know a great deal more of her."
"Did you ever see her before this night?"
"Never," said Godfrey.
"And at a ball!" said Mrs. Percy: "you must have wonderful penetration into
character.--But Cupid, though blindfold, can see more at a single glance
than a philosophic eye can discover with the most minute examination."
"But, Cupid out of the question, let me ask you, mother," said Godfrey,
"whether you do not think Miss Hauton has a great deal of sensibility? You
saw that there was no affectation in her fainting."
"None, none," said Mrs. Percy.
"There, father!" cried Godfrey, in an exulting tone; "and sensibility is
the foundation of every thing that is most amiable and charming, of every
grace, of every virtue in woman."
"Yes," said Mr. Percy, "and perhaps of some of their errors and vices.
It depends upon how it is governed, whether sensibility be a curse or a
blessing to its possessor, and to society."
"A curse!" cried Godfrey; "yes, if a woman be doomed--"
"Come, come, my dear Godfrey," interrupted Mr. Percy, "do not let us talk
any more upon the subject just now, because you are too much interested to
reason coolly."
Rosamond then took her turn to talk of what was uppermost in her
thoughts--Buckhurst Falconer, whom she alternately blamed and pitied,
accused and defended; sometimes rejoicing that Caroline had rejected his
suit, sometimes pitying him for his disappointment, and repeating that with
such talents, frankness, and generosity of disposition, it was much to be
regretted that he had not that rectitude of principle, and steadiness of
character, which alone could render him worthy of Caroline. Then passing
from compassion for the son to indignation against the father, she
observed, "that Commissioner Falconer seemed determined to counteract all
that was good in his son's disposition, that he actually did every thing in
his power to encourage Buckhurst in a taste for dissipation, as it seemed
on purpose to keep him in a state of dependence, and to enslave him to the
_great_.
"I hope, with all my heart, I hope," continued Rosamond, "that Buckhurst
will have sense and steadiness enough to refuse; but I heard his father
supporting that foolish Colonel Hauton's persuasions, and urging his poor
son to go with those people to Cheltenham. Now, if once he gets into that
extravagant, dissipated set, he will be ruined for ever!--Adieu to all
hopes of him. He will no more go to the bar than I shall--he will think
of nothing but pleasure; he will run in debt again, and then farewell
principle, and with principle, farewell all hopes of him. But I think he
will have sense and steadiness enough to resist his father, and to refuse
to accompany this profligate patron, Colonel Hauton.--Godfrey, what is your
opinion? Do you think Buckhurst will go?"
"I do not know," replied Godfrey: "in his place I should find it very easy,
but in my own case, I confess, I should feel it difficult, to refuse, if I
were pressed to join a party of pleasure with Miss Hauton."
CHAPTER V.
Godfrey Percy went in the morning to inquire after the health of his fair
partner: this was only a common civility. On his way thither he overtook
and joined a party of gentlemen, who were also going to Clermont-park.
They entered into conversation, and talked of the preceding night--one of
the gentlemen, an elderly man, who had not been at the ball, happened to
be acquainted with Miss Hauton, and with her family. Godfrey heard from
him all the particulars respecting Lady Anne Hauton, and was thrown into
a melancholy reverie by learning that Miss Hauton had been educated by
this mother, and had always lived with her till her ladyship's death,
which happened about two years before this time.--After receiving this
intelligence, Godfrey heard little more of the conversation that passed
till he reached Clermont-park.--A number of young people were assembled
in the music-room practising for a concert.--Miss Hauton was at the
piano-forte when he entered the room: she was sitting with her back to the
door, surrounded by a crowd of amateurs; she did not see him--he stood
behind listening to her singing. Her voice was delightful; but he was
surprised, and not pleased, by the choice of her songs: she was singing,
with some other high-bred young ladies, songs which, to use the gentlest
expression, were rather too _anacreontic_--songs which, though sanctioned
by fashion, were not such as a young lady of taste would prefer, or such
as a man of delicacy would like to hear from his sister or his wife. They
were nevertheless highly applauded by all the audience, except by Godfrey,
who remained silent behind the young lady. In the fluctuation of the crowd
he was pressed nearer and nearer to her chair. As she finished singing a
fashionable air, she heard a sigh from the person behind her.
"That's your favourite, I think?" said she, turning round, and looking up.
"Mr. Percy! I--I thought it was Mr. Falconer." Face, neck, hands, suddenly
blushed: she stooped for a music-book, and searched for some time in that
attitude for she knew not what, whilst all the gentlemen officiously
offered their services, and begged only to know for what book she was
looking.
"Come, come, Maria," cried Colonel Hauton, "what the d---- are you
about?--Can't you give us another of these? You can't be better. Come,
you're keeping Miss Drakelow."
"Go on, Miss Drakelow, if you please, without me."
"Impossible. Come, come, Maria, what the deuce are you at?"
Miss Hauton, afraid to refuse her brother, afraid to provoke the comments
of the company, began to sing, or rather to attempt to sing--her voice
faltered; she cleared her throat, and began again--worse still, she was out
of tune: she affected to laugh. Then, pushing back her chair, she rose,
drew her veil over her face, and said, "I have sung till I have no voice
left.--Does nobody walk this morning?"
"No, no," said Colonel Hauton; "who the deuce would be _bored_ with being
broiled at this time of day? Miss Drakelow--Miss Chatterton, give us some
more music, I beseech you; for I like music better in a morning than at
night--the mornings, when one can't go out, are so confoundedly long and
heavy."
The young ladies played, and Miss Hauton seated herself apart from the
group of musicians, upon a _bergere_, leaning on her hand, in a melancholy
attitude. Buckhurst Falconer followed and sat down beside her, endeavouring
to entertain her with some witty anecdote.
She smiled with effort, listened with painful attention, and the moment the
anecdote was ended, her eyes wandered out of the window. Buckhurst rose,
vacated his seat, and before any of the other gentlemen who had gathered
round could avail themselves of that envied place, Miss Hauton, complaining
of the intolerable heat, removed nearer to the window, to an ottoman,
one half of which was already so fully occupied by a large dog of her
brother's, that she was in no danger from any other intruder. Some of the
gentlemen, who were not blessed with much sagacity, followed, to talk to
her of the beauty of the dog which she was stroking; but to an eulogium
upon its long ears, and even to a quotation from Shakspeare about dewlaps,
she listened with so vacant an air, that her followers gave up the point,
and successively retired, leaving her to her meditations. Godfrey, who had
kept aloof, had in the mean time been looking at some books that lay on a
reading table.--_Maria Hauton_ was written in the first page of several of
them.--All were novels--some French, and some German, of a sort which he
did not like.
"What have you there, Mr. Percy?" said Miss Hauton.--"Nothing worth your
notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels."
"Pardon me, I like some novels very much."
"Which?" said Miss Hauton, rising and approaching the table.
"All that are just representations of life and manners, or of the human
heart," said Godfrey, "provided they are--"
"Ah! the human heart!" interrupted Miss Hauton: "the heart only can
understand the heart--who, in modern times, can describe the human heart?"
"Not to speak of foreigners--Miss Burney--Mrs. Inchbald--Mrs. Opie," said
Godfrey.
"True; and yet I--and yet--" said Miss Hauton, pausing and sighing.
"And yet that was not what I was thinking of," she should have said, had
she finished her sentence with the truth; but this not being convenient,
she left it unfinished, and began a new one, with "Some of these novels are
sad trash--I hope Mr. Godfrey Percy will not judge of my taste by them:
that would be condemning me for the crimes of my bookseller, who will send
us down everything new that comes out."
Godfrey disclaimed the idea of condemning or blaming Miss Hauton's taste:
"he could not," he said, "be so presumptuous, so impertinent."
"So then," said she, "Mr. Godfrey Percy is like all the rest of his sex,
and I must not expect to hear the truth from him."--She paused--and looked
at a print which he was examining.--"I would, however, rather have him
speak severely than think hardly of me."
"He has no right to speak, and certainly no inclination to think hardly of
Miss Hauton," replied Godfrey gravely, but with an emotion which he in vain
endeavoured to suppress. To change the conversation, he asked her opinion
about a figure in the print. She took out her glass, and stooped to look
quite closely at it.--"Before you utterly condemn me," continued she,
speaking in a low voice, "consider how fashion silences one's better taste
and feelings, and how difficult it is when all around one--"
Miss Chatterton, Miss Drakelow, and some officers of their suite came up at
this instant; a deputation, they said, to bring Miss Hauton back, to favour
them with another song, as she must now have recovered her voice.
"No--no--excuse me," said she, smiling languidly; "I beg not to be pressed
any more. I am really not well--I absolutely cannot sing any more this
morning. I have already sung so much--_too much_," added she, when the
deputation had retired, so that the last words could be heard only by him
for whom they were intended.
Though Miss Hauton's apologizing thus for her conduct, and making a
young gentleman, with whom she was but just acquainted, the judge of her
actions, might be deemed a still farther proof of her indiscretion, yet
the condescension was so flattering, and it appeared such an instance of
ingenuous disposition, that Godfrey was sensibly touched by it. He followed
the fair Maria to her ottoman, from which she banished Pompey the Great, to
make room for him. The recollection of his father's warning words, however,
came across Godfrey's mind; he bowed an answer to a motion that invited him
to the dangerous seat, and continued standing with an air of safe respect.
"I hope you will have the goodness to express to Mrs. Percy how much I
felt her kindness to me last night, when--when I wanted it so much. There
is something so soothing, so gentle, so indulgent about Mrs. Percy, so
_loveable!_"
"She is very good, very indulgent, indeed," said Godfrey, in a tone of
strong affection,--"very _loveable_--that is the exact word."
"I fear it is not English," said Miss Hauton.
"_Il merite bien de l'etre_," said Godfrey.
A profound silence ensued.--Colonel Hauton came up to this pair, while they
were still silent, and with their eyes fixed upon the ground.
"D----d agreeable you two seem," cried the colonel.--"Buckhurst, you have
always so much to say for yourself, do help your cousin here: I'm sure I
know how to pity him, for many a time the morning after a ball, I've been
with my partner in just as bad a quandary--without a word to throw to a
dog."
"Impossible, surely, colonel, when you had such a fine animal as this,"
said Godfrey, caressing Pompey, who lay at his feet. "Where did you get
this handsome dog?"
The colonel then entered into the history of Pompey the Great. "I was
speaking," said Miss Hauton, "to Mr. Godfrey Percy of his family--relations
of yours, Mr. Falconer, are not they? He has another sister, I think, some
one told me, a beautiful sister, Caroline, who was not at the ball last
night?"
"Yes," said Buckhurst, who looked at this instant also to the dog for
assistance--"Pompey!--Pompey!--poor fellow!"
"Is Miss Caroline Percy like her mother?"
"No."
"Like her father--or her brother?"
"Not particularly--Will you honour me with any commands for town?--Colonel,
have you any?--I'm just going off with Major Clay," said Buckhurst.
"Not you, indeed," cried the colonel; "your father has made you over to me,
and I won't give you leave of absence, my good fellow.--You're under orders
for Cheltenham to-morrow, my boy--No reply, sir--no arguing with your
commanding officer. You've no more to do, but to tell Clay to go without
you."
"And now," continued the colonel, returning to Godfrey Percy, after
Buckhurst had left the room, "what hinders you from making one of our
party? You can't do better. There's Maria and Lady Oldborough were both
wishing it at breakfast--Maria, can't you say something?"
Maria's eyes said more than the colonel could have said, if he had spoken
for ever.
"But perhaps Mr. Godfrey Percy may have other engagements," said she, with
a timid persuasive tone, which Godfrey found it extremely difficult to
resist.
"Bellamy! where the d----l do you come from?--Very glad to see you, faith!"
cried the colonel, going forward to shake hands with a very handsome man,
who had just then entered the room. "Maria," said Colonel Hauton, turning
to his sister, "don't you know Bellamy?--Bellamy," repeated he, coming
close to her, whilst the gentleman was paying his compliments to Lady
Oldborough, "Captain Bellamy, with whom you used to waltz every night, you
know, at--what's the name of the woman's?"
"I never waltzed with him but once--or twice, that I remember," said Miss
Hauton, "and then because you insisted upon it."
"I!--Well, I did very right if I did, because you were keeping all the
world waiting, and I knew you intended to do it at last--so I thought you
might as well do it at first. But I don't know what's the matter with you
this morning--we must drive a little spirit into you at Cheltenham."
Captain Bellamy came up to pay his respects, or rather his compliments, to
Miss Hauton: there was no respect in his manner, but the confidence of one
who had been accustomed to be well received.
"She has not been well--fainted last night at a ball--is _hipped_
this morning; but we'll get her spirits up again when we have her at
Cheltenham--We shall be a famous dashing party! I have been beating up for
recruits all day--here's one," said Colonel Hauton, turning to Godfrey
Percy.
"Excuse me," said Godfrey, "I am engaged--I am obliged to join my regiment
immediately." He bowed gravely to Miss Hauton--wished her a good morning;
and, without trusting himself to another look, retreated, saying to
himself,
"Sir, she's yours--You have brushed from the grape its soft blue;
From the rosebud you've shaken its tremulous dew:
What you've touched you may take.--Pretty waltzer, adieu!"
From this moment he mentioned Miss Hauton's name no more in his own family.
His whole mind now seemed, and not only seemed, but was, full of military
thoughts. So quickly in youth do different and opposite trains of ideas and
emotions succeed to each other; and so easy it is, by a timely exercise
of reason and self-command, to prevent a _fancy_ from becoming a passion.
Perhaps, if his own happiness alone had been in question, Godfrey might not
have shown precisely the same prudence; but on this occasion his generosity
and honour assisted his discretion. He plainly saw that Miss Hauton was
not exactly a woman whom he could wish to make his wife--and he was too
honourable to trifle with her affections. He was not such a coxcomb as to
imagine that, in the course of so slight an acquaintance, he could have
made any serious impression on this young lady's heart: yet he could not
but perceive that she had distinguished him from the first hour he was
introduced to her; and he was aware that, with her extreme sensibility, and
an unoccupied imagination, she might rapidly form for him an attachment
that might lead to mutual misery.
Mr. Percy rejoiced in his son's honourable conduct, and he was particularly
pleased by Godfrey's determining to join his regiment immediately. Mr.
Percy thought it advantageous for the eldest son of a man of fortune to be
absent for some years from his home, from his father's estate, tenants, and
dependents, to see something of the world, to learn to estimate himself
and others, and thus to have means of becoming a really respectable,
enlightened, and useful country gentleman--not one of those booby squires,
born only to consume the fruits of the earth, who spend their lives in
coursing, shooting, hunting, carousing [Footnote: See an eloquent address
to country gentlemen, in Young's Annals of Agriculture, vol. i., last
page.], "who eat, drink, sleep, die, and rot in oblivion." He thought it
in these times the duty of every young heir to serve a few years, that he
might be as able, as willing, to join in the defence of his country, if
necessary. Godfrey went, perhaps, beyond his father's ideas upon this
subject, for he had an ardent desire to go into the army as a profession,
and almost regretted that his being an eldest son might induce him to
forego it after a few campaigns.
Godfrey did not enter into the army from the puerile vanity of wearing a
red coat and an epaulette; nor to save himself the trouble of pursuing his
studies; nor because he thought the army a _good lounge_, or a happy escape
from parental control; nor yet did he consider the military profession as a
mercenary speculation, in which he was to calculate the chance of getting
_into the shoes_, or over the head, of Lieutenant A---- or Captain B----.
He had higher objects; he had a noble ambition to distinguish himself. Not
in mere technical phrase, or to grace a bumper toast, but in truth, and
as a governing principle of action, he felt zeal for the interests of the
service. Yet Godfrey was not without faults; and of these his parents, fond
as they were of him, were well aware.
Mrs. Percy, in particular, felt much anxiety, when the moment fixed for
his departure approached; when she considered that he was now to mix with
companions very different from those with whom he had hitherto associated,
and to be placed in a situation where calmness of temper and prudence would
be more requisite than military courage or generosity of disposition.
"Well, my dear mother," cried Godfrey, when he came to take leave, "fare
you well: if I live, I hope I shall distinguish myself; and if I fall--
'How sleep the brave, who sink to rest!'"
"God bless you, my dear son!" said his mother. She seemed to have much
more to say, but, unable at that moment to express it, she turned to her
husband, who knew all she thought and felt.
"My dear Godfrey," said his father, "I have never troubled you with much
advice; but now you are going from me, let me advise you to take care that
the same enthusiasm which makes you think your own country the best country
upon earth, your own family the best family in that country, and your own
regiment the best regiment in the service, all which is becoming a good
patriot, a good son, and a good soldier, should go a step--a dangerous step
farther, and should degenerate into party spirit, or what the French call
_esprit-de-corps_."
"The French!" cried Godfrey. "Oh! hang the French! Never mind what the
French call it, sir."
"And degenerating into party-spirit, or what is called _esprit-de-corps_,"
resumed Mr. Percy, smiling, "should, in spite of your more enlarged views
of the military art and science, and your knowledge of all that Alexander
and Caesar, and Marshal Saxe and Turenne, and the Duke of Marlborough and
Lord Peterborough, ever said or did, persuade you to believe that your
brother officers, whoever they may be, are the greatest men that ever
existed, and that their opinions should rule the world, or at least should
govern you."
"More than all the rest, I fear, my dear Godfrey," interposed Mrs. Percy,
"that, when you do not find the world so good as you imagine it to be, you
will, by quarrelling with it directly, make it worse to you than it really
is. But if you discover that merit is not always immediately rewarded or
promoted, do not let your indignation, and--shall I say it--impatience
of spirit, excite you to offend your superiors in station, and, by these
means, retard your own advancement."
"Surely, if I should be treated with injustice, you would not have me bear
it patiently?" cried Godfrey, turning quickly.
"In the first place, stay till it happens before you take fire," said his
father; "and, in the next place, remember that patience, and deference to
his superiors, form an indispensable part of a young soldier's merit."
"Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Percy, looking up at her son anxiously, "if, even
at this instant, even with us, even at the bare imagination of injustice,
you take offence, I fear--I very much fear--" said she, laying her hand
upon his arm.
"My dearest mother," said Godfrey, in a softened tone, taking his mother's
hand in the most respectful and tender manner, "fear nothing for me. I will
be as patient as a lamb, rather than be a source of anxiety to you."
"And now, my good friends, fare ye well!" said Godfrey, turning to take
leave of his sisters.
The young soldier departed. His last words, as he got upon his horse, were
to Caroline. "Caroline, you will be married before I return."
But to descend to the common affairs of life. Whilst all these visits and
balls, coquettings and separations, had been going on, the Dutch carpenters
had been repairing the wreck; and, from time to time, complaints had been
made of them by Mr. Percy's old steward. The careful steward's indignation
was first excited by their forgetting every night to lock a certain gate,
with the key of which they had been entrusted. Then they had wasted his
master's timber, and various tools were missing--they had been twice as
long as they ought to have been in finishing their work, and now, when the
wind was fair, the whole ship's crew impatient to sail, and not above half
a day's work wanting, the carpenters were smoking and drinking, instead
of putting their hands to the business. The Dutch carpenter, who was
at this moment more than half intoxicated, answered the steward's just
reproaches with much insolence. Mr. Percy, feeling that his hospitality
and good-nature were encroached upon and abused, declared that he would no
longer permit the Dutchmen to have the use of his house, and ordered his
steward to see that they quitted it immediately.
These men, and all belonging to them, consequently left the place in a
few hours; whatever remained to be done to the vessel was finished that
evening, and she sailed, to the great joy of her whole crew, and of Mr.
Percy's steward, who, when he brought the news of this event to his master,
protested that he was as glad as if any body had given him twenty golden
guineas, that he had at last got safely rid of these ill-mannered drunken
fellows, who, after all his master had done for them, never so much
as said, "thank you," and who had wasted and spoiled more by their
carelessness than their heads were worth.
Alas! he little knew at that moment how much more his master was to lose by
their carelessness, and he rejoiced too soon at having got _rid_ of them.
In the middle of the night the family were alarmed by the cry of fire!--A
fire had broken out in the outhouse, which had been lent to the Dutchmen;
before it was discovered, the roof was in a blaze; the wind unfortunately
blew towards a hay-rick, which was soon in flames, and the burning hay
spread the fire to a considerable distance, till it caught the veranda at
the east wing of the dwelling-house. One of the servants, who slept in that
part of the house, was awakened by the light from the burning veranda, but
by the time the alarm was given, and before the family could get out of
their rooms, the flames had reached Mr. Percy's study, which contained his
most valuable papers. Mr. Percy, whose voice all his family, in the midst
of their terror and confusion, obeyed, directed with great presence of
mind what should be done by each. He sent one to open a cistern of water
at the top of the house, and to let it flow over the roof, another to tear
down the trellis next the part that was on fire; others he despatched for
barrows-full of wet mortar from a heap which was in a back yard near the
house; others he stationed in readiness to throw the mortar where it was
most needful to extinguish the flames, or to prevent their communicating
with the rest of the building. He went himself to the place where the fire
raged with the greatest violence, whilst his wife and daughters were giving
out from the study the valuable papers, which, as he directed, were thrown
in one heap on the lawn, at a sufficient distance from the house to prevent
any danger of their being burnt--most of them were in tin cases that were
easily removed--the loose papers and books were put into baskets, and
covered with wet blankets, so that the pieces of the burning trellis,
which fell upon them as they were carried out, did them no injury. It was
wonderful with what silence, order, and despatch, this went on whilst three
females, instead of shrieking and fainting, combined to do what was useful
and prudent. In spite of all Mr. Percy's exertions, however, the flames
burst in from the burning trellis through one of the windows of the study,
before the men could tear down the shutters and architraves, as he had
ordered. The fire caught the wood-work, and ran along the book-shelves on
one side of the wall with terrible rapidity, so that the whole room was,
in a few minutes, in a blaze--they were forced to leave it before they had
carried out many of the books. Some old papers remained in the presses,
supposed to be duplicates, and of no consequence. This whole wing of
the house they were obliged to abandon to the flames, but the fire was
stopped in its progress at last, and the principal part of the mansion was
preserved by wet mortar, according to Mr. Percy's judicious order, by the
prompt obedience, and by the unanimity, of all who assisted.
The next morning the family saw the melancholy spectacle of a heap of ruins
in the place of that library which they all loved so much. However, it was
their disposition to make the best of misfortunes; instead of deploring
what they had lost, they rejoiced in having suffered so little and saved so
much. They particularly rejoiced that no lives had been sacrificed;--Mr.
Percy declared, that for his own part, he would willingly undergo much
greater pecuniary loss, to have had the satisfaction of seeing in all his
family so much presence of mind, and so much freedom from selfishness, as
they had shown upon this occasion.
When he said something of this sort before his servants, who were all
assembled, it was observed that one of them, a very old nurse, looked
immediately at Caroline, then lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, in
silent gratitude. Upon inquiry it appeared, that in the confusion and
terror, when the alarm had first been raised, the nurse had been forgotten,
or it had been taken for granted that she had gone home to her own cottage
the preceding evening.
Caroline, however, recollected her, and ran to her room, which was in the
attic story over the library.
When Caroline opened the door she could scarcely see the bed.--She made
her way to it, however, got old Martha out of the room, and with great
difficulty brought the bewildered, decrepit creature, safely down a small
staircase, which the flames had not then reached.--Nothing could exceed her
gratitude; with eyes streaming with tears, and a head shaking with strong
emotion, she delighted in relating all these circumstances, and declared
that none but Miss Caroline could have persuaded her to go down that
staircase, when she saw all below in flames.
Mr. Percy's first care was to look over his papers, to see whether any were
missing.--To his consternation, one valuable deed, a deed by which he held
the whole Percy estate, was nowhere to be found. He had particular reason
for being alarmed by the loss of this paper.--The heir-at-law to this
estate had long been lying in wait to make an attack upon him.--Aware of
this, Mr. Percy took all prudent means to conceal the loss of this paper,
and he cautioned his whole family never to mention it.
It happened about this time, that a poor old man, to whom Buckhurst
Falconer had given that puppy which his brother John had so bitterly
regretted, came to Mr. Percy to complain that the dog had brought him into
great trouble. The puppy had grown into a dog, and of this the old man had
forgotten to give notice to the tax-gatherer. Mr. Percy perceiving clearly
that the man had no design to defraud, and pitying him for having thus, by
his ignorance or carelessness, subjected himself to the heavy penalty of
ten pounds, which, without selling his only cow, he was unable to pay,
advised him to state the simple fact in a petition, and Mr. Percy promised
to transmit this petition to government, with a memorial against the
tax-gatherer, who had been accused, in many instances, of oppressive and
corrupt conduct. He had hitherto defied all complainants, because he was
armed strong in law by an attorney who was his near relation--an attorney
of the name of Sharpe, whose cunning and skill in the doubles and mazes of
his profession, and whose active and vindictive temper had rendered him the
terror of the neighbourhood. Not only the poor but the rich feared him,
for he never failed to devise means of revenging himself wherever he was
offended. He one morning waited on Mr. Percy, to speak to him about the
memorial, which, he understood, Mr. Percy was drawing up against Mr. Bates,
the tax-gatherer.
"Perhaps, Mr. Percy," said he, "you don't know that Mr. Bates is my near
relation?"
Mr. Percy replied, that he had not known it; but that now that he did, he
could not perceive how that altered the business; as he interfered, not
from any private motive, but from a sense of public justice, which made him
desire to remove a person from a situation for which he had shown himself
utterly unfit.
Mr. Sharpe smiled a malicious smile, and declared that, for his part, he
did not pretend to be a reformer of abuses: he thought, in the present
times, that gentlemen who wished well to their king and the peace of the
country ought not to be forward to lend their names to popular discontents,
and should not embarrass government with petty complaints. Gentlemen could
never foresee where such things would end, and therefore, in the _existing
circumstances_, they ought surely to endeavour to strengthen, instead of
weakening, the hands of government.
To this commonplace _cant_, by which all sorts of corruption and all public
delinquents might be screened, and by which selfishness and fraud hope to
pass for loyalty and love of the peace of the country, Mr. Percy did not
attempt, or rather did not deign, any reply.
Mr. Sharpe then insinuated that Lord Oldborough, who had put Bates into
his present situation, would be displeased by a complaint against him. Mr.
Sharpe observed, that Lord Oldborough was remarkable for standing steadily
by all the persons whom he appointed, and that, if Mr. Percy persisted
in this attack, he would probably not find himself thanked by his own
relations, the Falconers.
This hint produced no effect: so at last Mr. Sharpe concluded, by saying,
with an air of prodigious legal assurance, that for his own part he was
quite at ease about the result of the affair, for he was confident that,
when the matter came to be properly inquired into, and the witnesses to be
cross-examined, no malpractices could be brought home to his relation.
Then Mr. Percy observed, that a memorial, praying to have the circumstances
inquired into, could be no disadvantage to Mr. Bates, but the contrary, as
it would tend to prove his innocence publicly, and to remove the prejudice
which now subsisted against him.--Mr. Percy, who had the memorial at this
time in his hand, deliberately folded it up, and directed it.
"Then, sir," cried Mr. Sharpe, put off his guard by anger, "since you are
determined to throw away the scabbard, you cannot be surprised if I do the
same."
Mr. Percy, smiling, said that he feared no sword but the sword of justice,
which could not fall on his head, while he was doing what was just. As he
spoke, he prepared to seal the memorial.
Mr. Sharpe's habitual caution recurring in the space of a second or two, he
begged pardon if zeal for his relation had hurried him into any unbecoming
warmth of expression, and stretching out his hand eagerly to stop Mr.
Percy, as he was going to press down the seal, "Give me leave, sir," said
he, "give me leave to run my eye over that memorial--may I beg? before you
seal it."
"And welcome," said Mr. Percy, putting the paper into his hand: "all that I
do shall be done openly and fairly."
The attorney took possession of the memorial, and began to con it over. As
he was reading it, he happened to stand in a recessed window, so that he
could not easily be seen by any person who entered the room: at this moment
Rosamond came in suddenly, exclaiming, as she held up a huge unfolded
parchment, "I've found it!--I've found it, my dear father!--I do believe
this is Sir John Percy's deed that was lost!--I always said it was not
burned.--What's the matter?--What do you mean?--Nobody can hear me? the
outer door is shut--Perhaps this is only a copy.--It is not signed or
sealed, but I suppose--"
Here she stopped short, for she saw Mr. Sharpe--She looked so much
astounded, that even if he had not heard all she had said, her countenance
would have excited his curiosity. The attorney had heard every syllable
she had uttered, and he knew enough of Mr. Percy's affairs to comprehend
the full extent of the advantage that might be made of this discovery.
He coolly returned the memorial, acknowledging that it was drawn up with
much moderation and ability, but regretting that Mr. Percy should think it
necessary to send it; and concluding with a few general expressions of the
regard he had always felt for the family, he took his leave.
"All is safe!" cried Rosamond, as soon as she heard the house door shut
after he was gone. "All is safe, thank Heaven!--for that man's head was
luckily so full of this memorial, that he never heard one word I said."
Mr. Percy was of a different opinion: he was persuaded that the attorney
would not neglect so fine an opportunity of revenge. Sharpe had formerly
been employed in suits of Sir Robert Percy, the heir-at-law. Here was now
the promise of a lawsuit, that would at all events put a great deal of
money into the pockets of the lawyers, and a considerable gratuity would be
ensured to the person who should first inform Sir Robert of the loss of the
important conveyance.
Mr. Percy's opinion of the revengeful nature of Sharpe, and his perception
that he was in the solicitor's power, did not, however, make any change in
his resolution about the memorial.--It was sent, and Bates was turned out
of his office. For some time nothing more was heard of Mr. Sharpe.--Mr.
Percy, for many months afterward, was busied in rebuilding that part of
his house which had been destroyed by the fire; and as he was naturally
of a sanguine temper, little inclined to occupy himself with cabals and
quarrels, the transaction concerning Bates, and even the attorney's threat
of throwing away the scabbard, passed from his mind. The family pursued
the happy tenour of their lives, without remembering that there was such a
being as Mr. Solicitor Sharpe.
CHAPTER VI.
At the time of the fire at Percy-hall, a painted glass window in the
passage--we should say the gallery--leading to the study had been
destroyed.--Old Martha, whose life Caroline had saved, had a son, who
possessed some talents as a painter, and who had learnt the art of painting
on glass. He had been early in his life assisted by the Percy family,
and, desirous to offer some small testimony of his gratitude, he begged
permission to paint a new window for the gallery.--He chose for his subject
the fire, and the moment when Caroline was assisting his decrepit mother
down the dangerous staircase.--The painting was finished unknown to
Caroline, and put up on her birthday, when she had just attained her
eighteenth year. This was the only circumstance worth recording which the
biographer can find noted in the family annals at this period. In this
dearth of events, may we take the liberty of introducing, according to
the fashion of modern biography, a few private letters? They are written
by persons of whom the reader as yet knows nothing--Mr. Percy's second
and third sons, Alfred and Erasmus. Alfred was a barrister; Erasmus a
physician: they were both at this time in London, just commencing their
professional career. Their characters--but let their characters speak
for themselves in their letters, else neither their letters nor their
characters can be worth attention.
ALFRED PERCY TO HIS FATHER.
"MY DEAR FATHER,
"Thank you for the books--I have been reading hard lately, for I have
still, alas! leisure enough to read. I cannot expect to be employed, or to
have _fees_ for some time to come. I am armed with patience--I am told that
I have got through the worst part of my profession, the reading of dry law.
This is tiresome enough, to be sure; but I think the courting of attorneys
and solicitors is the worst part of the beginning of my profession: for
this I was not, and I believe I never shall be, sufficiently prepared. I
give them no dinners, and they neglect me; yet I hope I pay them proper
attention. To make amends, however, I have been so fortunate as to form
acquaintance with some gentlemen of the bar, who possess enlarged minds and
general knowledge: their conversation is of the greatest use and pleasure
to me. But many barristers here are men who live entirely among themselves,
with their heads in their green bags, and their souls narrowed to a point:
mere machines for drawing pleas and rejoinders.
"I remember Burke asserts (and I was once, with true professional
party-spirit, angry with him for the assertion) that the study of the law
has a contractile power on the mind; I am now convinced it has, from what
I see, and what I feel; therefore I will do all I can to counteract this
contraction by the expansive force of literature. I lose no opportunity
of making acquaintance with literary men, and cultivating their society.
The other day, at Hookham's library, I met with a man of considerable
talents--a Mr. Temple: he was looking for a passage in the life of the
lord-keeper Guildford, which I happened to know. This brought us into a
conversation, with which we were mutually so well pleased, that we agreed
to dine together, for further information--and we soon knew all that was to
be known of each other's history.
"Temple is of a very good family, though the younger son of a younger
brother. He was brought up by his grandfather, with whom he was a
favourite. Accustomed, from his childhood, to live with the rich and great,
to see a grand establishment, to be waited upon, to have servants, horses,
carriages at his command, and always to consider himself as a part of a
family who possessed every thing they could wish for in life; he says, he
almost forgot, or rather never thought of the time when he was to have
nothing, and when he should be obliged to provide entirely for himself.
Fortunately for him, his grandfather having early discerned that he had
considerable talents, determined that he should have all the advantages of
education, which he thought would prepare him to shine in parliament.--His
grandfather, however, died when Temple was yet scarcely eighteen.--He had
put off writing a codicil to his will, by which Temple lost the provision
intended for him.--All hopes of being brought into parliament were over.
His uncle, who succeeded to the estate, had sons of his own. There were
family jealousies, and young Temple, as having been a favourite, was
disliked.--Promises were made by other relations, and by former friends,
and by these he was amused and misled for some time; but he found he was
only wasting his life, attending upon these great relations. The unkindness
and falsehood of some, and the haughty neglect of others, hurt his high
spirit, and roused his strong indignation. He, in his turn, neglected
and offended, was cast off at last, or forgotten by most of the fine
promisers.--At which, he says, he has had reason to rejoice, for this threw
him upon his own resources, and made him exert his own mind.--He applied,
in earnest, to prepare himself for the profession for which he was best
fitted, and went to the bar.--Now comes the part of his history for which
he, with reason, blames himself. He was disgusted, not so much by the
labour, as by the many disagreeable circumstances, which necessarily occur
in the beginning of a barrister's course.--He could not bear the waiting
in the courts, or on circuit, without business, without notice. He thought
his merit would never make its way, and was provoked by seeing two or three
stupid fellows pushed on by solicitors, or helped up by judges.--He had so
much knowledge, talent, and eloquence, that he must in time have made a
great figure, and would, undoubtedly, have risen to the first dignities,
had he persevered; but he sacrificed himself to pique and impatience. He
quitted the bar, and the very summer after he had left it, the illness of a
senior counsel on that circuit afforded an opportunity where Temple would
have been called upon, and where he could fully have displayed his talents.
Once known, such a man would have been always distinguished.--He now
bitterly regrets that he abandoned his profession.--This imprudence gave
his friends a fair excuse for casting him off; but, he says, their neglect
grieves him not, for he had resolved never more to trust to their promises,
or to stoop to apply to them for patronage. He has been these last two
years in an obscure garret writing for bread. He says, however, that he is
sure he is happier, even in this situation, than are some of his cousins
at this instant, who are struggling in poverty to be genteel, or to keep
up a family name, and he would not change places with those who are in a
state of idle and opprobrious dependence. I understand (remember, this
is a secret between ourselves)--I understand that _Secretary_ Cunningham
Falconer has found him out, and makes _good use of his pen_, but pays
him shabbily. Temple is too much of a man of honour to _peach_. So Lord
Oldborough knows nothing of the matter; and Cunningham gets half his
business done, and supplies all his deficiencies, by means of this poor
drudging genius. Perhaps I have tired you with this history of my new
friend; but he has interested me extremely:--he has faults certainly,
perhaps too high a spirit, too much sensibility; but he has such strict
integrity, so much generosity of mind, and something so engaging in his
manners, that I cannot help loving, admiring, and pitying him--that last
sentiment, however, I am obliged to conceal, for he would not bear it.
"I see very little of Erasmus. He has been in the country this fortnight
with some patient. I long for his return.--I will make the inquiries you
desire about Buckhurst Falconer.
"Your affectionate son,
"ALFRED PERCY.
"P.S. Yes, my dear Rosamond, I _shall_ be obliged to you for the
flower-roots for my landlady's daughter."
LETTER FROM ERASMUS TO HIS FATHER.
"MY DEAR FATHER,
"Pray do not feel disappointed when I tell you that I am not getting
on quite so fast as I expected. I assure you, however, that I have not
neglected any honourable means of bringing myself into notice. But it is
very difficult for a young man to rise without puffing, or using low means.
"I met Lady Jane Granville a few days ago. She gave me a note to Sir Amyas
Courtney, a fashionable physician and a great favourite of hers.--She told
me that he had formerly been acquainted with some of my family, and she so
strongly urged me to wait upon him, that to avoid offending her ladyship, I
promised to avail myself of her introduction.
"I called several times before I found Sir Amyas at home. At last, by
appointment, I went to breakfast with him one morning when he was confined
to the house by an _influenza_. He received me in the most courteous
manner--recollected to have danced with my mother years ago, at a ball
at Lord Somebody's--professed the greatest respect for the name of
Percy--asked me various questions about my grandfather, which I could not
answer, and paid you more compliments than I can remember. Sir Amyas is
certainly the prettiest behaved physician breathing, with the sweetest
assortment of tittle-tattle, with an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and
compliments for the great, and an intimate acquaintance with the fair and
fashionable. He has also the happiest art of speaking a vast deal, and
yet saying nothing; seeming to give an opinion, without ever committing
himself.--The address with which he avoids contested points of science, and
the art with which he displays his superficial knowledge, and conceals his
want of depth, is truly amusing. He slid away from science as soon as he
could, to politics, where he kept safe in commonplace newspaper-phrases;
and in the happy persuasion that every thing is for the best, and that
every man in power, let him be of what party he may, can do no wrong. He
did not seem quite satisfied with my countenance as he spoke, and once or
twice paused for my acquiescence--in vain.
"We were interrupted by the entrance of a Mr. Gresham, a rich merchant,
who came to look at a picture which Sir Amyas shows as a true Titian.
Mr. Gresham spoke, as I thought, with much good sense and taste about
it, and Sir Amyas talked a great deal of amateur-nonsense. Still in the
same namby-pamby style, and with the same soft voice and sweet smile,
Sir Amyas talked on of pictures and battles, and carnage and levees, and
drawing-rooms and balls, and butterflies.--He has a museum for the ladies,
and he took me to look at it.--Sad was the hour and luckless was the
day!--Among his shells was one upon which he peculiarly prided himself,
and which he showed me as an unique. I was, I assure you, prudently silent
till he pressed for my opinion, and then I could not avoid confessing that
I suspected it to be a _made_ shell--_made_, Caroline knows how, by the
application of acids. The countenance of Sir Amyas clouded over, and I saw
that I at this moment lost all chance of his future favour. He made me some
fine speeches, when I was going away, and dwelt upon his great desire to
oblige any friend of Lady Jane Granville's.
"A few days afterwards, I saw her ladyship again, and found, by her manner,
that she had not been satisfied by Sir Amyas Courtney's report of me. She
pressed me to tell her all that had passed between us. She was provoked by
my imprudence, as she called it, about the shell, and exhorted me to repair
it by future attentions and complaisance. When I declined paying court to
Sir Amyas, as inconsistent with my ideas and feelings of independence, her
ladyship grew angry--said that my father had inspired all his sons with
absurd notions of independence, which would prevent their rising in the
world, or succeeding in any profession. I believe I then grew warm in
defence of my father and myself. The conclusion of the whole was, that we
remained of our own opinions, and that her ladyship protested she would
never more attempt to serve us. Alfred has called since on Lady Jane, but
has not been admitted. I am sorry that I too have offended her, for I
really like her, and am grateful for her kindness, but I cannot court her
patronage, nor bend to her idol, Sir Amyas.--
"Your affectionate son,
"ERASMUS PERCY."
LETTER FROM ERASMUS PERCY TO HIS FATHER.
"MY DEAR FATHER,
"I told you in my last how I lost all hopes of favour from Sir Amyas
Courtney, and how determined I was not to bend to him.--On some occasion
soon afterwards this determination appeared, and recommended me immediately
to the notice of a certain Dr. Frumpton, who is the antagonist and sworn
foe to Sir Amyas.--Do you know who Dr. Frumpton is--and who he was--and how
he has risen to his present height?
"He was a farrier in a remote county: he began by persuading the country
people in his neighbourhood that he had a specific for the bite of a mad
dog.
"It happened that he cured an old dowager's favourite waiting-maid who had
been bitten by a cross lap-dog, which her servants pronounced to be mad,
that they might have an excuse for hanging it.
"The fame of this cure was spread by the dowager among her numerous
acquaintance in town and country.
"Then he took agues--and afterwards scrofula--under his protection;
patronized by his old dowager, and lucky in some of his desperate quackery,
Dr. Frumpton's reputation rapidly increased, and from different counties
fools came to consult him. His manners were bearish even to persons of
quality who resorted to his den; but these brutal manners _imposed_ upon
many, heightened the idea of his confidence in himself, and commanded the
submission of the timid.--His tone grew higher and higher, and he more and
more easily bullied the credulity of man and woman-kind.--It seems that
either extreme of soft and polished, or of rough and brutal manner, can
succeed with certain physicians.--_Dr._ Frumpton's name, and Dr. Frumpton's
wonderful cures, were in every newspaper, and in every shop-window. No
man ever puffed himself better even in this puffing age.--His success
was viewed with scornful yet with jealous eyes by the regularly bred
physicians, and they did all they could to keep him down--Sir Amyas
Courtney, in particular, who would never call him any thing but _that
farrier_, making what noise he could about Frumpton's practising without
a diploma. In pure spite, Frumpton took to learning--late as it was, he
put himself to school--with virulent zeal he read and _crammed_ till,
Heaven knows how! he accomplished getting a diploma--stood all prescribed
examinations, and has grinned defiance ever since at Sir Amyas.
"Frumpton, delighted with the story of the _made shell_, and conceiving
me to be the enemy of his enemy, resolved, as he declared, to take me
by the hand; and, such is the magical deception of self-love, that his
apparent friendliness towards me made him appear quite agreeable, and
notwithstanding all that I had heard and known of him, I fancied his
brutality was frankness, and his presumption strength of character.--I
gave him credit especially for a happy instinct for true merit, and an
honourable antipathy to flattery and meanness.--The manner in which he
pronounced the words, _fawning puppy!_ applied to Sir Amyas Courtney,
pleased me peculiarly--and I had just exalted Frumpton into a great man,
and an original genius, when he fell flat to the level, and below the level
of common mortals.
"It happened, as I was walking home with him, we were stopped in the street
by a crowd, which had gathered round a poor man, who had fallen from a
scaffold, and had broken his leg. Dr. Frumpton immediately said, 'Send for
Bland, the surgeon, who lives at the corner of the street.' The poor man
was carried into a shop; we followed him. I found that his leg, besides
being broken, was terribly bruised and cut. The surgeon in a few minutes
arrived. Mr. Bland, it seems, is a _protege_ of Frumpton's, who formerly
practised human farriery under him.
"Mr. Bland, after slightly looking at it, said, 'the leg must come off,
the sooner the better.' The man, perceiving that I pitied him, cast such
a beseeching look at me, as made me interpose, impertinently perhaps, but
I could not resist it. I forget what I said; but I know the sense of it
was, that I thought the poor fellow's leg could and ought to be saved.--I
remember Dr. Frumpton glared upon me instantly with eyes of fury, and asked
how I dared to interfere in a surgical case; and to contradict his friend,
Mr. Bland, a surgeon!
"They prepared for the operation--the surgeon whipped on his mittens--the
poor man, who was almost fainting with loss of blood, cast another piteous
look at me, and said, in an Irish accent, 'Long life to you, dear!--and
don't let'm--for what will I be without a leg? And my wife and children!'
"He fell back in a swoon, and I sprung between the surgeon and him;
insisting that, as he had appealed to me, he should be left to me; and
declared that I would have him carried to St. George's Hospital, where I
knew he would be taken care of properly.
"Frumpton stamped, and scarcely articulate with rage, bade me--'stir the
man at your peril!' adding expressions injurious to the hospital, with the
governors of which he had some quarrel. I made a sign to the workmen who
had brought in the wounded man; they lifted him instantly, and carried him
out before me; and one of them, being his countryman, followed, crying
aloud, '_Success_ to your honour! and may you _never_ want a _friend_!'
"Frumpton seized him by both shoulders, and pushing him out of the house,
exclaimed, 'Success, by G----, he shall never have, if I can help it! He
has lost a friend such as he can never get again--By G--, I'll make him
repent this!'
"Unmoved by these denunciations, I pursued my way to the hospital. You know
in what an admirable manner the London hospitals are conducted.--At St.
George's this poor man was received, and attended with the greatest care
and skill. The surgeon who has taken charge of him assures me that his leg
will, a month hence, be as useful as any leg in London.
"Dr. Frumpton and Mr. Bland have, I find, loudly complained of my
interference, as contrary to all medical etiquette--_Etiquette!_--from
Frumpton!--The story has been told with many exaggerations, and always to
my disadvantage.--I cannot, however, repent.--Let me lose what I may, I am
satisfied with the pleasure of seeing the poor man in a way to do well.
Pray let me hear from you, my dear father, and say, if you can, that you
think me right--Thank Caroline for her letter.
"Your affectionate
"ERASMUS PERCY."
LETTER FROM ALFRED.
"My dear father, I have made all possible inquiries about Buckhurst
Falconer. He stayed at Cheltenham till about a month ago with the Hautons,
and I hear attended Miss Hauton every where: but I do not think there is
any reason to believe the report of his paying his addresses to her. The
public attention he showed her was, in my opinion, designed only to pique
Caroline, whom, I'm persuaded, he thinks (between the fits of half-a-dozen
other fancies) the first of women--as he always calls her. Rosamond need
not waste much pity on him. He is an out-of-sight-out-of-mind man. The
pleasure of the present moment is all in all with him.--He has many good
points in his disposition; but Caroline had penetration enough to see that
his character would never suit hers; and I rejoice that she gave him a
decided refusal.
"Since he came to town, he has, by his convivial powers, his good stories,
good songs, and knack of mimicry, made himself so _famous_, that he has
more invitations to dinner than he can accept. He has wit and talents fit
for more than being the buffoon or mocking-bird of a good dinner and a
pleasant party; but he seems so well contented with this _reputation de
salon_, that I am afraid his ambition will not rise to any thing higher.
After leading this idle life, and enjoying this cheap-earned praise, he
will never submit to the seclusion and application necessary for the
attainment of the great prizes of professional excellence. I doubt whether
he will even persevere so far as to be called to the bar; though the other
day when I met him in Bond-street, he assured me, and bid me assure you,
that he is getting on _famously_, and eating his terms with a prodigious
appetite. He seemed heartily glad to see me, and expressed warm gratitude
for your having saved his conscience, and having prevented his father from
forcing him, as he said, to be a disgrace to the church.
"Rosamond asks what sort of girls the Miss Falconers are, and whether the
Falconers have been civil to me since I settled in town?--Yes; pretty well.
The girls are mere _show_ girls--like a myriad of others--sing, play,
dance, dress, flirt, and _all that_. Georgiana is _beautiful sometimes_;
Arabella, _ugly always_. I don't like either of them, and they don't like
me, for I am not an eldest son. The mother was prodigiously pleased with
me at first, because she mistook me for Godfrey, or rather she mistook me
for the heir of our branch of the Percys. I hear that Mrs. Falconer has
infinite address, both as a political and hymeneal _intrigante_: but I have
not time to study her. Altogether, the family, though they live in constant
gaiety, do not give me the idea of being happy among one another. I have
no particular reason for saying this. I judge only from the tact on this
subject which I have acquired from my own happy experience.
"Love to Rosamond--I am afraid she will think I have been too severe upon
Buckhurst Falconer. I know he is a favourite, at least a _protege_ of
hers and of Godfrey. Bid her remember I have acknowledged that he has
talents and generosity; but that which interests Rosamond in his favour
inclines ill-natured me against him--his being one of Caroline's suitors.
I think he has great assurance to continue, in spite of all repulse, to
hope, especially as he does nothing to render himself more worthy of
encouragement. Thank Caroline for her letter; and assure Rosamond, that,
though I have never noticed it, I was grateful for her entertaining
account of M. de Tourville's _vis_: I confess, I am rather late with my
acknowledgments; but the fire at Percy-hall, and many events which rapidly
succeeded, put that whole affair out of my head. Moreover, the story of
Euphrosyne and Count Albert was so squeezed under the seal, that I must beg
notes of explanation in her next. Who the deuce is Euphrosyne? and what
does the letter P--for the rest of the word was torn out--stand for? and is
Count Albert a hero in a novel, or a real live man?
"I saw a live man yesterday, whom I did not at all like to see--Sharpe,
walking with our _good_ cousin, Sir Robert Percy, in close conversation.
This conjunction, I fear, bodes us no good.--Pray, do pray make another
search for _the deed_.
"Your affectionate son,
"ALFRED PERCY."
Soon after this letter had been received, and while the picture of his
life, and the portraits of his worthy companions were yet fresh in her
view, Buckhurst Falconer took the unhappy moment to write to renew his
declaration of passionate attachment to Caroline, and to beg to be
permitted to wait upon her once more.
From the indignant blush which mounted in Caroline's face on reading his
letter, Rosamond saw how unlikely it was that this request should be
granted. It came, indeed, at an unlucky time. Rosamond could not refrain
from a few words of apology, and looks of commiseration for Buckhurst; yet
she entirely approved of Caroline's answer to his letter, and the steady
repetition of her refusal, and even of the strengthened terms in which
it was now expressed. Rosamond was always prudent for her friends, when
it came to any serious point where their interests or happiness were
concerned. Her affection for her friends, and her fear of doing wrong on
such occasions, awakened her judgment, and so controlled her imagination,
that she then proved herself uncommonly judicious and discreet.--Prudence
had not, it is true, been a part of Rosamond's character in childhood;
but, in the course of her education, a considerable portion of it had been
infused by a very careful and skilful hand. Perhaps it had never completely
assimilated with the original composition: sometimes the prudence fell to
the bottom, sometimes was shaken to the top, according to the agitation or
tranquillity of her mind; sometimes it was so faintly visible, that its
existence might be doubted by the hasty observer; but when put to a proper
test, it never failed to reappear in full force.--After any effort of
discretion in conduct, Rosamond, however, often relieved and amused herself
by talking in favour of the imprudent side of the question.
"You have decided prudently, my dear Caroline, I acknowledge," said she.
"But now your letter is fairly gone; now that it is all over, and that
we are safe, I begin to think you are a little too prudent for your
age.--Bless me, Caroline, if you are so prudent at eighteen, what will
you be at thirty? Beware!--and in the mean time you will never be a
heroine--what a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will never
get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or if kind fate
should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming difficulties,
even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the luxury of pity,
because we should always know that you would be so well able to extricate
yourself--so certain to conquer, or--not die--but endure.--Recollect that
Doctor Johnson, when his learned sock was off, confessed that he could
never be thoroughly interested for Clarissa, because he knew that her
prudence would always be equal to every occasion."
Mrs. Percy began to question whether Johnson had ever expressed this
sentiment seriously: she reprobated the cruelty of _friendly_ biographers,
who publish every light expression that escapes from celebrated lips in
private conversation; she was going to have added a word or two about the
injury done to the public, to young people especially, by the spreading
such rash dogmas under the sanction of a great name.
But Rosamond did not give her mother time to enforce this moral; she went
on rapidly with her own thoughts.
"Caroline, my dear," continued she, "you shall not be my heroine; you are
too well proportioned for a heroine--in mind, I mean: a heroine may--_must_
have a finely-proportioned person, but never a well-proportioned mind.
All her virtues must be larger than the life; all her passions those of
a tragedy queen. Produce--only dare to produce--one of your reasonable
wives, mothers, daughters, or sisters on the theatre, and you would see
them hissed off the stage. Good people are acknowledged to be the bane
of the drama and the novel--I never wish to see a reasonable woman on
the stage, or an unreasonable woman off it. I have the greatest sympathy
and admiration for your true heroine in a book; but I grant you, that in
real life, in a private room, the tragedy queen would be too much for me;
and the novel heroine would be the most useless, troublesome, affected,
haranguing, egotistical, insufferable being imaginable! So, my dear
Caroline, I am content, that you are my sister, and my friend, though I
give you up as a heroine."
CHAPTER VII.
LETTER FROM GODFREY PERCY TO MRS. PERCY.
"London, the British Hotel.
"You will be surprised, my dear mother, to find that I am in London,
instead of being, as I had hoped I should have been by this time,
with the army on the continent. Just as we were going to embark, we
were countermanded, and ordered to stay at our quarters. Conceive our
disappointment--to remain in garrison at the most stupid, idle country
town in England.
"You ask how I like my brother officers, and what sort of men they
are?--Major Gascoigne, son to my father's friend, I like extremely; he is a
man of a liberal spirit, much information, and zeal for the army. But what
I particularly admire in him is his candour. He says it is his own fault
that he is not higher in the army--that when he was a very young man, he
was of too unbending a temper--mistook bluntness for sincerity--did not
treat his superior officer with proper deference--lost a good friend by it.
"A fine lesson for me! and the better, because not intended.
"Next to Gascoigne I like Captain Henry: a young man of my own age,
uncommonly handsome, but quite free from conceit. There is something in his
manners so gentlemanlike, and he is of so frank a disposition, that I was
immediately prepossessed in his favour.--I don't like him the worse for
having a tinge of proper pride, especially in the circumstances in which he
is placed. I understand that it is suspected he is not of a good family;
but I am not impertinent enough to inquire into particulars. I have been
told, that when he first came into the regiment, some of the officers
wanted to make out what family he belongs to, and whether he is, or is not,
one of the Irish Henrys. They showed their curiosity in an unwarrantable
manner; and Henry, who has great feeling, and a spirit as quick to resent
injury as to be won by kindness, was going to call one of these gentlemen
to account for his impertinence. He would have had half a dozen duels upon
his hands, if Gascoigne had not settled them. I have not time to tell you
the whole story--but it is enough to say, that Major Gascoigne showed great
address and prudence, as well as steadiness, and you would all love Captain
Henry for his gratitude--he thinks Gascoigne a demi-god.
"The rest of my brother-officers are nothing supernatural--just what you
may call mere red coats; some of them fond of high play, others fond of
drinking: so I have formed no intimacy but with Gascoigne and Henry. My
father will see that I do not _yet_ think that the officers of my own mess
must all be the first men in the universe.
"Love to all at home. I hope we shall sail soon, and I hope Rosamond will
give me credit for the length of this letter.--She cannot say, with all
her malice, that my lines are at _shooting distance_, or that my words
are stretched out like a lawyer's--two good pages, count which way you
will!--and from Godfrey, who is not a letter-writer, as Alfred is!--Two
good pages, did I say? why, here's the best part of a third for you, if you
allow me to be,
"My dear mother,
with much respect,
"Your dutiful, obedient,
and affectionate son,
"GODFREY PERCY."
Whilst Godfrey remained in quarters at this most idle and stupid of country
towns, some circumstances occurred in the regiment which put his prudence
to trial, and, sooner than he expected, called upon him for the exercise of
that spirit of forbearance and temper which he had promised his mother he
would show.--It was the more difficult to him to keep his temper, because
it was an affair which touched the interest of his friend Major Gascoigne.
The lieutenant-colonel of the regiment having been promoted, Major
Gascoigne had reasonable expectations of succeeding him; but, to his
disappointment, a younger man than himself, and a stranger to the regiment,
was put over his head. It was said that this appointment was made in
consequence of the new colonel being a nephew of Lord Skreene, and of his
also having it in his power to command two votes in parliament.
For the truth of this story we cannot pretend to vouch. But the credit
the report gained in the regiment created great discontents, which the
behaviour of the new lieutenant-colonel unfortunately was not calculated
to dissipate.--He certainly did not bear his honours meekly, but, on the
contrary, gave himself airs of authority, and played the martinet to a
useless and ridiculous degree. This, from a mere _parade officer_, who had
never been out of London, to a man like the major--who had seen service and
could show wounds--was, to use the mildest expression, ill-judged. Captain
Henry said it was _intolerable_--and Godfrey thought so.
Every parade day something unpleasant occurred, and, when it was talked
over, some of the officers took part with Gascoigne, and some with the
lieutenant-colonel--very few, however, with the latter--only those who
wanted to _keep in_ favour: officers in quarters as these were, had not
much to do; therefore they had the more time for disputes, which became of
more and more consequence every hour. Major Gascoigne behaved incomparably
well, never failing in respect towards his superior officer when he was
present, and when he was absent doing all that was possible to restrain the
imprudent zeal and indignation of his young friends.
One day, when Godfrey, Captain Henry, and Major Gascoigne were together,
the major actually knelt down to Henry, to prevail upon him to give up a
mad design of challenging his colonel.
That very day, not an hour afterwards, the lieutenant-colonel took occasion
to thwart the major about some circumstance of no consequence. Godfrey's
blood boiled in his veins--his promise to his mother, that he would be
as gentle as a lamb, he recollected at this instant--with difficulty he
restrained himself--still his blood boiled. Major Gascoigne's fear that
Godfrey and Henry should embroil themselves for his sake increased, for he
saw what passed in their hearts, and he had no peace of mind by day, or
rest by night.
Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity, either
of feeling or action. In this state of irritation, it was not possible
that things should long go on without coming to a crisis. Major Gascoigne
proposed, as the measure that would be most likely to restore and preserve
peace, to quit the regiment.--It was a great sacrifice on his part, and, at
first, none of his friends would consent to his making it; but, at last, he
brought them all to acknowledge that it was, upon the whole, the best thing
that could be done. Gascoigne had a friend, a major in another regiment
then in England, who was willing to make an exchange with him, and he
thought that the business could be arranged without much difficulty.
However, from caprice, the love of showing his power, or from some unknown
reason, the lieutenant-colonel made it his pleasure to oppose the exchange,
and said that it could not be done; though, as Captain Henry said, every
body knew, that by his writing a line to Lord Skreene it would have
been accomplished directly. It now recurred to Godfrey, that Cunningham
Falconer, being secretary to Lord Oldborough, might be of use in this
affair. Cunningham had always professed the greatest regard for Godfrey,
and he was determined, at least, to make this trial of his sincerity.
The secretary sent a civil answer in an official style, explaining _that
his office was not the War Office_; concluding by an assurance, that if
Captain Percy could point out how he could do so with propriety, nothing
could give Mr. C. Falconer greater pleasure than to have an opportunity of
obliging him.
Now Captain Percy, having a sort of generous good faith about him, believed
this last assurance; fancied that as he was no great writer he had not
explained himself well by letter, and that he should make Cunningham
understand him better _viva voce_. Keeping his own counsel, and telling
only Major Gascoigne and Captain Henry his object, he asked for a
fortnight's leave of absence, and, with some difficulty obtained it. He
went to London, waited on Secretary Falconer, and found him ten times
more _official_ in his style of conversation than in his letters. Godfrey
recollected that his cousin Cunningham had always been solemnly inclined,
but now he found him grown so mysterious, that he could scarcely obtain
a plain answer to the simplest question. "The whole man, head and heart,
seemed," as Godfrey said, "to be diplomatically closed." It was clear,
from the little that Cunningham did articulate, that he would do nothing
in furthering the exchange desired for Major Gascoigne; but whether this
arose from his having no influence with Lord Oldborough, or from his
fear of wearing it out, our young officer could not determine. He left
the secretary in disgust and despair, and went to wait on Commissioner
Falconer, who gave him a polite invitation to dinner, and overwhelmed him
with professions of friendship; but, as soon as Godfrey explained his
business, the commissioner protested that he could not venture to speak
to Lord Oldborough on such an affair, and he earnestly advised him not to
interest himself so much for Major Gascoigne, who, though doubtless a very
deserving officer, was, in fact, nothing more. He next had recourse to
Buckhurst Falconer, and asked him to persuade Colonel Hauton to speak to
his uncle upon the subject. This Buckhurst immediately promised to do, and
kept his promise. But Colonel Hauton swore that his uncle never, on any
occasion, listened to his representations; therefore it was quite useless
to speak to him. After wandering from office to office, wasting hour after
hour, and day after day, waiting for people who did him no good when he
did see them, Godfrey at last determined to do what he should have done
at first--apply to Lord Oldborough. It is always better to deal with
principals than with secondaries. Lord Oldborough had the reputation
of being inaccessible, haughty, and peremptory in the extreme; the
secretaries, clerks, and under-clerks, "trembled at his name, each under
each, through all their ranks of venality." But to Captain Percy's
surprise, the moment his name was announced, the minister immediately
recognized him, and received him most graciously. His lordship inquired
after his old friend, Mr. Percy--said that Mr. Percy was one of the few
really independent men he had ever known. "Mr. Percy is an excellent
country gentleman, and, for England's sake, I wish there were many, many
more such. Now, sir, how can I serve his son?"
With frankness and brevity which suited the minister and the man, Godfrey
told his business, and Lord Oldborough, with laconic decision, equally
pleasing to the young soldier, replied, "that if it was possible, the
thing should be done for Major Gascoigne"--inquired how long Captain Percy
purposed to stay in town--desired to see him the day before he should leave
London, and named the hour.
All the diplomacy of Cunningham Falconer's face could not disguise
his astonishment when he saw the manner in which his master treated
Godfrey.--The next day the commissioner invited Captain Percy in a pressing
manner to dine with him: "We shall have a very pleasant party," said Mr.
Falconer, "and Mrs. Falconer insists upon the pleasure of your company--you
have never seen my girls since they were children--your own near
relations!--you must be better acquainted: come--I will take no denial."
Godfrey willingly accepted the invitation: he would, _perhaps_, have found
means to have excused himself, had he known whom he was to meet at this
dinner--Miss Hauton--the dangerous fair one, whom he had resolved to avoid.
But he was in the room with her, and beyond all power of receding, before
he knew his peril. The young lady looked more beautiful than ever, and more
melancholy. One of the Miss Falconers took an opportunity of telling him,
in confidence, the cause of her poor friend's dejection. "Her uncle, Lord
Oldborough, wants to marry her to the Marquis of Twickenham, the eldest son
of the Duke of Greenwich, and Miss Hauton can't endure him."
The marquis was also at this dinner--Godfrey did not much wonder at
the lady's dislike; for he was a mean, peevish-looking man, had no
conversation, and appeared to be fond of drinking.
"But Lord Oldborough, who is all for ambition," whispered Miss Falconer,
"and who maintains that there is no such thing as love, except in novels,
says, that his niece may read foolish novels after marriage as well as
before, if she pleases, but that she must marry like a reasonable woman."
Godfrey pitied her; and, whilst he was pitying, Mrs. Falconer arranged
a party for the opera for this night, in which Godfrey found himself
included. Perhaps he was imprudent; but he was a young man, and human
nature is--human nature.
At the opera Godfrey felt his danger increase every moment. Miss Hauton
was particularly engaging, and many circumstances conspired to flatter his
vanity, and to interest him for this fair victim of ambition. Her marquis
was in the box, smelling of claret, and paying his _devoirs_ to his
intended bride, apparently very little to her satisfaction. Commissioner
Falconer, leaning forward, complimented Miss Hauton upon her appearance
this night, and observed that though it was a new opera, all fashionable
eyes were turned from the stage to Lady Oldborough's box.
Miss Hauton smiled civilly upon the commissioner, then turning to Godfrey,
in a low soft voice, repeated,
"And ev'n when fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?"
Godfrey was touched--she saw it, and sighed. A short time afterwards her
marquis left the box. Miss Hauton recovered from her languor, and became
animated in conversation with Godfrey. He felt the whole power of her
charms, the immediate force of the temptation; but he recollected who she
was--he recollected that she had not shown any instances of discretion
which could redeem her from the consequences of a mother's disgrace:
the songs he had heard from Miss Hauton's lips, Captain Bellamy and the
_waltzing_, came full upon his mind.
"No," said he to himself, "as a wife I cannot think of her: were the
Marquis of Twickenham out of the question, my wife she cannot be. Then
honour forbids me to trifle with her affections merely to gratify my vanity
or the feelings of the moment."
Captain Percy well knew that some men can satisfy their consciences by
calling a certain sort of treachery by the soft name of gallantry. He was
aware that he could, like many others in similar circumstances, deceive by
equivocal looks and expressions, and then throw the blame from themselves,
by asking why the woman was such a fool as to believe, protesting that they
never had a thought of her, and swearing that they had not the least idea
she had ever understood them to mean any thing serious; but Godfrey had too
much good feeling and good principle to follow such examples.
Miss Hauton had a copy of the new opera before her, and as she turned over
the leaves, she pointed out to him the passages that she liked. Some were
peculiarly applicable to her own situation, representing a heroine forced
to marry a man she hates, whilst she tenderly loves another. Godfrey could
not, or would not, understand the Italian. It was perfectly well explained
to him; and then, perceiving the applications made of certain lines by Miss
Hauton's voice and eyes, he had no resource but in a new singer, to whom
he became suddenly so attentive that nothing could distract him from the
stage. When the actress ceased to sing, he found means to engage the Miss
Falconers in a discussion of her merits, which, with all the nonsense and
compliments to their taste the occasion required, filled up the dangerous
interval till the opera was over; then--more dangerous still--waiting for
carriages in _the crush room_; but through all these perils, Godfrey passed
so dexterously, as to leave Miss Hauton in doubt whether she had been
understood or not. Thus he hoped that her conscience would in future, if
she should ever after her marriage reflect on the opera of this night, be
as much at ease as his own--though perhaps not with so good reason.
After this night, Godfrey would not expose himself to a repetition of
similar danger; and that he might avoid meeting this fair lady again, he
refused two invitations from Mrs. Falconer to a ball at her house, and to a
musical party.--This deserves to be recorded to his credit, because he was
very fond both of music and dancing.
The day before he was to leave town, at the hour and minute appointed,
Godfrey waited upon Lord Oldborough; but not such his reception now as
it had been on his first visit to this minister: he was kept two hours
waiting alone in an antechamber. At last the cabinet door opened, and Lord
Oldborough appeared with a dark cold countenance, and a haughty stiffness
in his whole frame. His lordship walked deliberately forward, till he
came within a yard of our young officer, and then, without speaking, bent
his head and body slowly, and so remained, as if waiting to be informed
who Captain Percy was, and what his business might be. Astonishment,
and offended pride, flashed successively in Godfrey's countenance. Lord
Oldborough, after fixing his interrogating eyes upon him ineffectually,
receiving no explanation, seemed to come a little to his recollection, and
condescended to say, "Captain Percy, I believe!--your commands with me,
Captain Percy."
"My lord, I have the honour to be here by your lordship's appointment on
Major Gascoigne's business."
"Sir, you had a note from me yesterday, I believe, which contained all that
I have it in my power to say on Major Gascoigne's business."
"Pardon me, my lord--I never had the honour of receiving any note from your
lordship."
"Very extraordinary! I sent it by my own man. You are at Batts' hotel,
sir?"
"No, my lord, at the British hotel."
"Ha!--that is the cause of the mistake. You will find my note, sir, at
Batts'."
Captain Percy bowed--Lord Oldborough bowed--not a word more passed. Lord
Oldborough walked on to his carriage, which rolled him away with glorious
rapidity, whilst Godfrey, his face flushed with resentment, looked after
him for an instant, then putting on his hat, which the porter held to him,
he walked off as fast as possible to Batts' hotel, impatient to see the
note which was to explain the meaning of this extraordinary conduct. The
note he found; but it threw little light upon the business. It was written
in Secretary Cunningham Falconer's hand, and was as follows:
"Lord Oldborough will inform Captain Percy when any thing shall be decided
upon relative to the business on which Captain Percy spoke to Lord
Oldborough: and as communication by letter will answer every purpose, his
lordship hopes that he shall not be the means of detaining Captain Percy
longer from his regiment.
"_Tuesday_, ----."
A civil dismission!--After three attempts Godfrey obtained a sight of
Secretary Cunningham, who, as he thought, was at the bottom of the affair;
but this suspicion was at first dissipated by the unusual openness
with which the secretary looked and spoke. Apparently without fear of
committing himself, he said at once that it was a very extraordinary
proceeding--that he could no way account for it, but by supposing that the
lieutenant-colonel in question had, through his relation, Lord Skreene,
influenced his Grace of Greenwich, and that Lord Oldborough could not, in
the present conjuncture, make any movement in direct opposition to the
duke.
"In all these things, in all transactions with politicians," said Godfrey,
"there are wheels within wheels, which we simple people never suspect; and
by awkwardly interfering with them when they are in motion, we are hurt, we
know not how or why."
Cunningham smiled significantly, but was silent--his air of frankness
vanished, and his solemn reserve returned. "Cunningham will never be hurt
in that way," thought Godfrey; "I never saw a fellow so careful of himself.
I am convinced he would not hazard his little finger to save the whole
British empire, much less to serve a private friend like me, or a poor
honest man like Gascoigne."
Godfrey was too proud to make any further attempts to interest his
diplomatic cousin in the affair. He rose, and bade the secretary adieu,
who, with proper smiles and bows, attended him to the very door.
"Thank Heaven!" thought Godfrey, as he left the secretary's office, "I
am not forced to dance attendance upon any great man, or any great man's
secretary. I am--like my father--independent, and will keep myself so; and
if ever I live upon a smile for years, it shall not be upon the smiles of a
minister, but on those of a fair lady."
Godfrey left town immediately, and returned to his regiment.
CHAPTER VIII.
Little versed in the ways of courts or courtiers, Godfrey had been easily
deceived by the apparent candour of Cunningham Falconer. The fact was, that
Cunningham, not directly from himself, but by means of persons of whom Lord
Oldborough could have no suspicion, had insinuated to his lordship that
Godfrey Percy was the secret cause of the aversion Miss Hauton showed to
the proposed match with the Marquis of Twickenham. This idea once suggested
was easily confirmed by the account of the young lady's behaviour at the
opera, which was reported to Lord Oldborough with proper exaggerations, and
with a total misrepresentation of Godfrey's conduct. The fainting at the
ball was also recollected, and many other little circumstances combined to
bring conviction to Lord Oldborough's mind. He was now persuaded that Major
Gascoigne's business was merely a pretence for Godfrey's coming to town:
apprehension of being disappointed in completing an alliance essential
to his ambitious views, pique at the idea of being deceived, and nearly
duped by a boy and girl, a rooted hatred and utter contempt for love and
love affairs, altogether produced that change in Lord Oldborough's manner
towards Captain Percy which had appeared so extraordinary.--Had Captain
Percy delayed to leave town, he would next day have received orders from
his commanding officer to join his regiment. As to Major Gascoigne's
business, it had made so little impression upon Lord Oldborough, that he
had totally forgotten the poor major's name till Godfrey repeated it to
him. Indeed, Godfrey himself could scarcely have blamed his lordship for
this, had he known how much business, how many cares pressed at this time
upon the mind of the unhappy statesman.--Besides a load of public business,
and all the open and violent attacks of opposition, which he had usually to
sustain, he was now under great and increasing anxiety from the discovery
of that plot against him, among his immediate associates in office, which
the Tourville papers, deciphered by Commissioner Falconer and Cunningham,
had but partially revealed. Lord Oldborough was in the condition of a
person apprised that he is standing upon ground that is undermined, but
who does not know exactly by what hand or at what moment the train that
may destroy him is to be set on fire. One word frequently recurred in
the Tourville papers, which puzzled Commissioner Falconer extremely, and
of which he was never able to make out the meaning; the word was Gassoc.
It was used thus: "We are sorry to find that the Gassoc has not agreed
to our proposal."--"No answer has been given to question No. 2 by the
Gassoc."--"With regard to the subsidy, of which 35,000_l._ have not been
sent or received, the Gassoc has never explained; in consequence, great
discontents here."--"If the Gassoc be finally determined against the
_Eagle_, means must be taken to accomplish the purposes alluded to in
paragraph 4, in green (of the 7th ult.), also those in No. B. in lemon
juice (of September last)."--"The Gassoc will take notes of the mining
tools forgotten--also bullets too large, and no flints (as per No. 9, in
sympathetic ink)--also the sea charts, sent instead of maps--consequent
delay in march of troops--loss of fortress--to be attributed to _the
Eagle_."
_The Eagle_, which at first had been taken for granted to be the Austrian
eagle, was discovered to be Lord Oldborough. An eagle was his lordship's
crest, and the sea-charts, and the mining-tools, brought the sense home to
him conclusively. It was plain that the Gassoc stood for some person who
was inimical to Lord Oldborough, but who it could be was the question.
Commissioner Falconer suggested, that for _Gassoc_, you should read
_Gosshawk_; then, said he, "by finding what nobleman or gentleman has a
gosshawk in his arms, you have the family name, and the individual is
afterwards easily ascertained." To the Heralds'-office the commissioner
went a gosshawking, but after spending a whole day with the assistance of
Garter king at arms, he could make nothing of his gosshawks, and he gave
them up.
He next presumed that there might be a mistake of one letter in the foreign
spelling of the word, and that _Gassoc_ should be _Cassock_, and might
then mean a certain bishop, who was known to be a particular enemy of Lord
Oldborough. But still there were things ascribed to the Gassoc, which
could not come within the jurisdiction or cognizance of the Cassock--and
the commissioner was reluctantly obliged to give up the church. He next
suggested, that not only one letter, but every letter in the word might be
mistaken in the foreign spelling, and that _Gassoc_ might be the French or
German written imitation of the oral sound of some English proper name. The
commissioner supported this opinion very plausibly by citing many instances
of the barbarous spelling of English names by foreigners: Bassompierre
writes Jorchaux for York-house, Innimthort for Kensington; even in the
polite memoirs of le Comte de Grammont, we have Soutkask for Southesk,
and Warmestre for some English name not yet deciphered. Upon this hint
the commissioner and Cunningham made anagrams of half the noble names in
England, but in vain.
Afterwards, recollecting that it was the fashion at one time even to pun in
the coats of arms of the nobility, and in the choice of their mottos, he
went to work again at the Heralds'-office, and tried a course of puns, but
to no purpose: the commissioner was mortified to find all his ingenuity at
fault.
Cunningham took care not to suggest anything, therefore he could never be
convicted of mistake. Nor was he in the least vexed by his father's or
his own fruitless labour, because he thought it might tend to his future
advancement.
Lord Oldborough had thrown out a hint that it would soon be necessary to
recall the present and send a new envoy or resident to the German court in
question; Cunningham nourished a hope of being chosen for this purpose,
as the Tourville papers were already known to him, and he could, under
private instructions, negotiate with M. de Tourville, and draw from him
an explanation. He did not, however, trust even his father with the hope
he had conceived, but relied on his own address, and continually strove,
by oblique hints, to magnify the danger of leaving any part of the plot
unravelled.
What effect these suggestions produced, or whether they produced
any, Cunningham was unable to judge from the minister's impenetrable
countenance. Lord Oldborough lost not a moment in repairing the mistake
about sea-charts, and the omission of mining tools, which he had discovered
from a paragraph in the Tourville papers; he stayed not to inquire whether
the error had been wilful or unintentional--_that_ he left for future
investigation. His next object was the subsidy. This day the Duke of
Greenwich gave a cabinet dinner. After dinner, when the servants had
retired, and when none of the company were prepared for such a stroke, Lord
Oldborough, in his decided, but very calm manner, began with, "My lords, I
must call your attention to an affair of some importance--the subsidy from
the secret service to our German ally."
All who had within them sins unwhipped of justice trembled.
"I have learned, no matter how," continued Lord Oldborough, "that, by some
strange mistake, 35,000_l_ of that subsidy were not remitted at the time
appointed by us, and that discontents, likely to be prejudicial to his
majesty's service, have arisen in consequence of this delay."
His lordship paused, and appeared to take no notice of the faces of feigned
astonishment and real consciousness by which he was surrounded. Each looked
at the other to inquire by what means this secret was divulged, and to
discover, if possible, how much more was known. Lord Skreene began at the
same moment with the Duke of Greenwich to suggest that some clerk or agent
must certainly be much to blame. Lord Oldborough, in his decided tone,
replied that it was indifferent to him what clerk, agent, or principal
was to blame in the business; but that if the money were not _bona fide_
remitted, and acknowledged by the court to which it was promised, and
before any disagreeable consequences should ensue, he must be under the
necessity of stating the affair to his majesty--of resigning his office,
and bringing the whole before parliament.
The terror of his voice, and lightning of his eye, the dread of his
determined spirit, operated powerfully. The subsidy was remitted the next
day, though at the expense of a service of plate which Lord Skreene had
bespoken for his mistress, and though Secretary Cope was compelled to sell
at some disadvantage a few of the very few remaining acres of his paternal
estate, to make good what had been borrowed from the secret service money.
At the cabinet dinner, the keen eye of Lord Oldborough had discerned
some displeasure lurking in the mind of the Duke of Greenwich--a man of
considerable political consequence from his rank and connexions, and from
the number of voices he could command or influence. Lord Oldborough knew
that, if he could regain the duke, he could keep in awe his other enemies.
His grace was a puzzle-headed, pompous fool, whom Heaven had cursed with
the desire to be a statesman. He had not more than four ideas; but to those
four, which he conceived to be his own, he was exclusively attached.--Yet a
person of address and cunning could put things into his head, which after
a time he would find there, believe to be his own, and which he would then
propose as new with great solemnity, and support with much zeal. Lord
Oldborough, however, was neither able nor willing to manage his grace in
this manner; he was too imperious; his pride of character was at continual
variance with the duke's pride of rank. The duke's was a sort of pride
which Lord Oldborough did not always understand, and which, when he did, he
despised--it was a species of pride that was perpetually taking offence at
trifling failures in etiquette, of which Lord Oldborough, intent upon great
objects, was sometimes guilty. There is a class of politicians who err by
looking for causes in too high a sphere, and by attributing the changes
which perplex states and monarchs to great passions and large motives.
Lord Oldborough was one of this class, and with all his talents would have
failed in every attempt to comprehend and conciliate the Duke of Greenwich,
had he not been assisted by the inferior genius of Commissioner Falconer.
While his lordship was thus searching far and wide among the reasonable
and probable causes for the duke's coldness, examining and re-examining
the bearings of every political measure, as it could affect his grace's
interest immediately or remotely, Commissioner Falconer sought for the
cause, and found it in the lowest scale of trifles--he made the discovery
by means which Lord Oldborough could not have devised, and would not
have used. The duke had a favourite under-clerk, who, for a valuable
consideration, disclosed the secret to the commissioner. Lord Oldborough
had sent his grace a note, written in his own hand, sealed with a wafer.
The clerk, who was present when the note was received, said that the duke's
face flushed violently, and that he flung the note immediately to his
secretary, exclaiming, "Open that, if you please, sir--_I wonder how any
man can have the impertinence to send me his spittle!_"
This nice offence, which bore so coarse a comment, had alienated the mind
of the Duke of Greenwich. When Commissioner Falconer had thus sagaciously
discovered the cause of the noble duke's displeasure, he with great
address applied a remedy. Without ever hinting that he knew of the
offensive circumstance, having some business to transact with the duke,
he contrived, as if undesignedly, to turn the conversation upon his friend
Lord Oldborough's strange and unaccountable negligence of common forms
and etiquette; as a proof of which he told the duke in confidence, and
in a very low voice, an anecdote, which he heard from his son Cunningham,
from Lord Oldborough's own secretary, or the commissioner protested that
he would not, he could not have believed it--his lordship had been once
actually upon the point of sealing a note with a wafer to one of the royal
dukes!--had the wafer absolutely on his lips, when Cunningham felt it his
duty to take the liberty of remonstrating. Upon which, Lord Oldborough, as
Commissioner Falconer said, looked with the utmost surprise, and replied,
"I have sealed with a wafer to the Duke of Greenwich, and _he_ was not
offended."
This anecdote, the truth of which it fortunately never occurred to the
duke to doubt, had an immediate and powerful effect upon his mind, as the
commissioner saw by the complacent smile that played on his countenance,
and still further by the condescending pity with which his grace observed,
that "Great geniuses never understand common things--but do every thing
awkwardly, whether they cut open a book, or seal a note."
Mr. Falconer having thus brought the duke into fine temper, left him in the
best dispositions possible towards Lord Oldborough, went to his lordship
to report progress, and to boast of his success; but he told only as much
of what had passed as he thought would suit the statesman's character,
and ensure his approbation.--The Duke of Greenwich was as much pleased by
this reconciliation as Lord Oldborough; for, though in a fit of offended
pride he had been so rash as to join his lordship's enemies, yet he had
always dreaded coming to open war with such an adversary. His grace
felt infinitely more safe and comfortable when he was leaning upon Lord
Oldborough than when he stood opposed to him, even in secret. There were
points in politics in which he and Lord Oldborough coincided, though they
had arrived at these by far different roads. They agreed in an overweening
love of aristocracy, and in an inclination towards arbitrary power; they
agreed in a hatred of innovation; they agreed in the principle that free
discussion should be discouraged, and that the country should be governed
with a high and strong hand. On these principles Lord Oldborough always
acted, but seldom spoke, and the Duke of Greenwich continually talked, but
seldom acted: in fact, his grace, "though he roared so loud, and looked
so wondrous grim," was, in action, afraid of every shadow. Right glad was
he to have his political vaunts made good by a coadjutor of commanding
talents, resource, and civil courage. Yet, as Lord Oldborough observed,
with a man of such wayward pride and weak understanding, there was no
security from day to day for the permanence of his attachment. It was then
that Commissioner Falconer, ever ready at expedients, suggested that an
alliance between his grace's family and his lordship's would be the best
possible security; and that the alliance might be easily effected, since
it was evident of late that the Marquis of Twickenham was much disposed to
admire the charms of his lordship's niece, Miss Hauton. Lord Oldborough
had not remarked that the marquis admired any thing but good wine; his
lordship's attention was not turned to these things, nor had he, in
general, much faith in friendships founded on family alliances; but
he observed that the duke was peculiarly tenacious of connexions and
relationships, and, therefore, this might be the best method of holding
him.
From the moment Lord Oldborough decided in favour of this scheme, Mr.
and Mrs. Falconer had done all in their power, with the utmost zeal and
address, to forward it, by contriving continual dancing-parties and musical
meetings, at their house, for the young people. Lady Oldborough, who was
sickly, whose manners were not popular, and who could not bear _to be put
out of her way_, was quite unsuited to this sort of business, and rejoiced
that the Falconers took it off her hands. Things were just in this state,
and Lord Oldborough had fixed his mind upon the match, when Godfrey Percy's
arrival in town had threatened disappointment. In consequence of this fear,
Lord Oldborough not only despatched Godfrey directly to his regiment, but,
to put an end to the danger at once, to banish the idea of seeing him
again completely out of the young lady's head, the cruel uncle and decided
politician had Godfrey's regiment ordered immediately to the West Indies.
LETTER FROM GODFREY PERCY TO HIS FATHER.
"My dear father,
"We have a new lieutenant-colonel. Lord Skreene has removed his precious
nephew to another regiment, and to punish us for not liking the pretty boy,
has ordered us all off to the West Indies: so ends our croaking. Our new
King Log we cannot complain of as too young, or too much on the _qui vive_:
he looks as if he were far gone in a lethargy, can hardly keep himself
awake while he is giving the word of command, and, instead of being a
martinet, I am sure he would not care if the whole corps wore their
regimentals the wrong side outwards.--Gascoigne will have all the
regimental business on his shoulders, and no man can do it better.--He is
now at my elbow, supplying four hundred men and forty officers with heads.
The noise of questions and commands, and the notes of preparation, are so
loud and dissonant, that I hardly know what I write. Gascoigne, though not
benefited, was obliged to me for my wrong-head-journey to London. Henry
was very angry with Lord Oldborough for jilting me--Gascoigne with much
ado kept him in proper manners towards the lieutenant-colonel, and I, in
admiration of Gascoigne, kept my temper miraculously. But there was an
impertinent puppy of an ensign, a partisan of the lieutenant-colonel,
who wanted, I'm convinced, to have the credit of fighting a duel for the
colonel, and he one day said, in Captain Henry's hearing, that 'it was no
wonder some men should rail against ministerial _influence_, who had no
friends to look to, and were men of no family.'--'Do you mean that for me,
sir?' said Henry. 'Judge for yourself, sir.' Poor Henry judged ill, and
challenged the ensign.--They fought, and the ensign was slightly wounded.
This duel has wakened curiosity again about Captain Henry's birth, and he
is in danger of being exposed continually to things he could not like,
and could not well resent. He consulted Gascoigne and me, and has told us
all he knows of his history.--Read what follows to yourself, for I have
permission to speak of his affairs only to you. Captain Henry assured us
that he really does not know to what family he belongs, nor who his father
and mother were; but he has reason to believe that they were Irish. He was
bred up in a merchant's house in Dublin. The merchant broke, and went off
with his family to America. Henry was at that time fifteen or sixteen. The
merchant then said, that Henry was not his nephew, nor any relation to him,
but hinted that he was the son of a Mr. Henry, who had taken an unfortunate
part in _the troubles_ of Ireland, and who had _suffered_--that his mother
had been a servant-maid, and that she was dead. The merchant added, that he
had taken care of Henry from regard to his father, but that, obliged by his
own failure in business to quit the country, he must thenceforward resign
the charge.--He farther observed, that the army was now the young man's
only resource, and, on taking leave, he put into Henry's hands a 50_l._
note, and an ensign's commission.--With his commission he joined his
regiment, which was at Cork. A few days after his arrival, a Cork banker
called upon him, and inquired whether he was Ensign Charles Henry; and upon
his answering in the affirmative, informed him that he had orders to pay
him 400_l._ a year in quarterly payments. The order came from a house in
Dublin, and this was all the banker knew. On Henry's application in Dublin,
he was told that they had direction to stop payment of the annuity if any
questions were asked.--Of course, Henry asked no more.--The annuity has
been regularly paid to him ever since--When he was scarcely seventeen, he
was pillaged of a couple of hundred pounds one night by a set of sharpers
at the gaming-table: this loss roused his prudence, and he has never
played since. He has for many years lived within his pay; for he prudently
considered, that the extraordinary supply might suddenly fail, and then he
might he left in debt and distress, and at the same time with habits of
extravagance.--Instead of which, he has laid up money every year, and has a
considerable sum. He wishes to quit the army, and to go into a mercantile
house, for which his early education has fitted him. He has a particular
talent for languages: speaks French and Italian accurately--Spanish and
Dutch well enough for all the purposes of commerce. So any mercantile
house, who wants a partner, agent, or _clerk for foreign affairs_ (perhaps
I am not correct in the technical terms), could not do better than to take
Charles Henry. For his integrity and honour I would answer with my life.
Now, my dear father, could you have the goodness to assist us so far as to
write and inquire about the partner in London of those Dutch merchants,
whom you had an opportunity of obliging at the time of the shipwreck?--I
cannot recollect their strange names, but if I am not mistaken, they left
you their address, and that of their London correspondent.--If this partner
should be a substantial man, perhaps our best plan would be to try to
get Henry into his house. You have certainly some claim there, and the
Dutchmen desired we would apply to them if ever they could do any thing
to serve us--we can but try. I am afraid you will say, '_This is like one
of Godfrey's wild schemes._' I am still more afraid that you should think
Henry's romantic story is _against him_--but such things are--that is all I
can say. Here is no motive for deception; and if you were to see the young
man, his countenance and manner would immediately persuade you of his
perfect truth and ingenuousness. I am aware that his romantic history would
not do for the Dutch merchants, or the London partner; they would probably
set him down directly for an adventurer, and refuse to have any thing to
do with him: so I see no necessity for beginning by stating it. I know you
hate, and I am sure so do I, all novel-like concealments and mysteries; but
because a man makes a bargain with another, he is not obliged to tell him
his whole history--because he takes him for his partner or his master, he
is not called upon to make him his confidant. All that the merchants can
want or have a right to know is forthcoming and clear--character and money.
"My affectionate love and old-fashioned duty to my dear mother--pray assure
her and my sisters that they shall hear from me, though I am going to have
'one foot on sea and one on land.'
"Tell dear Caroline the portfolio she made for me shall go with me to
the world's end; and Rosamond's _Tippoo Saib_ shall see the _West_
Indies--Gascoigne has been in the West Indies before now, and he says
and proves, that temperance and spice are the best preservatives in that
climate; so you need not fear for me, for you know I love pepper better
than port. I am called away, and can only add that the yellow fever there
has subsided, as an officer who arrived last week tells me. Our regiment is
just going to embark in high spirits.--God bless you all.
"Your affectionate son,
"G. Percy.
"P. S. Don't let my mother or Rosamond trust to newspaper reports--trust to
nothing but my letters;--Caroline, I know, is fit to be the sister, and I
hope will some time be the mother, of heroes."
CHAPTER IX.
Lord Oldborough expected that the prompt measure of despatching the
dangerous Godfrey to the West Indies would restore things to their former
train. For a week after Godfrey Percy's departure, Miss Hauton seemed much
affected by it, and was from morning till night languid or in the sullens:
of all which Lord Oldborough took not the slightest notice. In the course
of a fortnight Miss Falconer, who became inseparable from Miss Hauton,
flattering, pitying, and humouring her, contrived to recover the young
lady from this fit of despondency, and produced her again at musical
parties. She was passionately fond of music; the Miss Falconers played on
the piano-forte and sung, their brother John accompanied exquisitely on
the flute, and the Marquis of Twickenham, who was dull as "the fat weed
that grows on Lethe's brink," stood by--admiring. His proposal was made
in form--and in form the young lady evaded it--in form her uncle, Lord
Oldborough, told her that the thing must be, and proceeded directly to
decide upon the settlements with the Duke of Greenwich, and set the lawyers
to work. In the mean time, the bride elect wept, and deplored, and refused
to eat, drink, or speak, except to the Miss Falconers, with whom she was
closeted for hours, and to whom the task of managing her was consigned
by common consent. The marquis, who, though he was, as he said, much in
love, was not very delicate as to the possession of the lady's affections,
wondered that any one going to be married to the Marquis of Twickenham
could be so shy and so melancholy; but her confidantes assured him that
it was all uncommon refinement and sensibility, which was their sweetest
Maria's only fault. Excellent claret, and a moderately good opinion of
himself, persuaded the marquis of the truth of all which the Miss Falconers
pleased to say, and her uncle graciously granted the delays, which the
young lady prayed for week after week--till, at last, striking his hand
upon the table, Lord Oldborough said, "There must be an end of this--the
papers must be signed this day se'nnight--Maria Hauton shall be married
this day fortnight."--Maria Hauton was sent for to her uncle's study; heard
her doom in sullen silence; but she made no show of resistance, and Lord
Oldborough was satisfied. An hour afterwards Commissioner Falconer begged
admission, and presented himself with a face of consternation--Lord
Oldborough, not easily surprised or alarmed, waited, however, with some
anxiety, till he should speak.
"My lord, I beg pardon for this intrusion: I know, at this time, you are
much occupied; but it is absolutely necessary I should communicate--I feel
it to be my duty immediately--and I cannot hesitate--though I really do not
know how to bring myself--"
There was something in the apparent embarrassment and distress of Mr.
Falconer, which Lord Oldborough's penetrating eye instantly discerned to
be affected.--His lordship turned a chair towards him, but said not a
word.--The commissioner sat down like a man acting despair; but looking for
a moment in Lord Oldborough's face, he saw what his lordship was thinking
of, and immediately his affected embarrassment became real and great.
"Well, commissioner, what is the difficulty?"
"My lord, I have within this quarter of an hour heard what will ruin me for
ever in your lordship's opinion, unless your lordship does me the justice
to believe that I never heard or suspected it before--I have only to trust
to your magnanimity--and I do."
Lord Oldborough bowed slightly--"The fact, if you please, my dear sir."
"The fact, my lord, is, that Captain Bellamy, whose eyes, I suppose, have
been quickened by jealousy, has discovered what has escaped us all--what
never would have occurred to me--what never could have entered into my mind
to suspect--what I still hope--"
"The fact, sir, let me beg."
The urgency of Lord Oldborough's look and voice admitted of no delay.
"Miss Hauton is in love with my son John."
"Indeed!"
This "Indeed!" was pronounced in a tone which left the commissioner
in doubt what it expressed, whether pure surprise, indignation, or
contempt--most of the last, perhaps: he longed to hear it repeated, but
he had not that satisfaction. Lord Oldborough turned abruptly--walked
up and down the room with such a firm tread as sounded ominously to the
commissioner's ear.
"So then, sir, Miss Hauton, I think you tell me, is in love with Cornet
Falconer?"
"Captain Bellamy says so, my lord."
"Sir, I care not what Captain Bellamy says--nor do I well know who or what
he is--much less what he can have to do with my family affairs--I ask, sir,
what reason you have to believe that my niece is in love, as it is called,
with your son? You certainly would not make such a report to me without
good reason for believing it--what are your reasons?"
"Excuse me, my lord, my reasons are founded on information which I do not
think myself at liberty to repeat: but upon hearing the report from--"
The commissioner, in the hurry and confusion of his mind, and in his new
situation, totally lost his _tact_, and at this moment was upon the point
of again saying _from Captain Bellamy_; but the flash of Lord Oldborough's
eye warned him of his danger--he dropped the name.
"I immediately went to sound my son John, and, as far as I can judge, he
has not yet any suspicion of the truth."
Lord Oldborough's countenance cleared. The commissioner recovered his
presence of mind, for he thought he saw his way before him. "I thought it
my duty to let your lordship know the first hint I had of such a nature;
for how soon it might be surmised, or what steps might be taken, I must
leave it to your lordship to judge--I can only assure you, that as yet, to
the best of my belief, John has not any suspicion: fortunately, he is very
slow--and not very bright."
Lord Oldborough stood with compressed lips, seeming to listen, but deep in
thought.
"Mr. Commissioner Falconer, let us understand one another well now--as
we have done hitherto. If your son, Cornet Falconer, were to marry Maria
Hauton, she would no longer be my niece, he would have a portionless,
friendless, and, in my opinion, a very silly wife. He is, I think you say,
not very bright himself--he would probably remain a cornet the rest of his
days--all idea of assistance being of course out of the question in that
case, from me or mine, to him or his."
The awful pause which Lord Oldborough made, and his determined look, gave
the commissioner opportunity to reflect much in a few seconds.
"On the contrary," resumed his lordship, "if your son John, my dear sir,
show the same desire to comply with my wishes, and to serve my interests,
which I have found in the rest of his family, he shall find me willing and
able to advance him as well as his brother Cunningham."
"Your lordship's wishes will, I can answer for it, be laws to him, as well
as to the rest of his family."
"In one word then--let Cornet Falconer be married elsewhere, within
a fortnight, and I prophesy that within a year he shall be a
field-officer--within two years, a lieutenant-colonel."
Commissioner Falconer bowed twice--low to the field-officer--lower to the
lieutenant-colonel.
"I have long had a match in my eye for John," said the father; "but a
fortnight, my gracious lord--that is so very short a time! Your lordship
will consider there are delicacies in these cases--no young lady--it is
impossible--your lordship must be sensible that it is really impossible,
with a young lady of any family."
"I am aware that it is difficult, but not impossible," replied Lord
Oldborough, rising deliberately.
The commissioner took his leave, stammering somewhat of "nothing being
impossible for a friend," courtier, he should have said.
The commissioner set to work in earnest about the match he had in view
for John. Not one, but several fair visions flitted before the eye of his
politic mind. The Miss Chattertons--any one of whom would, he knew, come
readily within the terms prescribed, but then they had neither fortune nor
connexions. A relation of Lady Jane Granville's--excellent connexion, and
reasonable fortune; but there all the decorum of regular approaches and
time would be necessary: luckily, a certain Miss Petcalf was just arrived
from India with a large fortune. The general, her father, was anxious
to introduce his daughter to the fashionable world, and to marry her
for connexion--fortune no object to him--delicacies he would waive. The
commissioner saw--counted--and decided--(there was a brother Petcalf, too,
who might do for Georgiana--but for that no hurry)--John was asked by his
father if he would like to be a major in a year, and a lieutenant-colonel
in two years?
To be sure he would--was he a fool?
Then he must be married in a fortnight.
John did not see how this conclusion followed immediately from the
premises, for John was not _quite_ a fool; so he answered "Indeed!" An
_indeed_ so unlike Lord Oldborough's, that the commissioner, struck with
the contrast, could scarcely maintain the gravity the occasion required,
and he could only pronounce the words, "General Petcalf has a daughter."
"Ay, Miss Petcalf--ay, he is a general; true--now I see it all: well, I'm
their man--I have no objection--But Miss Petcalf!--is not that the Indian
girl? Is not there a drop of black blood?--No, no, father," cried John,
drawing himself up, "I'll be d--d...."
"Hear me first, my own John," cried his father, much and justly alarmed,
for this motion was the precursor of an obstinate fit, which, if John took,
perish father, mother, the whole human race, he could not be moved from the
settled purpose of his soul. "Hear me, my beloved John--for you are a man
of sense," said his unblushing father: "do you think I'd have a drop of
black blood for my daughter-in-law, much less let my favourite son--But
there's none--it is climate--all climate--as you may see by only looking at
Mrs. Governor Carneguy, how she figures every where; and Miss Petcalf is
nothing near so dark as Mrs. Carneguy, surely."
"Surely," said John.
"And her father, the general, gives her an Indian fortune to suit an Indian
complexion."
"That's good, at any rate," quoth John.
"Yes, my dear major--yes, my lieutenant-colonel--to be sure that's good. So
to secure the good the gods provide us, go you this minute, dress, and away
to your fair Indian! I'll undertake the business with the general."
"But a fortnight, my dear father," said John, looking into the glass: "how
can that be?"
"Look again, and tell me how it can _not_ be? Pray don't put that
difficulty into Miss Petcalf's head--into her heart I am sure it would
never come."
John yielded his shoulder to the push his father gave him towards the door,
but suddenly turning back, "Zounds! father, a fortnight!" he exclaimed:
"why there won't be time to buy even boots!"
"And what are even boots," replied his father, "to such a man as you? Go,
go, man; your legs are better than all the boots in the world."
Flattery can find her way to soothe the dullest, coldest ear _alive_. John
looked in the glass again--dressed--and went to flatter Miss Petcalf. The
proposal was graciously accepted, for the commissioner stated, as he was
permitted in confidence to the general, that his son was under the special
patronage of Lord Oldborough, who would make him a lieutenant-colonel in
two years. The general, who looked only for connexion and genteel family,
was satisfied. The young lady started at the first mention of an _early
day_; but there was an absolute necessity for pressing that point, since
the young officer was ordered to go abroad in a fortnight, and could not
bear to leave England without completing his union with Miss Petcalf. These
reasons, as no other were to be had, proved sufficient with father and
daughter.
John was presented with a captain's commission. He, before the end of the
fortnight, looked again and again in the glass to take leave of himself,
hung up his flute, and--was married. The bride and bridegroom were
presented to Lord and Lady Oldborough, and went immediately abroad.
Thus the forms of homage and the rights of vassalage are altered; the
competition for favour having succeeded to the dependence for protection,
the feudal lord of ancient times could ill compete in power with the
influence of the modern political patron.
Pending the negotiation of this marriage, and during the whole of this
eventful fortnight, Cunningham Falconer had been in the utmost anxiety that
can be conceived--not for a brother's interests, but for his own: his own
advancement he judged would depend upon the result, and he could not rest
day or night till the marriage was happily completed--though, at the same
time, he secretly cursed all the loves and marriages, which had drawn Lord
Oldborough's attention away from that embassy on which his own heart was
fixed.
Buckhurst, the while, though not admitted behind the scenes, said he
was sufficiently amused by what he saw on the stage, enjoyed the comedy
of the whole, and pretty well made out for himself the double plot. The
confidante, Miss Falconer, played her part to admiration, and prevailed
on Miss Hauton to appear on the appointed day in the character of a
_reasonable woman_; and accordingly she suffered herself to be led, in
fashionable style, to the hymeneal altar by the Marquis of Twickenham. This
denouement satisfied Lord Oldborough.
CHAPTER X.
The day after his niece's marriage was happily effected, Lord Oldborough
said to his secretary, "Now, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, I have leisure to
turn my mind again to the Tourville papers."
"I was in hopes, my lord," said the secretary (_se composant le visage_),
"I was in hopes that this happy alliance, which secures the Duke of
Greenwich, would have put your lordship's mind completely at ease, and that
you would not have felt it necessary to examine farther into that mystery."
"Weak men never foresee adversity during prosperity, nor prosperity during
adversity," replied Lord Oldborough. "His majesty has decided immediately
to recall his present envoy at that German court; a new one will be sent,
and the choice of that envoy his majesty is graciously pleased to leave to
me.--You are a very young man, Mr. Cunningham Falconer, but you have given
me such _written_ irrefragable proofs of your ability and information, that
I have no scruple in recommending you to his majesty as a person to whom
his interests may be intrusted, and the zeal and attachment your family
have shown me in actions, not in words only, have convinced me that I
cannot choose better for my private affairs. Therefore, if the appointment
be agreeable to you, you cannot too soon make what preparations may be
necessary."
Cunningham, delighted, made his acknowledgments and thanks for the honour
and the favour conferred upon him with all the eloquence in his power.
"I endeavour not to do any thing hastily, Mr. Cunningham Falconer," said
his lordship. "I frankly tell you, that I was not at first prepossessed in
your favour, nor did I feel inclined to do more for you than that to which
I had been induced by peculiar circumstances. Under this prepossession, I
perhaps did not for some time do justice to your talents; but I should be
without judgment or without candour, if I did not feel and acknowledge the
merit of the performance which I hold in my hand."
The performance was a pamphlet in support of Lord Oldborough's
administration, published in Cunningham's name, but the greater part of it
was written by his good genius in the garret.
"On _this_," said Lord Oldborough, putting his hand upon it as it lay
on the table, "on _this_ found your just title, sir, to my esteem and
confidence."
Would not the truth have burst from any man of common generosity, honour,
or honesty?--Would not a man who had any feeling, conscience, or shame,
supposing he could have resolved to keep his secret, at this instant, have
been ready to sink into the earth with confusion, under this unmerited
praise?--In availing himself falsely of a title to esteem and confidence,
then fraudulently of another's talents to obtain favour, honour, and
emolument, would not a blush, or silence, some awkwardness, or some
hesitation, have betrayed him to eyes far less penetrating than those of
Lord Oldborough? Yet nothing of this was felt by Cunningham: he made,
with a good grace, all the disqualifying speeches of a modest author,
repeated his thanks and assurances of grateful attachment, and retired
triumphant.--It must be acknowledged that he was fit for a diplomatist. His
credentials were forthwith made out in form, and his instructions, public
and private, furnished. No expense was spared in fitting him out for his
embassy--his preparations made, his suite appointed, his liveries finished,
his carriage at the door, he departed in grand style; and all Commissioner
Falconer's friends, of which, at this time, he could not fail to have many,
poured in with congratulations on the rapid advancement of his sons, and on
all sides exclamations were heard in favour of _friends in power_.
"True--very true, indeed. And see what it is," said Commissioner Falconer,
turning to Buckhurst, "see what it is to have a son so perverse, that he
will not make use of a good friend when he has one, and who will not accept
the promise of an excellent living when he can get it!"
All his friends and acquaintance now joining in one chorus told Buckhurst,
in courtly terms, that he was a fool, and Buckhurst began to think they
must be right.--"For here," said he to himself, "are my two precious
brothers finely provided for, one an envoy, the other a major _in esse_,
and a lieutenant-colonel _in posse_--and I, _in esse_ and _in posse_,
what?--Nothing but a good fellow--one day with the four in hand club, the
next in my chambers, studying the law, by which I shall never make a penny.
And there's Miss Caroline Percy, who has declined the honour of my hand, no
doubt, merely because I have indulged a little in good company, instead of
immuring myself with Coke and Blackstone, Viner and Saunders, Bosanquet and
Puller, or chaining myself to a special-pleader's desk, like cousin Alfred,
that galley-slave of the law!--No, no, I'll not make a galley-slave of
myself. Besides, at my mother's, in all that set, and in the higher circles
with Hauton and the Clays, and those people, whenever I appear in the
character of a poor barrister, I am scouted--should never have _got on_ at
all, but for my being a wit--a wit!--and have not I wit enough to make my
fortune? As my father says, What hinders me?--My conscience only. And
why should my conscience be so cursedly delicate, so unlike other men's
consciences?"
In this humour, Buckhurst was easily persuaded by his father to take
orders. The paralytic incumbent of Chipping-Friars had just at this time
another stroke of the palsy, on which Colonel Hauton congratulated the
young deacon; and, to keep him in patience while waiting for the third
stroke, made him chaplain to his regiment.--The Clays also introduced him
to their uncle, Bishop Clay, who had, as they told him, taken a prodigious
fancy to him; for he observed, that in carving a partridge, Buckhurst never
touched the wing with a knife, but after nicking the joint, tore it off,
so as to leave adhering to the bone that muscle obnoxious to all good
eaters.--The bishop pronounced him to be "a capital carver."
Fortune at this time threw into Buckhurst's hands unasked, unlooked-for,
and in the oddest way imaginable, a gift of no small value in itself,
and an earnest of her future favours. At some high festival, Buckhurst
was invited to dine with the bishop. Now Bishop Clay was a rubicund,
full-blown, short-necked prelate, with the fear of apoplexy continually
before him, except when dinner was on the table; and at this time a dinner
was on the table, rich with every dainty of the season, that earth, air,
and sea, could provide. Grace being first said by the chaplain, the bishop
sat down "_richly to enjoy_;" but it happened in the first onset, that
a morsel too large for his lordship's swallow stuck in his throat. The
bishop grew crimson--purple--black in the face; the chaplain started up,
and untied his neckcloth. The guests crowded round, one offering water,
another advising bread, another calling for a raw egg, another thumping his
lordship on the back. Buckhurst Falconer, with more presence of mind than
was shown by any other person, saved his patron's life. He blew with force
in the bishop's ear, and thus produced such a salutary convulsion in the
throat, as relieved his lordship from the danger of suffocation [Footnote:
Some learned persons assert that this could not have happened. We can only
aver that it did happen. The assertions against the possibility of the fact
remind us of the physician in Zadig, who, as the fable tells us, wrote a
book to prove that Zadig should have gone blind, though he had actually
recovered the use of his eye.--Zadig never read the book.]. The bishop,
recovering his breath and vital functions, sat up, restored to life and
dinner--he ate again, and drank to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's health, with
thanks for this good service to the church, to which he prophesied the
reverend young gentleman would, in good time, prove an honour. And that he
might be, in some measure, the means of accomplishing his own prophecy,
Bishop Clay did, before he slept, which was immediately after dinner,
present Mr. Buckhurst Falconer with a living worth 400_l._ a year; a living
which had not fallen into the bishop's gift above half a day, and which, as
there were six worthy clergymen in waiting for it, would necessarily have
been disposed of the next morning.
"Oh! star of patronage, shine ever thus upon the Falconers!" cried
Buckhurst, when, elevated with wine in honour of the church, he gave an
account to his father at night of the success of the day.--"Oh! thou, whose
influence has, for us, arrested Fortune at the top of her wheel, be ever
thus propitious!--Only make me a dean. Have you not made my brother, the
dunce, a colonel? and my brother, the knave, an envoy?--I only pray to be a
dean--I ask not yet to be a bishop--you see I have some conscience left."
"True," said his father, laughing. "Now go to bed, Buckhurst; you may, for
your fortune is up."
"Ha! my good cousin Percys, where are you now?--Education, merit, male
and female, where are you now?--Planting cabbages, and presiding at a
day-school: one son plodding in a pleader's office--another cast in an
election for an hospital physician--a third encountering a plague in the
West Indies. I give you joy!"
No wonder the commissioner exulted, for he had not only provided
thus rapidly for his sons, but he had besides happy expectations for
himself.--With Lord Oldborough he was now in higher favour and confidence
than he had ever hoped to be. Lord Oldborough, who was a man little prone
to promise, and who always did more than he said, had, since the marriage
of his niece, thrown out a hint that he was aware of the expense it
must have been to Commissioner and Mrs. Falconer to give entertainments
continually, and to keep open house, as they had done this winter, for
his political friends--no instance of zeal in his majesty's service, his
lordship said, he hoped was ever lost upon him, and, if he continued in
power, he trusted he should find occasion to show his gratitude. This
from another minister might mean nothing but to pay with words; from Lord
Oldborough the commissioner justly deemed it as good as a promissory note
for a lucrative place. Accordingly he put it in circulation directly among
his creditors, and he no longer trembled at the expense at which he had
lived and was living. Both Mrs. Falconer and he had ever considered a good
cook, and an agreeable house, as indispensably necessary to those who would
rise in the world; and they laid it down as a maxim, that, if people wished
to grow rich, they must begin by appearing so. Upon this plan every thing
in their establishment, table, servants, equipage, dress, were far more
splendid than their fortune could afford. The immediate gratification
which resulted from this display, combining with their maxims of policy,
encouraged the whole family to continue this desperate game. Whenever the
timidity of the commissioner had started; when, pressed by his creditors,
he had backed, and had wished to stop in this course of extravagance; his
lady, of a more intrepid character, urged him forward, pleading that he
had gone too far to recede--that the poorer they were, the more necessary
to keep up the brilliant appearance of affluence. How else could her
daughters, after all the sums that had been risked upon them, hope to be
advantageously established? How otherwise could they preserve what her
friend Lady Jane Granville so justly styled the patronage of fashion?
When success proved Mrs. Falconer to be right, "Now, Commissioner
Falconer! Now!" How she triumphed, and how she talked! Her sons all in
such favour--her daughters in such fashion! No party without the Miss
Falconers!--Miss Falconers must sing--Miss Falconers must play--Miss
Falconers must dance, or no lady of a house could feel herself happy,
or could think she had done her duty--no piano, no harp could draw such
crowds as the Miss Falconers. It was the ambition among the fashionable
men to dance with the Miss Falconers, to flirt with the Miss Falconers.
"Not merely flirting, ma'am," as Mrs. Falconer said, and took proper pains
should be heard, "but several serious proposals from very respectable
quarters:" however, none _yet_ exactly what she could resolve to accept for
the girls--she looked high for them, she owned--she thought she had a right
to look high. Girls in fashion should not take the first offers--they
should hold up their heads: why should they not aspire to rank, why not to
title, as well as to fortune?
Poor Petcalf! General Petcalf's son had been for some time, as it was well
known, desperately in love with Miss Georgiana Falconer; but what chance
had he now? However, he was to be _managed_: he was useful sometimes, as
a partner, "to whom one may say one is engaged when a person one does not
choose to dance with asks for the honour of one's hand--useful sometimes
to turn over the leaves of the music-book--useful always as an attendant
in public places--useful, in short, to be exhibited as a captive; for one
captive leads to another conquest." And Miss Arabella Falconer, too, could
boast her conquests, though nobody merely by looking at her would have
guessed it: but she was a striking exemplification of the truth of Lady
Jane Granville's maxim, that fashion, like Venus's girdle, can beautify any
girl, let her be ever so ugly.
And now the Falconer family having risen and succeeded beyond their most
sanguine hopes by a combination of lucky circumstances, and by adherence to
their favourite system, we leave them fortified in their principles, and at
the height of prosperity.
CHAPTER XI.
Fortune, as if she had been piqued by Mr. Percy's disdain, and jealous of
his professed reliance upon the superior power of her rival, Prudence,
seemed now determined to humble him and all his family, to try if she could
not force him to make some of the customary sacrifices of principle to
propitiate her favour.
Unsuspicious of the designs that were carrying forward against him in
secret, Mr. Percy had quite forgotten his fears that his wicked relation
Sir Robert Percy, and Solicitor Sharpe, might take advantage of the loss
of that deed which had never been found since the night of the fire at
Percy-hall. It was nearly two years afterwards that Mr. Percy received a
letter from his cousin, Sir Robert, informing him that he had been advised
to dispute the title to the Percy estate, that he had the opinion of the
first lawyers in England in his favour, and that he had given directions to
his solicitor, Mr. Sharpe, to commence a suit to reinstate the lawful heir
in the property of his ancestors.--Sir Robert Percy added something about
his reluctance to go to law, and a vast deal about candour, justice, and
family friendship, which it would be needless and unreasonable to repeat.
Fresh search was now made for the lost deed, but in vain; and in vain
Rosamond reproached herself with having betrayed the secret of that loss to
the revengeful attorney.--The ensuing post brought notice from Mr. Sharpe
that proceedings were commenced.--In Sir Robert's letter, though not in the
attorney's, there was obviously left an opening for an offer to compromise;
this was done either with intent to lure Mr. Percy on to make an offer,
which might afterwards appear against him, or it was done in the hope that,
intimidated by the fear of an expensive and hazardous suit, Mr. Percy might
give up half his estate, to secure the quiet possession of the remainder.
But they knew little of Mr. Percy who argued in this manner: he was neither
to be lured nor intimidated from his right--all compromise, "all terms of
commerce he disdained." He sent no answer, but prepared to make a vigorous
defence. For this purpose he wrote to his son Alfred, desiring him to spare
no pains or expense, to engage the best counsel, and to put them in full
possession of the cause. Alfred regretted that he was not of sufficient
standing at the bar to take the lead in conducting his father's cause: he,
however, prepared all the documents with great care and ability. From time
to time, as the business went on, he wrote to his father in good spirits,
saying that he had excellent hopes they should succeed, notwithstanding
the unfortunate loss of the deed; that the more he considered the case,
the more clearly the justice of their cause and the solidity of their
right appeared. Alas! Alfred showed himself to be but a young lawyer, in
depending so much upon right and justice, while a point of law was against
him. It is unnecessary, and would be equally tedious and unintelligible
to most readers, to dwell upon the details of this suit. Contrary to the
usual complaints of the law's delay, this cause went through the courts
in a short time, because Mr. Percy did not make use of any subterfuge to
protract the business. A decree was given in favour of Sir Robert Percy,
and he became the legal possessor of the great Percy estate in Hampshire,
which had been so long the object of his machinations.
Thus, at one stroke, the Percy family fell from the station and affluence
which they had so long, and, in the opinion of all who knew them, so well
enjoyed. Great was the regret among the higher classes, and great, indeed,
the lamentations of the poor in the neighbourhood, when the decree was
made known. It seemed as if the change in their situation was deplored
as a general misfortune, and as if it were felt by all more than by the
sufferers themselves, who were never seen to give way to weak complaints,
or heard to utter an invective against their adversary. This magnanimity
increased the public sympathy, and pity for them was soon converted into
indignation against Sir Robert Percy. Naturally insolent, and now elated
with success, he wrote post after post to express his impatience to come
and take possession of his estate, and to hasten the departure of his
relations from the family seat. This was as cruel as it was unnecessary,
for from the moment when they learnt the event of the trial, they had been
occupied with the preparations for their departure; for the resignation
of all the conveniences and luxuries they possessed, all the pleasures
associated with the idea of home; for parting with all the animate and
inanimate objects to which they had long and early habits of affection and
attachment. This family had never been proud in prosperity, nor were they
abject in adversity: they submitted with fortitude to their fate; yet they
could not, without regret, leave the place where they had spent so many
happy years.
It had been settled that the improvements which Mr. Percy had made on the
estate, the expense of the buildings and furniture at Percy-hall, of which
a valuation had been made, should be taken in lieu of all arrears of rent
to which Sir Robert might lay claim. In consequence of this award, Mr.
Percy and his family were anxious to leave every thing about the house and
place in perfect order, that they might fulfil punctually their part of
the agreement. The evening before they were to quit Percy-hall, they went
into every room, to take a review of the whole. The house was peculiarly
convenient and well arranged. Mr. Percy had spared nothing to render it
in every respect agreeable, not only to his guests, but to his family, to
make his children happy in their home. His daughters' apartments he had
fitted up for them in the neatest manner, and they had taken pleasure
in ornamenting them with their own work and drawings. They felt very
melancholy the evening they were to take leave of these for ever. They took
down some of their drawings, and all the little trophies preserved from
childhood, memorials of early ingenuity or taste, which could be of no use
or value to any one except to themselves; every thing else they agreed
to leave as usual, to show how kind their father had been to them--a
sentiment well suited to their good and innocent minds. They opened their
writing-tables and their drawing-boxes for the last time; for the last time
they put fresh flowers into their flower-pots, and, with a sigh, left their
little apartments.
All the family then went out to walk in the park and through the
shrubberies. It was a delightful summer's evening; the birds were
singing--"Caring little," as Rosamond said, "for our going away." The sun
was just setting, and they thought they had never seen the place look so
beautiful. Indeed Mr. and Mrs. Percy had, for many years, delighted in
cultivating the natural beauties of this picturesque situation, and their
improvements were now beginning to appear to advantage. But they were never
to enjoy the success of their labours! The old steward followed the family
in this walk. He stopped every now and then to deplore over each fine tree
or shrub as they passed, and could scarcely refrain from bursting into
invectives against _him_ that was coming after them into possession.
"The whole country cries shame upon the villain," John began; but Mr.
Percy, with a smile, stopped him.
"Let us bear our misfortunes, John, with a good grace; let us be thankful
for the happiness which we have enjoyed, and submit ourselves to the will
of Providence. Without any hypocrisy or affected resignation, I say, at
this instant, what with my whole heart I feel, that I submit, without
repining, to the will of God, and firmly believe that all is for the best."
"And so I strive to do," said John. "But only, I say, if it had pleased God
to order it otherwise, it's a pity the wicked should come _just_ after us
to enjoy themselves, when they have robbed us of all."
"Not of all," said Mr. Percy.
"What is it they have not robbed us of?" cried John: "not a thing but they
must have from us."
"No; the best of all things we keep for ourselves--it cannot be taken from
us--a good conscience."
"Worth all the rest--that's true," said John; "and that is what he will
never have who is coming here to-morrow--never--never! They say he don't
sleep at nights. But I'll say no more about him, only--he's not a good
man."
"I am sure, John, you are not a good courtier," said Mrs. Percy, smiling:
"you ought to prepare to pay your court to your new master."
"_My_ new master!" cried John, growing red: "the longest day ever I live,
I'll never have a new master! All that I have in the world came from you,
and I'll never have another master. Sure you will let me follow you? I will
be no trouble: though but little, may be I can do something still. Surely,
madam--surely, sir--young ladies, you'll speak for me--I shall be let
to follow the fortunes of the family, and go along with you into
_banishment_."
"My good John," said Mr. Percy, "since you desire to follow us into
_banishment_, as you call it, you shall; and as long as we have any thing
upon earth, you shall never want. You must stay here to-morrow, after we
are gone, to give up possession." (John could not stand this, but turned
away to hide his face.) "When your business is done," continued Mr. Percy,
"you may set out and follow us as soon as you please."
"I thank you, sir, kindly," said John, with a most grateful bow, that took
in all the family, "that's new life to me."
He said not a word more during the rest of the walk, except just as he
passed near the beach where the ship was wrecked, he exclaimed, "There was
the first beginning of all our misfortune: who would have thought that when
we gave them shelter we should be turned out so soon ourselves? 'twas that
drunken rascal of a Dutch carpenter was the cause of all!"
The next morning the whole family set out in an open carriage, which had
been made for the purpose of carrying as many of the young people as
possible upon excursions of pleasure. It was a large sociable, which they
used to call their _caravan_.
At the great gate of the park old John stopped the carriage, and leaning
over to his master, whispered, "I beg your pardon, sir, but God bless you,
and don't drive through the village: if you please, take the back road; for
I've just learned that _he_ is on the great road, and as near hand as the
turn at the school-house, and they say he wants to be driving in his coach
and four through the village as you are all going out--now I wouldn't for
any thing he had that triumph over us."
"Thank you, good John," said Mr. Percy, "but such triumphs cannot mortify
us."
Poor John reluctantly opened the gate and let the carriage pass--they drove
on--they cast a lingering look behind as they quitted the park--
--"Must I then leave thee, Paradise?"--
As they passed through the village the poor people came out of their houses
to take leave of their excellent landlord; they flocked round the carriage,
and hung upon it till it stopped, and then, with one voice, they poured
forth praises, and blessings, and prayers for better days. Just at this
moment Sir Robert Percy made his appearance. His equipage was splendid; his
coachman drove his four fine horses down the street, the middle of which
was cleared in an instant. The crowd gazed at the show as it passed--Sir
Robert gave a signal to his coachman to drive slower, that he might
longer enjoy the triumph--he put his head out of the coach window, but no
one cried, "God bless him!" His insolence was obviously mortified as he
passed the Percy family, for Mr. Percy bowed with an air of dignity and
cheerfulness which seemed to say, "My fortune is yours--but I am still
myself." Some of the spectators clapped their hands, and some wept.
Mr. Percy seemed to have prepared his mind for every circumstance of
his departure, and to be perfectly composed, or at least master of his
feelings; but a small incident, which had not been foreseen, suddenly moved
him almost to tears: as they crossed the bridge, which was at the farthest
end of the village, they heard the muffled bells of the church toll as if
for a public calamity [Footnote: On Mr. Morris's departure from Piercefield
the same circumstance happened.]. Instantly recollecting the resentment to
which these poor people were exposing themselves, by this mark of their
affection and regret, Mr. Percy went by a short path to the church as
quickly as possible, and had the bells unmuffled.
CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Percy fortunately possessed, independently of the Percy estate, a farm
worth about seven or eight hundred a year, which he had purchased with part
of his wife's fortune; on which he had built a lodge, that he had intended
for the future residence of one of his sons. _The Hills_ was the name of
this lodge, to which all the family now retired. Though it was in the same
county with Percy-hall, Clermont-park, Falconer-court, Hungerford-castle,
and within reach of several other gentlemen's seats, yet from its being
in a hilly part of the country, through which no regular road had been
made, it was little frequented, and gave the idea not only of complete
retirement, but of remoteness. Though a lonely situation, it was, however,
a beautiful one. The house stood on the brow of a hill, and looked into
a deep glen, through the steep descent of which ran a clear and copious
rivulet rolling over a stony bed; the rocks were covered with mountain
flowers, and wild shrubs--But nothing is more tiresome than a picture in
prose: we shall, therefore, beg our readers to recall to their imagination
some of the views they may have seen in Wales, and they will probably
have a better idea of this place than any that we could give by the most
laboured description, amplified with all the epithets in the English
language.
The house at the Hills, though finished, was yet but scantily furnished,
and was so small that it could hardly hold the family, who were now obliged
to take refuge in it. However, they were well disposed to accommodate each
other: they had habits of order, and had so little accustomed themselves to
be waited upon, that this sudden change in their fortune and way of life
did not appear terrible, as it would to many in the same rank. Undoubtedly
they felt the loss of real conveniences, but they were not tormented with
ideal wants, or with the pangs of mortified vanity. Evils they had to bear,
but they were not the most dreadful of all evils--those of the imagination.
Mr. Percy, to whom his whole family looked for counsel and support, now
showed all the energy and decision of his character. What he knew must be
done sooner or later he did decidedly at first. The superfluities to which
his family had been accustomed, were instantly abandoned. The great torment
of decayed gentry is the remembrance of their former station, and a weak
desire still to appear what their fortune no longer allows them to be.
This folly Mr. Percy had not to combat in his family, where all were eager
to resign even more of their own comforts than the occasion required. It
was the object now for the family who were at home to live as frugally as
possible, that they might save as much of their small income as they could,
to assist and forward the sons in their professions.
The eldest son, Godfrey, could not yet have heard of the change in his
father's fortune, and in his own expectations; but from a passage in his
last letter, it was evident that he had some idea of the possibility of
such a reverse, and that he was preparing himself to live with economy.
From Alfred and Erasmus Mr. Percy had at this trying time the satisfaction
of receiving at once the kindest and the most manly letters, containing
strong expressions of gratitude to their father for having given them such
an education as would enable them, notwithstanding the loss of hereditary
fortune, to become independent and respectable. What would have been the
difference of their fate and of their feelings, had they been suffered to
grow up into mere idle lounging gentlemen, or four-in-hand coachmen! In
different words, but with the same spirit, both brothers declared that this
change in the circumstances of their family did not depress their minds,
but, on the contrary, gave them new and powerful motives for exertion. It
seemed to be the first wish of their souls to fulfil the fond hopes and
predictions of their father, and to make some return for the care their
parents had taken of their education.
Their father, pleased by the sanguine hopes and ardent spirit expressed in
their letters, was, however, sensible that a considerable time must elapse
before they could make any thing by law or medicine. They were as yet only
in the outset of their professions, the difficult beginning, when men must
toil often without reward, be subject to crosses and losses, and rebukes
and rebuffs, when their rivals push them back, and when they want the
assistance of friends to help them forward, whilst with scarcely the means
to live they must appear like gentlemen.
Besides the faithful steward, two servants, who were much attached to the
family, accompanied them to their retirement. One was Mrs. Harte, who had
lived with Mrs. Percy above thirty years; and who, from being a housekeeper
with handsome wages and plenary power over a numerous household at
Percy-hall, now served with increased zeal at the Hills, doing a great
part of the work of the house herself, with the assistance only of a stout
country girl newly hired, whose awkwardness and ignorance, or, as Mrs.
Harte expressed it, whose _comical_ ways, she bore with a patience that
cost her more than all the rest. The other servant who followed the altered
fortunes of the Percy family was a young man of the name of Johnson, whom
Mr. Percy had bred up from a boy, and who was so creditable a servant that
he could readily have obtained a place with high wages in any opulent
family, either in the country or in London; but he chose to abide by his
master, who could now only afford to give him very little. Indeed, Mr.
Percy would not have kept any man-servant in his present circumstances, but
out of regard for this young man, who seemed miserable at the thoughts of
leaving him, and who undertook to make himself useful in the farm as well
as in the house.
Very different was Johnson from the present race of _fine_ town servants,
who follow with no unequal steps the follies and vices of their _betters_;
and who, by their insolence and extravagance, become the just torments of
their masters. Very different was Johnson from some country servants, who
with gross selfishness look solely to their own eating and drinking, and
whose only thought is how to swallow as much and do as little as possible.
As soon as he had settled his home, Mr. Percy looked abroad to a tract of
improveable ground, on which he might employ his agricultural skill. He had
reason to rejoice in having really led the life of a country gentleman. He
understood country business, and he was ably assisted in all the details
of farming and management. Never, in the most prosperous days, did the old
steward seem so fully interested in his master's affairs, so punctual and
active in executing his commands, and, above all, so respectful in his
manner to his master, as now in his fallen fortunes.
It would be uninteresting to readers who are not farmers to enter into a
detail of Mr. Percy's probable improvements. It is enough to say, that
his hopes were founded upon experience, and that he was a man capable of
calculating. He had been long in the habit of keeping accurate accounts,
not such as gentlemen display when they are pleased to prove that their
farm, produces more than ever farm produced before. All the tradesmen
with whom he had dealt were, notwithstanding his change of fortune, ready
to trust him; and those who were strangers, finding themselves regularly
paid, soon acquired confidence in his punctuality. So that, far from being
terrified at having so little, he felt surprised at having still so much
money at his command.--The enjoyment of high credit must surely give more
pleasurable feelings than the mere possession of wealth.
Often, during the first year after he had been deprived of the Percy
estate, Mr. Percy declared, that, as to himself, he had actually lost
nothing; for he had never been expensive or luxurious, his personal
enjoyments were nearly the same, and his active pursuits were not very
different from what they had always been. He had, it is true, less time
than he wished to give to literature, or to indulge in the company and
conversation of his wife and daughters; but even the pain of this privation
was compensated by the pleasure he felt in observing the excellences in
their characters which adversity developed.--It has by some persons been
thought, that women who have been suffered to acquire literary tastes,
whose understandings have been cultivated and refined, are apt to disdain
or to become unfit for the useful minutiae of domestic duties. In the
education of her daughters Mrs. Percy had guarded against this danger, and
she now experienced the happy effects of her prudence. At first they had
felt it somewhat irksome, in their change of circumstances, to be forced
to spend a considerable portion of their time in preparations for the mere
business of living, but they perceived that this constraint gave a new
spring to their minds, and a higher relish to their favourite employments.
After the domestic business of the day was done, they enjoyed, with fresh
delight, the pleasures of which it is not in the power of fortune to
deprive us.
Soon after the family were settled at the Hills, they were surprised by
a visit from Commissioner Falconer--_surprised_, because, though they
knew that he had a certain degree of commonplace friendship for them as
relations, yet they were aware that his regard was not independent of
fortune, and they had never supposed that he would come to seek them in
their retirement. After some general expressions of condolence on their
losses, their change of situation, and the inconveniences to which a large
family, bred up, as they had been, in affluence, must suffer in their
present abode, he went out to walk with Mr. Percy, and he then began to
talk over his own family affairs. With polite acknowledgment to Mr. Percy
of the advantage he had derived from his introduction to Lord Oldborough,
and with modestly implied compliments to his own address in turning that
introduction to the best possible account, Mr. Falconer led to the subject
on which he wanted to dilate.
"You see, my dear Mr. Percy," said he, "without vanity I may now venture
to say, my plans for advancing my family have all succeeded; my sons have
risen in the world, or rather have been pushed up, beyond my most sanguine
hopes."
"I give you joy with all my heart," said Mr. Percy.
"But, my good sir, listen to me; your sons might have been in as
advantageous situations, if you had not been too proud to benefit by the
evidently favourable dispositions which Lord Oldborough shewed towards you
and yours."
"Too proud! No, my friend, I assure you, pride never influenced my
conduct--I acted from principle."
"So you are pleased to call it.--But we will not go back to the past--no
man likes to acknowledge he has been wrong. Let us, if you please, look to
the future. You know that you are now in a different situation from what
you were formerly, when you could afford to follow your principles or your
systems. Now, my dear sir, give me leave to tell you that it is your duty,
absolutely your duty, to make use of your interest for your sons. There
is not a man in England, who, if he chose it, might secure for his sons a
better patron than you could."
"I trust," replied Mr. Percy, "that I have secured for my sons what is
better than a good patron--a good education."
"Both are best," said Mr. Falconer. "Proud as you are, cousin Percy, you
must allow this, when you look round and see who rises, and how.--And now
we are by ourselves, let me ask you, frankly and seriously, why do not you
try to establish your sons by patronage?"
"Frankly and seriously, then, because I detest and despise the whole system
of patronage."
"That's very _strong_," said Mr. Falconer. "And I am glad for your sake,
and for the sake of your family, that nobody heard it but myself."
"If the whole world heard me," pursued Mr. Percy, "I should say just the
same. _Strong_--very strong!--I am glad of it; for (excuse me, you are
my relation, and we are on terms of familiarity) the delicate, guarded,
qualifying, trimming, mincing, pouncet-box, gentleman-usher mode of
speaking truth, makes no sort of impression. Truth should always be
strong--speaking or acting."
"Well, well, I beg your pardon; as strong let it be as you please, only let
it be cool, and then we cannot fail to understand one another. I think you
were going to explain to me why you detest and despise what you call the
system of patronage."
"Because I believe it to be ruinous to my country. Whenever the honours of
professions, civil, military, or ecclesiastical, are bestowed by favour,
not earned by merit--whenever the places of trust and dignity in a state
are to be gained by intrigue and solicitation--there is an end of generous
emulation, and consequently of exertion. Talents and integrity, in losing
their reward of glory, lose their vigour, and often their very existence.
If the affairs of this nation were guided, and if her battles were fought
by the corrupt, imbecile creatures of patronage, how would they be
guided?--how fought?--Woe be to the country that trusts to such rulers and
such defenders! Woe has been to every country that has so trusted!--May
such never be the fate of England!--And that it never may, let every honest
independent Englishman set his face, his hand, his heart against this base,
this ruinous system!--I will for one."
"For one!--alas!" said Mr. Falconer, with a sigh meant to be heard, and
a smile not intended to be seen, "what can one do in such a desperate
case?--I am afraid certain things will go on in the world for ever, whether
we benefit by them or not.--And if I grant that patronage is sometimes a
public evil, you must allow that it is often a private benefit."
"I doubt even that," said Mr. Percy; "for those young men who are brought
up to expect patronage in any profession--But," said Mr. Percy, checking
himself, "I forgot whom I am speaking to: I don't wish to say any thing
that can hurt your feelings, especially when you are so kind to come to see
me in adversity, and when you show so much interest in my affairs."
"Oh! pray go on, go on," said the commissioner, smiling, "you will not hurt
me, I assure you: consider I am too firm in the success of my system to be
easily offended on that point--go on!--Those young men who are brought up
to expect patronage in any profession--"
"Are apt to depend upon it too much," continued Mr. Percy, "and
consequently neglect to acquire knowledge. They know that things will be
passed over for them, and they think that they need not be assiduous,
because they are secure of being provided for, independently of their own
exertions; and if they have a turn for extravagance, they may indulge it,
because a place will set all to rights."
"And if they are provided for, and if they do get good places, are they not
well enough off?" said Mr. Falconer: "I'll answer for it, your sons would
think so."
Mr. Percy, with a look of proud humility, replied, "I am inclined to
believe that my sons would not think themselves _well off_, unless they
were distinguished by their own merit."
"To be sure," said Mr. Falconer, correcting himself; "of course I mean that
too: but a young man can never distinguish himself, you know, so well as
when his merit is raised to a conspicuous situation."
"Or disgrace himself so effectually, as when he is raised to a situation
for which he is unprepared and unfit."
The commissioner's brow clouded--some unpleasant reflection or apprehension
seemed to cross his mind. Mr. Percy had no intention of raising any; he
meant no allusion to the commissioner's sons--he hastened to turn what he
had said more decidedly upon his own.
"I have chosen for my sons, or rather they have chosen for themselves,"
continued he, "professions which are independent of influence, and in which
it could be of little use to them. Patrons can be of little advantage to a
lawyer or a physician. No judge, no attorney, can push a lawyer up, beyond
a certain point--he may rise like a rocket, but he will fall like the
stick, if he be not supported by his own inherent powers. Where property or
life is at stake, men will not compliment or even be influenced by great
recommendations--they will consult the best lawyer, and the best physician,
whoever he may be. I have endeavoured to give my Alfred and Erasmus such an
education as shall enable them honestly to work their own way to eminence."
"A friend's helping hand is no bad thing," said Mr. Falconer, "in that hard
and slippery ascent."
"As many friends, as many helping hands, in a fair way, as you please,"
said Mr. Percy: "I by no means would inculcate the anti-social, absurd,
impossible doctrine, that young men, or any men, can or ought to be
independent of the world. Let my sons make friends for themselves, and
enjoy the advantage of mine. I object only to their becoming dependent,
wasting the best years of their lives in a miserable, debasing servitude to
patrons--to patrons, who at last may perhaps capriciously desert them at
their utmost need."
Again, without designing it, Mr. Percy wakened unpleasant recollections in
the mind of the commissioner.
"Ah! there you touch a tender string with me," said Mr. Falconer, sighing.
"I have known something of that in my life. Lord N---- and Mr. G---- did
indeed use me shamefully ill. But I was young then, and did not choose my
friends well. I know more of the world now, and have done better for my
sons--and shall do better, I trust, for myself. In the mean time, my dear
Mr. Percy, let us think of your affairs. Such a man as you should not be
lost here on a farm amongst turnips and carrots. So Lord Oldborough says
and thinks--and, in short, to come to the point at once, I was not sounding
you from idle curiosity respecting patronage, or from any impertinent
desire to interfere with your concerns; but I come, commissioned by Lord
Oldborough, to make an offer, which, I am persuaded, whatever theoretical
objections might occur," said the commissioner, with a significant smile,
"Mr. Percy is too much a man of practical sense to reject. Lord Oldborough
empowers me to say, that it is his wish to see his government supported
and strengthened by men of Mr. Percy's talents and character; that he is
persuaded that Mr. Percy would speak well in parliament; that if Mr. Percy
will join _us_, his lordship will bring him into parliament, and give
him thus an opportunity of at once distinguishing himself, advancing his
family, repairing the injustice of fortune, and serving his country."
Commissioner Falconer made this offer with much pomposity, with the air of
a person sure that he is saying something infinitely flattering, and at the
same time with a lurking smile on his countenance, at the idea of the ease
and certainty with which this offer would induce Mr. Percy to recant all
he had said against patrons and patronage. He was curious to hear how the
philosopher would change his tone; but, to his surprise, Mr. Percy did not
alter it in the least.
He returned his respectful and grateful acknowledgments to Lord Oldborough,
but begged leave totally to decline the honour intended him; he could not,
he said, accept it consistently with his principles--he could not go into
parliament with a view to advance himself or to provide for his family.
The commissioner interrupted to _qualify_, for he was afraid he had spoken
too broadly, and observed that what he had said was quite confidential.
Mr. Percy understood it so, and assured him there was no danger that it
should be repeated. The commissioner was then in a state to listen again
quietly.
Mr. Percy said, that when he was rich, he had preferred domestic happiness
to ambition, therefore he had never stood for the county to which he
belonged; that now he was poor, he felt an additional reason for keeping
out of parliament, that he might not put himself in a situation to be
tempted--a situation where he must spend more than he could afford, and
could only pay his expenses by selling his conscience.
The commissioner was silent with astonishment for some moments after Mr.
Percy ceased speaking. He had always thought his good cousin a singular
man, but he had never thought him a wrongheaded fool till this moment. At
first he was somewhat vexed, for Mr. Percy's sake and for the sake of his
sons, that he refused such an offer; for the commissioner had some of the
feelings of a relation, but more of the habits of a politician, and these
last, in a few moments, reconciled him to what he thought the ruin of his
cousin's prospects in life. Mr. Falconer considered, that if Mr. Percy were
to go into parliament to join their party, and to get near Lord Oldborough,
he might become a dangerous rival. He pressed the matter, therefore, no
longer with urgency, but only just sufficient to enable him to report to
Lord Oldborough that he had executed his commission, but had found Mr.
Percy _impracticable_.
CHAPTER XIII.
However sincere the general pity and esteem for the Percy family, they did
not escape the common lot of mortality; they had their share of blame, as
well as of condolence, from their friends and acquaintance. Some discovered
that all the misfortunes of the family might have been avoided, if they had
listened to good advice; others were quite clear that the lawsuit would
have been decided in Mr. Percy's favour, if he had employed their solicitor
or their barrister; or, in short, if every step of the suit had been
directed differently.
Commissioner Falconer now joined the band of reproaching friends. He did
not blame Mr. Percy, however, for the conduct of the lawsuit, for of that
he confessed himself to be no judge, but he thought he understood the right
way of advancing a family in the world; and on this subject he now took a
higher tone than he had formerly felt himself entitled to assume. Success
gives such rights--especially over the unfortunate. The commissioner said
loudly in all companies, that he had hoped his relation, Mr. Percy, who
certainly was a man of talents, and he was convinced well-intentioned,
would not have shown himself so obstinately attached to his peculiar
opinions--especially to his strange notions of independence, which must
disgust, ultimately, friends whom it was most the interest of his family to
please; that he doubted not that the young men of the Percy family bitterly
regretted that their father would not avail himself of the advantages of
his connexions, of the favourable dispositions, and, to his knowledge,
most _condescending_ offers that had been made to him--offers which, the
commissioner said, he must term really condescending, when he considered
that Mr. Percy had never paid the common court that was expected by a
minister. Other circumstances, too, enhanced the favour: offence had
undoubtedly been given by the ill-timed, injudicious interference of
Captain Godfrey Percy about regimental business--some Major Gascoigne--yet,
notwithstanding this, a certain person, whose steadiness in his friendships
the commissioner declared he could never sufficiently admire, had not, for
the son's errors, changed his favourable opinion or disposition towards the
father.
Mr. Falconer concluded, with a sigh, "There are some men whom the best of
friends cannot serve--and such we can only leave to their fate."
The commissioner now considering Mr. Percy as a person so obstinately odd
that it was unsafe for a rising man to have any thing more to do with
him, it was agreed in the Falconer family, that it was necessary to let
the Percys drop--gently, without making any noise. Mrs. Falconer and her
daughters having always resided in London during the winter, and at some
watering place in summer, knew scarcely any thing of the female part of the
Percy family. Mrs. Falconer had occasionally met Mrs. Percy, but the young
ladies, who had not yet been in town, she had never seen since they were
children. Mrs. Falconer now considered this as a peculiarly fortunate
circumstance, because she should not be blamed for _cutting_ them, and
should escape all the _unpleasantness_ of breaking off an intimacy with
relations.
The commissioner acceded to all his lady's observations, and easily shook
off that attachment, which he had professed for so many years, perhaps
felt, for his _good cousin Percy_--perhaps felt, we say: because we really
believe that he was attached to Mr. Percy while that gentleman was in
prosperity. There are persons who have an exclusive sympathy with the
prosperous.
There was one, however, who, in this respect, felt differently from
the rest of the family. Buckhurst Falconer, with a generous impulse of
affection and gratitude, declared that he would not desert Mr. Percy or any
of the family in adversity; he could never forget how kind they had been
to him when he was in distress. Buckhurst's resentment against Caroline
for her repeated refusals suddenly subsided; his attachment revived with
redoubled force. He protested that he loved her the better for having lost
her fortune, and he reiterated this protestation more loudly, because his
father declared it was absurd and ridiculous. The son persisted, till the
father, though not subject to make violent resolutions, was wrought to
such a pitch as to swear, that if Buckhurst should be fool enough to think
seriously of a girl who was now a beggar, he would absolutely refuse his
consent to the match, and would never give his son a shilling.
Buckhurst immediately wrote to Caroline a passionate declaration of the
constancy and ardour of his attachment, and entreated her permission to
wait upon her immediately.
"Do not sacrifice me," said Buckhurst, "to idle niceties. That I have many
faults, I am conscious; but none, I trust, for which you ought utterly to
condemn me--none but what you can cure. I am ready to be every thing which
you approve. Give me but leave to hope. There is no sacrifice I will not
make to facilitate, to expedite our union. I have been ordained, one living
I possess, and that which Colonel Hauton has promised me will soon come
into my possession. Believe me, I was decided to go into the church by my
attachment--to my passion for you, every scruple, every consideration gave
way. As to the rest, I shall never be deterred from following the dictates
of my heart by the opposition of ambitious parents. Caroline, do not
sacrifice me to idle niceties--I know I have the misfortune not to please
your brother Alfred: to do him justice, he has fairly told me that he does
not think me worthy of _his sister Caroline_. I forgive him, I admire him
for the pride with which he pronounces the words, _my sister Caroline_. But
though she may easily find a more faultless character, she will never find
a warmer heart, or one more truly--more ardently attached."
There was something frank, warm, and generous in this letter, which pleased
Rosamond, and which, she said, justified her good opinion of Buckhurst.
Indeed, the great merit of being ardently attached to her sister Caroline
was sufficient, in Rosamond's eyes, to cover a multitude of sins: and the
contrast between his warmth at this moment, and the coldness of the rest of
his family, struck her forcibly. Rosamond thought that Alfred had been too
severe in his judgment, and observed, that it was in vain to look with a
lantern all over the world for a faultless character--a monster. It was
quite sufficient if a woman could find an honest man--that She was sure
Buckhurst had no faults but what love would cure.
"But love has not cured him of any yet," said Caroline.
"Try marriage," said Rosamond, laughing.
Caroline shook her head. "Consider at what expense that trial must be
made."
At the first reading of Buckhurst's letter Caroline had been pleased with
it; but on a second perusal, she was dissatisfied with the passage about
his parents, nor could she approve of his giving up what he now called his
_scruples_, to obtain a competence for the woman he professed to adore.
She knew that he had been leading a dissipated life in town; that he
must, therefore, be less fit than he formerly was to make a good husband,
and still less likely to make a respectable clergyman. He had some right
feeling, but no steady principle, as Caroline observed. She was grateful
for the constancy of his attachment, and for the generosity he showed in
his whole conduct towards her; nor was she insensible to the urgency with
which Rosamond pleaded in his favour: but she was firm in her own judgment;
and her refusal, though expressed in the terms that could best soften the
pain it must give, was as decided as possible.
Soon after her letter had been sent, she and Rosamond had taken a longer
walk one evening than usual, and, eager in conversation, went on so far
in this wild unfrequented part of the country, that when they saw the sun
setting, they began to fear they should not reach home before it was dark.
They wished to find a shorter way than that by which they went, and they
looked about in hopes of seeing some labourer (some _swinked hedger_)
returning from his work, or a cottage where they could meet with a
guide.--But there was no person or house within sight. At last Caroline,
who had climbed upon a high bank in the lane where they were walking, saw a
smoke rising between some trees at a little distance; and toward this spot
they made their way through another lane, the entrance to which had been
stopped up with furze bushes. They soon came within sight of a poor-looking
cottage, and saw a young woman walking very slowly with a child in her
arms. She was going towards the house, and did not perceive the young
ladies till they were close to her. She turned suddenly when they
spoke--started--looked frightened and confused; the infant began to cry,
and hushing it as well as she could, she answered to their questions with
a bewildered look, "I don't know indeed--I can't tell--I don't know any
thing, ladies--ask at the cottage, yonder." Then she quickened her pace,
and walked so fast to the house, that they could hardly keep up with her.
She pushed open the hatch door, and called "Dorothy! Dorothy, come out."
But no Dorothy answered.--The young woman seemed at a loss what to do; and
as she stood hesitating, her face, which had at first appeared pale and
emaciated, flushed up to her temples. She looked very handsome, but in
ill-health.
"Be pleased, ladies," said she, with diffidence, and trembling from head to
foot, "be pleased to sit down and rest, ladies. One will be in directly who
knows the ways--I am a stranger in these parts."
As soon as she had set the chairs, she was retiring to an inner room, but
her child, who was pleased with Caroline's face as she smiled and nodded at
him, stretched out his little hands towards her.
"Oh! let my sister give him a kiss," said Rosamond. The mother stopped,
yet appeared unwilling. The child patted Caroline's cheek, played with her
hair, and laughed aloud. Caroline offered to take the child in her arms,
but the mother held him fast, and escaped into the inner room, where they
heard her sobbing violently. Caroline and Rosamond looked at one another in
silence, and left the cottage by tacit consent, sorry that they had given
pain, and feeling that they had no right to intrude further. "We can go
home the same way that we came," said Caroline, "and that is better than to
trouble any body."
"Certainly," said Rosamond: "yet I should like to know something more
about this poor woman if I could, without--If we happened to meet Dorothy,
whoever she is."
At this instant they saw an old woman come from a copse near the cottage,
with a bundle of sticks on her back and a tin can in her hand: this was
Dorothy. She saved them all the trouble and delicacy of asking questions,
for there was not a more communicative creature breathing. She in the first
place threw down her faggots, and offered her service to guide the young
ladies home; she guessed they belonged to the family that was newly come
to settle at the Hills, which she described, though she could not tell the
name. She would not be denied the pleasure of showing them the shortest and
safest way, and the only way by which they could get home before it was
night-fall. So they accepted her kind offer, and she trudged on, talking as
she went.
"It is a weary thing, ladies, to live in this lone place, where one does
not see a soul to speak to from one month's end to another--especially to
me that has lived afore now in my younger days in Lon'on. But it's as God
pleases! and I wish none had greater troubles in this world than I--You
were up at the house, ladies? There within at my little place--ay--then
you saw the greatest and the only great trouble I have, or ever had in
this life.--Did not you, ladies, see the young woman with the child in her
arms?--But may be you did not mind Kate, and she's nothing now to look at,
quite faded and gone, though she's only one month past nineteen years of
age. I am sure I ought to know, for I was at her christening, and nursed
her mother. She's of very good parentage, that is, of a farmer's family,
that _has_, as well as his neighbours, that lives a great way off, quite on
the other side of the country. And not a year, at least not a year and a
half ago, I remember Kate Robinson dancing on the green at Squire Burton's
there with the rest of the girls of the village, and without compare the
prettiest and freshest, and most blithsome and innocent of them all. Ay,
she was innocent then, none ever more so, and she had no care, but all
looking kind upon her in this world, and fond parents taking pride in
her--and now look at her what she is! Cast off by all, shamed, and
forgotten, and broken-hearted, and lost as much as if she was in her grave.
And better she was in her grave than as she is."
The old woman now really felt so much that she stopped speaking, and she
was silent for several minutes.
"Ah! dear ladies," said she, looking up at Rosamond and Caroline, "I see
you have kind hearts within you, and I thank you for pitying poor Kate."
"I wish we could do any thing to serve her," said Caroline.
"Ah! miss, that I am afraid you can't--that's what I am afraid none can
now." The good woman paused and looked as if she expected to be questioned.
Caroline was silent, and the old woman looked disappointed.
"We do not like to question you," said Rosamond, "lest we should ask what
you might not like to answer, or what the young woman would be sorry that
you should answer."
"Why, miss, that's very considerate in you, and only that I know it would
be for her benefit, I am sure I would not have said a word--but here I
have so very little to give her, and that little so coarse fare to what
she been used to, both when she was at service, and when she was with her
own people, that I be afraid, weak as she be grown now, she won't do. And
though I have been a good nurse in my day, I think she wants now a bit
better doctor than I be--and then if she could see the minister, to take
the weight off her heart, to make her not fret so, to bid her look up
above for comfort, and to raise her with the hope and trust that God will
have more mercy upon her than her father and mother do have; and to make
her--hardest of all!--forget him that has forsaken her and her little one,
and been so cruel--Oh! ladies, to do all that, needs a person that can
speak to her better and with more authority than I can."
The poor woman stopped again for some minutes, and then recollecting that
she had not told what she had intended to tell, she said, "I suppose,
ladies, you guess now how it be, and I ought to beg pardon for speaking of
such a thing, or such a one, as--as poor Kate is now, to you, young ladies;
but though she is fallen so low, and an outcast, she is not hardened; and
if it had been so that it had pleased Heaven that she had been a wife to
one in her own condition--Oh! what a wife, and what a mother there was
lost in her! The man that wronged her has a deal to answer for. But he has
no thought of that, nor care for her, or his child; but he is a fine man
about London, they say, driving about with colonels, and lords, and dancing
with ladies. Oh! if they saw Kate, one would guess they would not think so
much of him: but yet, may be, they'd think more--there's no saying how the
quality ladies judge on these matters. But this I know, that though he was
very free of his money, and generous to Kate at the first, and even for
some months after he quit the country, till I suppose he forgot her, yet he
has not sent her a guinea for self or child these four months, nor a line
of a letter of any kind, which she pined for more, and we kept thinking
the letters she did write did not get to him by the post, so we sent one
by a grandson of my own, that we knowed would put the letter safe into his
hands, and did, just as the young gentleman was, as my grandson told me,
coming out of a fine house in London, and going, with a long whip in his
hand, to get upon the coach-box of a coach, with four horses too--and he
looks at the letter, and puts it in his pocket, and calls to my boy, 'No
answer now, my good friend--but I'll write by post to her.' Those were the
very words; and then that colonel that was with him laughing and making
game like, went to snatch the letter out of the pocket, saying, 'Show us
that love-letter, Buckhurst'--Lord forgive me! what have I done now?"
said the old woman, stopping short, struck by the sudden change in the
countenance of both her auditors.
"Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is a relation of ours," said Rosamond.
"Dear ladies, how could I think you knew him even?" interrupted the old
woman. "I beg your pardon. Kate says he's not so cruel as he seems, and
that if he were here this minute, he'd be as kind and generous to her as
ever.--It's all forgetfulness just, and giddiness, she says--or, may be, as
to the money, that he has it not to spare."
"To spare!" repeated Caroline, indignantly.
"Lord love her! what a colour she has now--and what a spirit spoke there!
But, ladies, I'd be sorry to hurt the young gentleman; for Kate would
be angry at me for that worse than at any thing. And as to all that has
happened, you know it's nothing extraordinary, but what happens every day,
by all accounts; and young gentlemen, such as he be, thinks nothing of it;
and the great ladies, I know, by what I noticed when I was in sarvice once
in Lon'on myself, the great ladies thinks the better of them for such
things."
"I am not a great lady," said Caroline.
"Nor I, thank God!" said Rosamond.
"Well, for certain, if you are not great, you're good ladies," said the old
woman.
As they were now within sight of their own house, they thanked and
dismissed their loquacious but kind-hearted guide, putting into her
hand some money for poor Kate, Caroline promising to make further
inquiries--Rosamond, without restriction, promising all manner of
assistance, pecuniary, medical, and spiritual.
The result of the inquiries that were made confirmed the truth of all that
old Dorothy had related, and brought to light other circumstances relative
to the seduction and desertion of this poor girl, which so shocked
Rosamond, that in proportion to her former prepossession in Buckhurst's
favour was now her abhorrence; and as if to repair the imprudence with
which she had formerly used her influence over her sister's mind in his
favour, she now went as far on the opposite side, abjuring him with the
strongest expressions of indignation, and wishing that Caroline's last
letter had not gone to Buckhurst, that she might have given her refusal on
this special account, in the most severe and indignant terms the English
language could supply.
Mrs. Percy, however, on the contrary, rejoiced that Caroline's letter had
been sent before they knew any thing of this affair.
"But, ma'am," cried Rosamond, "surely it would have been right for Caroline
to have given this reason for her refusal, and to have declared that this
had proved to her beyond a possibility of doubt that her former objections
to Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's principles were too well founded; and it
would have become Caroline to have written with strong indignation. I am
persuaded," continued Rosamond, "that if women would reprobate young men
for such instances of profligacy and cruelty, instead of suffering such
conduct to go under the fine plausible general names of gallantry and
_wildness_, it would make a greater impression than all the sermons that
could be preached. And Caroline, who has beauty and eloquence, _can_
do this with effect. I remember Godfrey once said, that the peculiar
characteristic of Caroline, that in which she differed most from the common
herd of young ladies, is in her power of feeling and expressing virtuous
indignation. I am sure that Godfrey, partial as he is to Mr. Buckhurst
Falconer, would think that Caroline ought, on such an occasion, to set an
example of that proper spirit, which, superior to the fear of ridicule and
fashion, dares to speak the indignation it feels."
"Very well spoken, and better felt, my dear daughter," said Mrs. Percy.
"And Heaven forbid I should lower the tone of your mind, or your honest
indignation against vice; but, Rosamond, my dear, let us be just.--I must
do even those, whom Godfrey calls the common herd of young ladies, the
justice to believe that there are many among them who have good feeling
enough to be angry, very angry, with a lover upon _such an occasion_--angry
enough to write him a most indignant, and, perhaps, very eloquent
letter.--You may recollect more than one heroine of a novel, who discards
her lover upon such a discovery as was made by you last night. It is a
common novel incident, and, of course, from novels every young lady, even,
who might not have _felt_ without a precedent, knows how she ought to
express herself in such circumstances. But you will observe, my dear, that
both in novels and in real life, young ladies generally like and encourage
men of feeling in contradistinction to men of principle, and too often men
of gallantry in preference to men of correct morals: in short, that such a
character as that of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer is just the kind of person with
whom many women would fall in love. By suffering this to be thought the
taste of our sex, ladies encourage libertinism in general, more than they
can possibly discourage it by the loudest display of indignation against
particular instances.--If, like your sister Caroline, young ladies would
show that they really do not prefer such men, it would do essential
service. And observe, my dear Rosamond, this can be done by every young
woman with perfect delicacy: but I do not see how she can, with propriety
or good effect, do more. It is a subject ladies cannot well discuss; a
subject upon which the manners and customs of the world are so much at
variance with religion and morality, that entering upon the discussion
would lead to greater difficulties than you are aware of. It is, therefore,
best for our sex to show their disapprobation of vice, and to prove their
sense of virtue and religion by their conduct, rather than to proclaim it
to the world in words. Had Caroline in her letter expressed her indignation
in the most severe terms that the English language could supply, she would
only have exposed herself to the ridicule of Mr. Buckhurst Falconer's
fashionable companions, as a prating, preaching prude, without doing the
least good to him, or to any one living."
Rosamond reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps her mother was right.
"But, Caroline, how quietly you sit by, while we are talking of you and
your lover!" cried Rosamond; "I do not know whether to be provoked with
you, or to admire you."
"Admire me, pray," said Caroline, "if you can."
"I do not believe you will ever be in love," said Rosamond. "I confess I
should admire, or, at least, love you better, if you had more feeling,"
added Rosamond, hastily.
"By what do you judge that I want feeling?" said Caroline, colouring
deeply, and with a look and tone that expressed her keen sense of
injustice. "What proof have I ever given you of my want of feeling?"
"No proof, that I can recollect," said Rosamond, laughing; "no proof, but
that you have never been in love."
"Is it a proof I am incapable of feeling, that I have not been in love with
one who has proved himself utterly unworthy of my esteem--against whose
conduct my sister cannot find words sufficiently severe to express her
indignation? Rosamond, my mind inclined towards him at the first reading of
his last letter; but if I had ever given him any encouragement, if I had
loved him, what would have been my misery at this moment!"
"All! my dear, but then if you had been very miserable, I should have
pitied you so much, and loved you so heartily for being in love," said
Rosamond, still laughing--
"Oh! Rosamond," continued Caroline, whose mind was now too highly wrought
for raillery, "is love to be trifled with? No, only by trifling minds or
by rash characters, by those who do not conceive its power--its danger.
Recollect what we have just seen: a young, beautiful woman sinking into the
grave with shame--deserted by her parents--wishing her child unborn. Do you
remember her look of agony when we praised that child? the strongest charm
of nature reversed--the strongest ties dissolved; and love brought her to
this! She is only a poor servant girl. But the highest and the fairest,
those of the most cultivated understandings, of the tenderest hearts,
cannot love bring them down to the same level--to the same fate?--And not
only our weak sex, but over the stronger sex, and the strongest of the
strong, and the wisest of the wise, what is, what has ever been the power,
the delusions of that passion, which can cast a spell over the greatest
hero, throw a blot on the brightest glory, blast in a moment a life of
fame!--What must be the power of that passion, which can inspire genius in
the dullest and the coldest, waken heroism in the most timid of creatures,
exalt to the highest point, or to the lowest degrade our nature--the
bitterest curse, or the sweetest blessing Heaven bestows on us in this
life!--Oh! sister, is love to be trifled with?"
Caroline paused, and Rosamond, for some instants, looked at her and at her
mother in silence; then exclaimed, "All this from Caroline! Are not you
astonished, mother?"
"No," said Mrs. Percy; "I was aware that this was in Caroline's mind."
"I was not," said Rosamond. "She who never spoke of love!--I little
imagined that she thought of it so highly, so seriously."
"Yes, I do think of it seriously, highly may Heaven grant!" cried Caroline,
looking fervently upwards as she spoke with an illuminated countenance.
"May Heaven grant that love be a blessing and not a curse to me! Heaven
grant that I may never, in any moment of selfish vanity, try to excite
a passion which I cannot return! Heaven grant that I never may feel the
passion of love but for one whom I shall entirely esteem, who shall be
worthy to fill my whole soul!"
"Mother," continued Caroline, turning eagerly, and seizing her mother's
hand, "my guide, my guardian, whenever you see me in any, the slightest
inclination to coquetry, warn me--as you wish to save me from that which I
should most dread, the reproaches of my own conscience--in the first, the
very first instance, reprove me, mother, if you can--with severity. And
you, my sister, my bosom friend, do not use your influence to soften, to
open my mind to love; but if ever you perceive me yielding my heart to the
first tenderness of the passion, watch over me, if the object be not every
way worthy of me, my equal, my superior.--Oh! as you would wish to snatch
me from the grave, rouse me from the delusion--save me from disappointment,
regret, remorse, which I know that I could not bear, and live."
Her mother, into whose arms she threw herself, pressed Caroline close to
her heart, while Rosamond, to whom she had given her hand, held it fast,
and stood motionless between surprise and sympathy. Caroline, to whose
usual manners and disposition every thing theatrical or romantic was so
foreign, seemed, as soon as she recollected herself, to be ashamed of the
excessive emotion and enthusiasm she had shown; withdrawing her hand from
her sister, she turned away, and left the room.
Her mother and sister both remained silent for a considerable time, fully
occupied with their own thoughts and feelings. The mother's reverie
looked to the future prospects of her daughter;--confident in Caroline's
character, yet uncertain of her fate, she felt a pleasing yet painful
solicitude.
Rosamond's thoughts turned rather to the past than to the future: she
recollected and compared words and looks, yet found insuperable difficulty
in connecting all she had ever before known or fancied of Caroline with
what she had just seen and heard. Rosamond did not fairly recover from her
surprise, and from her look of perplexity, during a full hour that she
remained absolutely silent, poring upon a screen, upon which she saw
nothing.
She then went in search of Caroline, in hopes of renewing the conversation;
but she found her busied in some of the common affairs of life, and
apparently a different person.
Rosamond, though she made divers attempts, could not lead Caroline back
again to the same train of thought, or tone of expression. Indeed, Rosamond
did not attempt it very skilfully, but rather with the awkward impatience
of one not accustomed to use address. Caroline, intent upon the means of
assisting the poor young woman whom they had seen at the cottage, went
there again as soon as she could, to warn old Dorothy, in the first place,
to be less communicative, and not on any account to mention to any one else
the names and circumstances which she had told them with so little reserve.
Caroline next applied to Dr. Leicester, the vicar of their former parish,
a most amiable and respectable clergyman, who had come from his vicarage,
near Percy-hall, to spend what time he could spare from his duties with
his favourite parishioners; at Caroline's request he willingly went to see
this unhappy young woman, and succeeded in his endeavours to soothe and
tranquillize her mind by speaking to her words of peace. His mild piety
raised and comforted the trembling penitent; and while all prospect of
forgiveness from her parents, or of happiness in this world, was at an end,
he fixed her thoughts on those better hopes and promises which religion
only can afford. Her health appeared suddenly to mend when her mind was
more at ease: but this was only transient, and Dr. Percy, to whom Caroline
applied for his medical opinion, gave little hopes of her recovery.
All that could be done by medicine and proper kindness to assuage her
sufferings during her decline was done in the best manner by Mrs. Percy
and her daughters, especially by Caroline: the young woman, nevertheless,
died in six weeks, and was buried without Buckhurst Falconer's making
any inquiry concerning her, probably without his knowing of her death. A
few days after she was no more, a letter came to her from him, which was
returned unopened by Dorothy, who could just write well enough to make
these words intelligible in the cover:
"SIR,
"Kate Robinson is dead--this four days--your child is with me still, and
well.--She bid me tell you, if ever you asked more concerning her--she left
you her forgiveness on her death-bed, and hopes you will be happy, sir.--
"Your humble servant,
"DOROTHY WHITE."
A bank note of ten pounds was received by Dorothy soon afterwards for the
use of the child, and deep regret was expressed by the father for the death
of its mother. But, as Dorothy said, "that came too late to be of any good
to her."
CHAPTER XIV.
Soon after the death of poor Kate, the attention of the Percy family
was taken up by a succession of different visits; some from their old
neighbours and really affectionate friends, some from among the band of
reproaching condolers. The first we shall mention, who partook of the
nature of both these classes, was Lady Jane Granville: she was a sincere
and warm friend, but a tormenting family adviser and director.
Her ladyship was nearly related to Mr. Percy, which gave her, on this
occasion, rights of which she knew how to avail herself.
To do her justice, she was better qualified to be an adviser and protector
than many who assume a familiar tone and character.
Lady Jane Granville was of high birth and fortune, had always lived in
good company, had seen a great deal of the world, both abroad and at
home; she had a complete knowledge of all that makes people well received
in society, had generalized her observations, and had formed them into
maxims of prudence and politeness, which redounded the more to her credit
in conversation, as they were never committed to writing, and could,
therefore, never be brought to the dangerous test of being printed and
published. Her ladyship valued her own traditional wisdom, and oral
instruction, beyond any thing that can be learned from books. She had
acquired a _tact_, which, disclaiming and disdaining every regular process
of reasoning, led her with admirable certainty to right conclusions in her
own concerns, and thus, in some degree, justified the peremptory tone she
assumed in advising others.
Though by no means pleased with Mr. and Mrs. Percy's answer to several
of her letters of counsel, yet she thought it her duty, as a friend and
relation, to persevere. She invited herself to the Hills, where, with great
difficulty, through scarcely practicable cross roads, she arrived. She was
so much fatigued and exhausted, in body and mind, that during the first
evening she could talk of nothing but her hair-breadth escapes. The next
morning after breakfast, she began with, "My dear Mr. Percy, now I have
a moment's ease, I have a thousand things to say to you. I am very much
surprised that you have thought fit to settle here quite out of the world.
Will you give me leave to speak my mind freely to you on the subject?"
"As freely as you please, my dear Lady Jane, upon any subject, if you will
only promise not to be offended, if we should not coincide in opinion."
"Certainly, certainly; I am sure I never expect or wish any body to submit
to my opinion, though I have had opportunities of seeing something of
the world: but I assure you, that nothing but very particular regard
would induce me to offer my advice. It is a maxim of mine, that family
interference begins in ill-breeding and ends in impertinence, and
accordingly it is a thing I have ever particularly avoided. But with a
particular friend and near relation like you, my dear Mr. Percy, I think
there ought to be an exception. Now, my dear sir, the young people have
just left the room--I can take this opportunity of speaking freely: your
daughters--what will you do with them?"
"Do with them! I beg pardon for repeating your ladyship's words, but I
don't precisely understand your question."
"Well, precise sir, then, in other words, how do you mean to dispose of
them?"
"I don't mean to dispose of them at all," said Mr. Percy.
"Then let me tell you, my good friend," said Lady Jane, with a most
prophetic tone, "let me tell you, that you will live to repent that.--You
know I have seen something of the world--you ought to bring them forward,
and make the most of their birth, family, and connexions, put them in a way
of showing their accomplishments, make proper acquaintance, and obtain for
your girls what I call the patronage of fashion."
"Patronage!" repeated Mr. Percy: "it seems to be my doom to hear of nothing
but patronage, whichever way I turn. What! patronage for my daughters as
well as for my sons!"
"Yes," said Lady Jane, "and look to it; for your daughters will never go on
without it. Upon their first coming out, you should--" Here her ladyship
stopped short, for Caroline and Rosamond returned. "Oh! go on, go on, let
me beg of your ladyship," said Mr. Percy: "why should not my daughters have
the advantage of hearing what you are saying?"
"Well, then, I will tell them candidly that upon their first _coming out_,
it will be an inconceivable advantage, whatever you may think of it, to
have the patronage of fashion! Every day we see many an ugly face, many
a mere simpleton, many a girl who had nothing upon earth but her dress,
become quite charming, when the radiance of fashion is upon them. And there
are some people who can throw this radiance where and on whom they please,
just as easily," said Lady Jane, playing with a spoon she held in her hand,
"just as easily as I throw the sunshine now upon this object and now upon
that, now upon Caroline and now upon Rosamond. And, observe, no eye turns
upon the beauteous Caroline now, because she is left in the shade."
It was Mr. Percy's policy to allow Lady Jane full liberty to finish all she
wished to say without interruption; for when people are interrupted, they
imagine they have much more to add. Let them go on, and they come to the
end of their sense, and even of their words, sooner than they or you could
probably expect.
"Now," continued her ladyship, "to apply to living examples; you know Mrs.
Paul Cotterel?"
"No."
"Well!--Lady Peppercorn?"
"No."
"Nor the Miss Blissets?"
"No."
"That is the misfortune of living so much out of the world!--But there are
the Falconers, we all know them at least--now look at the Miss Falconers."
"Alas! we have not the honour of knowing even the Miss Falconers," said Mr.
Percy, "though they are our cousins."
"Is it possible that you don't know the Miss Falconers?"
"Very possible," replied Mr. Percy: "they live always in town, and we have
never seen them since they were children: except a visit or two which
passed between us just after Mrs. Falconer's marriage, we know nothing even
of her, though we are all acquainted with the commissioner, who comes from
time to time to this part of the country."
"A very clever man is the commissioner in his way," said Lady Jane, "but
nothing to his wife. I can assure you, Mrs. Falconer is particularly well
worth your knowing; for unless maternal rivalship should interfere, I know
few people in the world who could be more useful to your girls when you
_bring them out_. She has a vast deal of address. And for a proof, as I
was going to point out to you, there are the Miss Falconers in the first
circles--asked every where--yet without fortunes, and with no pretensions
beyond, or equal to, what your daughters have--not with half Rosamond's wit
and information--nothing comparable in point of beauty and accomplishments,
to Caroline; yet how they have _got on_! See what fashion can do! Come,
come, we must court her patronage--leave that to me: I assure you I
understand the ways and means."
"I have no doubt of that," said Mr. Percy. "All that your ladyship has said
is excellent sense, and incontrovertible as far as--"
"Oh! I knew you would think so: I knew we should understand one another as
soon as you had heard all I had to say."
"Excellent sense, and incontrovertible, as far as it relates to the means,
but perhaps we may not agree as to the ends; and if these are different,
you know your means, though the best adapted for gaining your objects, may
be quite useless or unfit for the attainment of mine."
"At once, then, we can't differ as to our objects, for it is my object to
see your daughters happily married; now tell me," said Lady Jane, appealing
alternately to Mr. and Mrs. Percy, "honestly tell me, is not this your
object--and yours?"
"Honestly, it is," said Mr. and Mrs. Percy.
"That's right--I knew we must agree there."
"But," said Mrs. Percy, "allow me to ask what you mean by happily married?"
"What do I mean? Just what you mean--what every body means at the bottom of
their hearts: in the first place married to men who have some fortune."
"What does your ladyship mean by _some_ fortune?"
"Why--you have such a strange way of not understanding! We who live in the
world must speak as the world speaks--we cannot recur continually to a
philosophical dictionary, and if we had recourse to it, we should only be
sent from _a_ to _z_, and from _z_ back again to _a_; see _affluence_, see
_competence_, see _luxury_, see _philosophy_, and see at last that you see
nothing, and that you knew as much before you opened the book as when you
shut it--which indeed is what I find to be the case with most books I
read."
Triumphant from the consciousness of having hitherto had all the wit on her
side, Lady Jane looked round, and continued: "Though I don't pretend to
draw my maxims from books, yet this much I do know, that in matrimony, let
people have ever so much sense, and merit, and love, and all that, they
must have bread and butter into the bargain, or it won't do."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Percy: "under that head I suppose you include all
the necessaries of life."
"And some of the luxuries, if you please; for in these days luxuries are
become necessaries."
"A barouche and four, for instance?" said Mrs. Percy.
"Oh! no, no--my dear madam, I speak within bounds; you cannot expect a
barouche and four for girls who have nothing."
"I expect it as little as I wish it for them," said Mrs. Percy, smiling;
"and as little as my daughters, I believe, desire it."
"But if such a thing should offer, I presume you would not wish that
Rosamond or Caroline should refuse?"
"That depends upon _who_ offers it," said Mrs. Percy. "But whatever my
wishes might be, I should, as I believe I safely may, leave my daughters
entirely at liberty to judge and decide for themselves."
"Yes, I believe you safely may," said Lady Jane, "as long as you keep them
here. You might as well talk of leaving them at liberty in the deserts of
Arabia. You don't expect that knights and squires should come hither in
quest of your damsels?"
"Then you would have the damsels sally forth in quest of the knights and
squires?" said Mr. Percy.
"Let them sally forth at any rate," said Lady Jane, laughing; nobody has
a right to ask in quest of what. We are not now in the times of ancient
romance, when young ladies were to sit straight-laced at their looms, or
never to stir farther than to their bower windows."
"Young ladies must now go a great deal farther," said Mr. Percy, "before
the discourteous knights will deign to take any notice of them."
"Ay, indeed, it is shameful!" said Lady Jane sighing. "I declare it is
shameful!" repeated she, indignantly. "Do you know, that last winter at
Bath the ladies were forced to ask the gentlemen to dance?"
"Forced?" said Mr. Percy.
"Yes, forced!" said Lady Jane, "or else they must have sat still all night
like so many simpletons."
"Sad alternative!" said Mr. Percy; "and what is worse, I understand that
partners for life are scarcely to be had on easier terms; at least so I
am informed by one of your excellent modern mothers, Mrs. Chatterton, who
has been leading her three _gawky_ graces about from one watering-place to
another these six years, fishing, and hunting, and hawking for husbands.
'There now! I have carried my girls to Bath, and to London, and to
Tunbridge, and to Weymouth, and to Cheltenham, and every where; I am sure I
can do no more for them.' I assure you," continued Mr. Percy, "I have heard
Mrs. Chatterton say these very words in a room full of company."
"In a room full of company? Shocking!" said Lady Jane. "But then poor
Mrs. Chatterton is a fool, you know; and, what is worse, not _well
mannered_,--how should she? But I flatter myself, if you will trust me
with your daughter Caroline, we should manage matters rather better. Now
let me tell you my plan. My plan is to take Caroline with me immediately
to Tunbridge, previous to her London campaign. Nothing can be a greater
mistake than to keep a young lady _up_, and prevent her being seen till the
moment when she is to be brought out: it is of incalculable advantage that,
previously to her appearance in the great world, she should have been seen
by certain fashionable _proneurs_. It is essential that certain reports
respecting her accomplishments and connexions should have had time to
circulate properly."
All this Mr. and Mrs. Percy acknowledged, in as unqualified a manner as
Lady Jane could desire, was fit and necessary to secure what is called a
young lady's success in the fashionable world; but they said that it was
not their object to _dispose of their daughters_, as it is called, _to the
best advantage_. The arts which are commonly practised for this purpose
they thought not only indelicate, but ultimately impolitic and absurd; for
men in general are now so well aware of them, that they avoid the snares,
and ridicule and detest those by whom they are contrived. If, now and then,
a dupe be found, still the chance is, that the match so made turns out
unhappily; at best, attachments formed in public places, and in the hurry
of a town life, can seldom be founded on any real knowledge of character,
or suitableness of taste and temper. "It is much more probable," added Mrs.
Percy, "that happy marriages should be made where people have leisure
and opportunities of becoming really and intimately acquainted with each
other's dispositions."
"Vastly well!" said Lady Jane: "so you mean to bury your daughters in the
country--to shut them up, at least--all the days of their unfortunate
lives?"
Mr. and Mrs. Percy, both at the same moment, eagerly declared that they
had no such absurd or cruel intention towards their daughters. "On the
contrary," said Mr. Percy, "we shall take every proper occasion, that our
present fortune and situation will allow, of letting them see agreeable and
sensible persons."
"Are they to spring out of the ground, these agreeable and sensible
persons?" said Lady Jane. "Whom do you see in this desert, or expect to
see?"
"We see your ladyship, in the first place," said Mr. Percy: "you cannot
therefore wonder if we are proud enough to expect to see sometimes good
company, persons of merit, and even of fashion, though we have lost our
station and fortune."
"That is very politely turned by you, Mr. Percy. Much more polite than my
desert. But I could not bear the thoughts of your sweet pretty Caroline's
blushing unseen."
"Nor could we," said Mr. Percy, "bear the thoughts of her ceasing to blush
from being too much seen. We could not bear the thoughts of _fitting our
daughters out_, and sending them to the London market, with the portionless
class of matrimonial adventurers, of whom even the few that succeed are
often doomed but to splendid misery in marriage; and the numbers who fail
in their venture are, after a certain time, consigned to neglect and
contempt in single wretchedness. Here, on the contrary, in the bosom of
their own families, without seeking to entice or entrap, they can at all
events never be disappointed or degraded; and, whether married or single,
will be respected and respectable, in youth and age--secure of friends, and
of a happy home."
"Happy nonsense! begging your pardon, my dear coz. Shall I tell you
what the end of all this living in the bosom of their own families will
be?--that they will die old maids. For mercy's sake, my dear Mrs. Percy, do
not let Mr. Percy be philosophical for your daughters, whatever he may be
for himself. You, I am sure, cannot wish your poor daughters to be _old
maids_," said her ladyship, with a tremendous accent upon the word.
"No, I should wish them to marry, if I could ensure for them good husbands,
not merely good fortunes. The warmest wish of my heart," cried Mrs. Percy,
"is to see my daughters as happy as I am myself, married to men of their
own choice, whom they can entirely esteem, and fondly love. But I would
rather see my daughters in their graves than see them throw themselves
away upon men unworthy of them, or sell themselves to husbands unsuited to
them, merely for the sake of being _established_, for the vulgar notion of
_getting married_, or to avoid the imaginary and unjust ridicule of being
old maids."
The warmth and energy with which these last words were spoken, by so gentle
a person as Mrs. Percy, surprised Lady Jane so much, that she was silent;
all her ideas being suddenly at a stand, and her sagacity at fault. Mr.
Percy proposed a walk to show her the Hills; as her ladyship rose to
accompany him, she said to herself, "Who could have guessed that Mrs. Percy
was so romantic?--But she has caught it from her husband.--What a strange
father and mother!--But for the sake of the poor girls, I will not give up
the point. I will have Caroline with me to Tunbridge, and to town, in spite
of their wise heads."
She renewed her attack in the evening after tea. Rising, and walking
towards the window, "A word with you, Mr. Percy, if you please. The
young people are going to walk, and now we can talk the matter over by
ourselves."
"Why should not we talk it over before the young people?" said Mr. Percy.
"We always speak of every thing openly in this family," continued he,
turning to Lady Jane; "and I think that is one reason why we live so
happily together. I let my children know all my views for them, all my
affairs, and my opinions, I may say all my thoughts, or how could I expect
them to trust me with theirs?"
"As to that, children are bound by gratitude to treat their parents with
perfect openness," said Lady Jane; "and it is the duty of children, you
know, to make their parents their confidants upon all occasions."
"Duty and gratitude are excellent things," said Mr. Percy, "but somewhat
more is necessary between parent and child to produce friendship. Recollect
the Duc d'Epernon's reply to his king, who reproached him with want of
affection. 'Sire, you may command my services, my life; but your majesty
knows, friendship is to be won only by friendship.'"
"Very true," said Lady Jane; "but friendship is not, properly speaking, the
connexion that subsists between parents and children."
"I am sorry you think so," said Mr. Percy, smiling: "pray do not teach my
children that doctrine."
"Nay," said Lady Jane, "no matter whether we call it friendship or not; I
will answer for it, that without any refined notions about perfect openness
and confidence, your children will be fond of you, if you are indulgent to
them in certain points. Caroline, my dear," said she, turning to Caroline,
who was at the farthest end of the room, "don't look so unconscious, for
you are a party concerned; so come and kneel at the feet of this perverse
father of yours, to plead your cause and mine--I must take you with me to
Tunbridge. You must let me have her a summer and winter, and I will answer
for Caroline's success."
"What does your ladyship mean by my success?" said Caroline.
"Why, child--Now don't play your father's philosophic airs upon me! We
people who live in the world, and not with philosophers, are not prepared
for such entrapping interrogatories. But come, I mean in plain English,
my dear, though I am afraid it will shock your ears, that you will be"
(speaking loud) "pretty well admired, pretty well abused, and--oh,
shocking!--pretty well married."
"Pretty well married!" repeated Mrs. Percy, in a scornful tone: "but
neither Caroline nor I should be satisfied unless she be very well
married."
"Heyday! There is no knowing where to have you _lady_ philosophers. This
morning you did not desire a coach and four for your daughters, not you;
now you quarrel with me on the other side of the question. Really, for a
lady of moderation, you are a little exorbitant. _Pretty well married_,
you know, implies 2000_l._ a-year; and very well married, nothing under
10,000_l._"
"Is that the language of the market? I did not understand the exact meaning
of _very well married_--did you, Caroline? I own I expect something more
than 10,000_l._ a-year."
"More!--you unconscionable wretch! how much more?" said Lady Jane.
"Infinitely more," said Mr. Percy: "I expect a man of sense, temper, and
virtue, who would love my daughter as she deserves to be loved."
"Let me advise you," said Lady Jane, in her very gravest tone, "not to puff
up Caroline's imagination with a parcel of romantic notions.--I never yet
knew any good done by it. Depend on it you will be disappointed, if you
expect a genius to descend from the clouds express for your daughters. Let
them do as other people do, and they may have a chance of meeting with
some good sort of men, who will make them as happy as--as happy as their
neighbours."
"And how happy is that?" said Caroline: "as happy as we are now?"
"As you are now!" said Lady Jane: "a vastly pretty maidenly speech! But
young ladies, nevertheless, usually think that the saffron robe of Hymen
would not be the most unbecoming dress in the world; and whether it be in
compliance with their daughters' taste, or their own convenience, most
parents are in a hurry to purchase it."
"Sometimes at the expense of their daughters' happiness for life," said
Mrs. Percy.
"Well, lest we should go over the same ground, and get into the same
labyrinth, where we lost ourselves this morning, let me come to the
point at once.--May I hope, Mr. and Mrs. Percy, to have the pleasure of
Caroline's company at Tunbridge next week, and in town next winter, or
not?--That is the question."
"That is a question which your ladyship will be so good as to ask Caroline,
if you please," said Mr. Percy; "both her mother and I wish that she should
decide for herself."
"Indeed?" cried Lady Jane: "then, my dear Caroline, if you please, come
with me this minute to my dressing-room, and we'll settle it all at my
_toilette de nuit_. I have a notion," added her ladyship, as she drew
Caroline's arm within hers, and led her out of the room, "I have a notion
that I shall not find you quite so impracticable as your father has shown
himself."
"You may leave us, Keppel," said Lady Jane to her maid, as she went into
her dressing-room--"I will ring when I want you.--My love," said she to
Caroline, who stood beside her dressing-table, "why did not you let Keppel
dress your hair to-day?--But no matter--when I once get you to town, we'll
manage it all our own way. I have a notion that you are not of a positive
temper."
Caroline coloured at this speech.
"I see what are you thinking of," said Lady Jane, mistaking her
countenance; "and to tell you the truth, I also am sadly afraid, by what
I see, that we shall hardly gain our point. I know your father--some
difficulty will be started, and ten to one he will not allow me to have you
at last, unless you try and persuade him yourself."
"I never try to persuade my father to do any thing."
"What, then, he is not a man to be persuaded?"
"No," said Caroline, smiling; "but what is much better, he is a man to be
convinced."
"Better!" exclaimed Lady Jane: "Why surely you had not rather live with a
man you were to convince than one you could persuade?"
"Would it not be safer?" said Caroline: "the arts of persuasion might be
turned against us by others, but the power of conviction never could."
"Now, my dear, you are too deep for me," replied Lady Jane. "You said very
little in our long debate this morning, and I'm afraid I said too much; but
I own I could not help speaking candidly. Between ourselves, your father
has some notions, which, you know, are a little odd."
"My father!" exclaimed Caroline.
"Yes, my dear, though he is your father, and my relation too, you know
one cannot be quite blinded by partiality--and I never would give up my
judgment."
"Nor would I," said Caroline. "Nor I am sure would my father ever desire
it. You see how freely he permits, he encourages us all to converse with
him. He is never displeased with any of us for being of a different opinion
from him."
"He may not show displeasure," said Lady Jane.
"Oh! he does not feel it, ma'am--I assure you," said Caroline, with
emotion. "You do not know my father, indeed you do not."
"My dear," said Lady Jane, retracting, "I know he is an excellent father,
and I am sure I would have you think so--it is your duty; but, at the same
time, you know he is not infallible, and you must not insist," added she,
sharply, "upon all the world being of one way of thinking.--My dear, you
are his favourite, and it is no wonder you defend him."
"Indeed, ma'am," said Caroline, "if I am his favourite, I do not know it."
"My dear, don't mistake me. It is no wonder that you _are_. You must be a
favourite with every body; and yet," said Lady Jane, and she paused, "as
you hinted, perhaps I am mistaken; I think Rosamond seems--hey?--Now tell
me candidly--which is the favourite?"
"I would if I knew," said Caroline.
"Oh! but there must be some favourite in a family--I know there must; and
since you will not speak, I guess how it is. Perhaps, if I had asked your
sister Rosamond to go to town with me next winter, your father would have
been better pleased, and would have consented more readily."
"To lose her company if she were his favourite?" said Caroline, smiling.
"But you know, my dear," continued Lady Jane, without hearing or attending
to this, "you know, my dear, that Rosamond, though a very good girl and
very sensible, I am sure, yet she has not your personal advantages,
and I could do nothing for her in town, except, perhaps, introduce her
at Mrs. Cator's, and Lady Spilsbury's, or Lady Angelica Headingham's
conversazione--Rosamond has a mixture of naivete and sprightliness that is
new, and might _take_. If she had more courage, and would hazard more in
conversation, if she had, in short, _l'art de se faire valoir_, one could
hand her verses about, and get her forward in the bel-esprit line. But
she must stay till we have brought you into fashion, my dear, and another
winter, perhaps--Well, my love, I will not keep you up longer. On Monday,
if you please, we shall go--since you say you are sure your father is in
earnest, in giving you leave to decide for yourself."
What was Lady Jane Granville's astonishment, when she heard Caroline
decline, with polite thanks, her kind invitation!
Her ladyship stood silent with suspended indignation.
"This cannot be your own determination, child?"
"I beg your ladyship's pardon--it is entirely my own. When a person is
convinced by good reasons, those reasons surely become their own. But
independently of all the arguments which I have heard from my father and
mother, my own feelings must prevent me from leaving home in our present
circumstances. I cannot quit my parents and my sister, now they are,
comparatively speaking, in distress. Neither in prosperity nor in adversity
do I wish to leave my family, but certainly not in adversity."
"High-flown notions! Your family is not in any great distress, that I see:
there is a change, to be sure, in the style of life; but a daughter more,
you know only increases the--the difficulties."
"I believe my father and mother do not think so," said Caroline; "and till
they do, I wish to stay with them, and share their fortune, whatever it may
be."
"I have done--as you please--you are to decide for yourself, Miss Caroline
Percy: this is your final determination?"
"It is," said Caroline; "but permit me," added she, taking Lady Jane's
hand, and endeavouring by the kindest tone of gratitude to avert the
displeasure which she saw gathering, "permit me to assure you, that I am
truly grateful for your kindness, and I hope--I am sure, that I never shall
forget it."
Lady Jane drew away her hand haughtily. "Permit me to assure you, Miss
Caroline Percy, that there are few, very few young ladies indeed, even
among my own nearest relations, to whom I would have undertaken to be
_chaperon_. I do not know another young lady in England to whom I would
have made the offer I have made to you, nor would that offer ever have been
made could I reasonably have foreseen the possibility of its being refused.
Let us say no more, ma'am, if you please--we understand one another
now--and I wish you a good night."
Caroline retired, sorry to have displeased one who had shown so much
friendly eagerness to serve her, yet not in the least disposed to change
her determination. The next day Lady Jane's morning face boded no good.
Mr. and Mrs. Percy in vain endeavoured by all the kind attentions in their
power to assuage her feelings, but nothing restored her to that sweet
temper in which she had begun the chapter of advice. She soon announced
that she had received letters which called her immediately to Tunbridge,
and her ladyship quitted the Hills, resolving never more to visit relations
who would not be guided by her opinion.
The next persons who came to visit the Percy family in their retirement
were Mrs. Hungerford and her daughter, Mrs. Mortimer, who had been friends
and near neighbours whilst they resided at Percy-hall, and whose society
they had particularly regretted. The distance at which they now lived from
Hungerford Castle was such, that they had little hope that any intercourse
could be kept up with its inhabitants, especially as Mrs. Hungerford had
arrived at that time of life when she was exempted from the ceremony of
visiting, and she seldom stirred from home except when she went to town
annually to see her daughter Mortimer.
"So," said Mrs. Hungerford, as Mr. Percy helped her out of her carriage,
"my good friend, you are surprised at seeing me, are you?--Ah! you thought
I was too old or too lazy to come; but I am happy to be able to convince
you that you are mistaken. See what motive will do! You know Mr. Percy
says, that people can do any thing they please, and it is certain that it
pleased me to do this."
When she was seated, and Mrs. Percy spoke of the distance from which
she had kindly come to see them, she answered, "I hear people talk of a
_visiting distance_; and I understand perfectly well what it means when
acquaintance are in question, but for friends there is no _visiting
distance_. Remove to the Land's End, and, old as I am, I will pursue and
overtake you too, tortoise as I seem; and don't depend upon dark nights,
for every night is full moon to me, when I am bent upon a visit to a
friend; and don't depend upon hills--there are no Pyrenees between us."
These sound, perhaps, like mere civil speeches, but they came from one who
always spoke sincerely, and who was no common person. Mrs. Hungerford was,
by those who did not know her, thought proud; those who did, knew that she
had reason to be proud. She was of noble descent, dignified appearance,
polite manners, strong understanding, and high character. Her fortune,
connexions, various knowledge, and extraordinary merit, had, during a long
life, given her means of becoming acquainted with most of the persons of
any celebrity or worth in her own or in foreign countries. No new candidate
for fame appeared in any line of life, without desiring to be noticed by
Mrs. Hungerford; no traveller of distinction or of literature visited
England without providing himself with letters of introduction to Mrs.
Hungerford, and to her accomplished daughter, the wife of Admiral Mortimer.
In her early youth she had passed some years abroad, and had the vivacity,
ease, polish, _tact_, and _esprit de societe_ of a Frenchwoman, with the
solidity of understanding, amiable qualities, domestic tastes, and virtues
of an Englishwoman. The mutual affection of this mother and daughter not
only secured their own happiness, but diffused an additional charm over
their manners, and increased the interest which they otherwise inspired.
Mrs. Mortimer's house in London was the resort of the best company, in the
best sense of the word: it was not that dull, dismal, unnatural thing, an
English _conversazione_, where people are set, against their will and their
nature, to talk wit; or reduced, against their pride and their conscience,
to worship _idols_. This society partook of the nature of the best English
and the best French society, judiciously combined: the French mixture of
persons of talents and of rank, men of literature and of the world; the
French habit of mingling feminine and masculine subjects of conversation,
instead of separating the sexes, far as the confines of their prison-room
will allow, into hostile parties, dooming one sex to politics, argument,
and eternal sense, the other to scandal, dress, and eternal nonsense. Yet
with these French manners there were English morals; with this French ease,
gaiety, and politeness, English sincerity, confidence, and safety: no
_simagree_, no _espionnage_; no intrigue, political or gallant; none of
that profligacy, which not only disgraced, but destroyed the _reality_ of
pleasure in Parisian society, at its most brilliant era. The persons of
whom Mrs. Mortimer's society was formed were, in their habits and good
sense, so thoroughly English, that, even had it been possible for them
to put morality and religion out of the question, they would still have
thought it quite as convenient and agreeable to love their own husbands
and wives as to play at cross-purposes in gallanting their neighbours'. Of
consequence, Mrs. Mortimer, in the bloom of youth and height of fashion,
instead of being a coquette, "hunting after men with her eyes," was
beloved, almost to adoration, as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend.
Mrs. Hungerford, at an advanced age, was not a wretched, selfish Madame
du Deffand, exacting _hommage_ and _attentions_, yet disbelieving in the
existence of friendship; complaining in the midst of all the luxuries of
life, mental and corporeal, of being oppressed by ennui, unable to find any
one to love and esteem, or incapable of loving and esteeming any one; Mrs.
Hungerford, surrounded
"With all that should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends."
was, as she often declared, with gratitude to Providence, happier in age
than she had been even in youth. With warm affections, and benevolence
guided and governed in its objects by reason and religion; indulgent
to human nature in general, and loving it, but not with German
cosmopolitism--first and best, loving her daughter, her family, comprising
a wide and happy extent of relations and connexions, sons and nephews in
the army and navy, or in different employments in the state: many of these
young men already distinguished, others wanting only opportunity to do
equal honour to their name.
During the summer, Mrs. Mortimer usually spent some months at Hungerford
Castle, and generally took with her from town some friends whose company
she thought would peculiarly suit her mother's taste. Mrs. Hungerford had
always been in the habit of inviting the Percy family, whenever she had any
body with her whom she thought they would wish to see or hear; and thus
the young people, though living retired in the country, had enjoyed the
advantages of becoming early acquainted with many celebrated literary and
public characters, and of living in the best society; these were advantages
which they obtained from their education and their merit; for assuredly
Mrs. Hungerford would never have troubled herself with them merely because
they were her neighbours, possessing so many thousand pounds a year, and
representatives of the Percy interest in the county.--A proof of which, if
any were wanting, is, that she never took the least notice of those who now
held their place at Percy-hall; and the first visit she paid when she came
to the country, the first visit she had been known to pay for years, was
to her friends the Percys, after they had lost their thousands per annum.
So completely was it themselves and not their fortune which she had always
considered, that she never condoled with them, and scarcely seemed to
advert to any change in their circumstances. She perceived, to be sure,
that she was not at Percy-hall; she discovered, probably, that she was in
a small instead of a large room; the change of prospect from the windows
struck her eye, and she remarked that this part of the country was more
beautiful than that to which she had been accustomed.--As to the more or
less of show, of dress, or equipage, these things did not merely make
no difference in Mrs. Hungerford's estimation of persons, but in fact
scarcely made any impression upon her senses or attention. She had been
so much accustomed to magnificence upon a large scale, that the different
subordinate degrees were lost upon her; and she had seen so many changes
of fashion and of fortune, that she attached little importance to these.
Regardless of the drapery of objects, she saw at once what was substantial
and essential. It might, she thought, be one man's taste to visit her in
a barouche and four, with half-a-dozen servants, and another person's
pleasure to come without parade or attendants--this was indifferent to her.
It was their conversation, their characters, their merit, she looked to;
and many a lord and lady of showy dress and equipage, and vast importance
in their own opinions, shrunk into insignificance in the company of Mrs.
Hungerford; and, though in the room with her, passed before her eyes
without making a sufficient sensation upon her organs to attract her
notice, or to change the course of her thoughts.
All these _peculiarities_ in this lady's character rendered her
particularly agreeable to the Percy family in their present circumstances.
She pressed them to pay her a long visit.
"You see," said Mrs. Hungerford, "that I had the grace to forbear asking
this favour till I had possession of my daughter Mortimer, and could bring
her with me to entice you.--And my dear young friends, you shall find
young friends too, as well as old ones, at my house: my nieces, the Lady
Pembrokes, are to be with me; and Lady Angelica Headingham, who will
entertain you, though, perhaps, you will sometimes be tired _for_ her, she
works so hard _aux galeres de bel-esprit_. I acknowledge she has a little
too much affectation. But we must have charity for affectation and its
multitude of foibles; for, you know, Locke says that it is only a mistaken
desire to please. Angelica will find out her mistakes in time, and after
trying all manners, will hold fast by the best--that is, the most natural:
in the mean time, do you, my dear young friends, come and admire her as an
inimitable actress. Then, Mr. Percy, I have for you three temptations--a
man of letters, a man of science, and a man of sense. And, for the climax
of my eloquence, I have reserved," continued she turning to Mrs. Percy, "my
appeal to the mother's feelings. Know, then, that my son, my eldest hope,
my colonel, has arrived from the continent--landed last night--I expect
him home in a few days, and you must come and flatter me that he is
prodigiously improved by the service he has seen, and the wounds which he
can show, and assure me that, next to your own Godfrey, you would name my
Gustavus, of all the officers in the army, as most deserving to be our
commander-in-chief."
An invitation, which there were so many good and kind reasons for
accepting, could not be refused. But before we go to Hungerford Castle, and
before we see Colonel Hungerford--upon whom, doubtless, many a one at this
instant, as well as Rosamond Percy, has formed designs or prognostics in
favour of Caroline--we must read the following letter, and bring up the
affairs of Alfred and Erasmus.
CHAPTER XV.
LETTER FROM ALFRED PERCY TO HIS MOTHER.
"My Dear Mother,
"I am shocked by your story of Kate Robinson. I agree with you in rejoicing
that Caroline had sufficient penetration to see the faults of Buckhurst
Falconer's character, and steadiness enough, notwithstanding his agreeable
talents, never to give him any encouragement. I agree with you, also, that
it was fortunate that her last letter to him was written and sent before
this affair came to her knowledge. It was much better that she should abide
by her objection to his general principles than to have had explanations
and discussions on a subject into which she could not enter with propriety.
"I will, as you desire, keep Buckhurst's secret. Indeed, in a worldly point
of view, it behoves him that it should be carefully kept, because Bishop
Clay, the prelate, who gave him his present living, though he tolerates
gormandizing to excess, is extremely strict with his clergy _in other
matters_; and, as I once heard Buckhurst say,
'Compounds for sins he is inclin'd to,
By damning those he has no mind to.'
"Buckhurst had, I believe, hopes that Caroline would have relented, in
consequence of his last overture; he was thrown into despair by her
answer, containing, as he told me, such a calm and civil repetition of her
refusal--that he swears he will never trouble her again. For a fortnight
after, he protests he was ready to hang himself. About that time, I
suppose, when he heard of Kate Robinson's death, he shut himself up in his
rooms for several days--said he was not well, and could not see any body.
When he came out again, he looked wretchedly ill, and unhappy: I pitied
him--I felt the truth of what Rosamond said, 'that there is such a mixture
of good and bad in his character, as makes me change my opinion of him
every half hour.'
"He has just done me an essential service. He learnt the other day from
one of his sisters the secret reason why Lord Oldborough was displeased
with Godfrey, and why Godfrey was despatched to the West Indies.--Lord
Oldborough had been told, either by Cunningham, or by one of his sisters,
that Godfrey made love to Miss Hauton, and that when he came to town
ostensibly on some regimental business, and was pleading for a brother
officer, his concealed motive was to break off the marriage of his
lordship's niece. Buckhurst had been at the opera in the same box with
Miss Hauton and with my brother Godfrey one night. Godfrey's conduct had
been misrepresented, and as soon as Buckhurst found that Lord Oldborough
had been deceived, he was determined that he should know the truth; or,
at least, that he should know that my brother was not to blame. Godfrey
never mentioned the subject to me; but, from what I can understand, the
lady showed him _distinguished attention_. How Buckhurst Falconer managed
to _right_ my brother in Lord Oldborough's opinion without _involving_
the young lady, I do not know.--He said that he had fortunately had an
opportunity one evening at his father's, when he was playing at chess with
Lord Oldborough, of speaking to him on that subject, when none of his
family was watching him. He told me that Lord Oldborough desires to see me,
and has appointed his hour to-morrow morning. Now, Rosamond, my dear, set
your imagination to work; I must go and draw a _replication_, which will
keep mine fast bound.
"Yours truly,
"Alfred Percy."
At the appointed hour, Alfred waited upon the minister, and was received
graciously. Not one word of Godfrey, however, or of any thing leading to
that subject. Lord Oldborough spoke to Alfred as to the son of his old
friend. He began by lamenting the misfortunes which had deprived Mr. Percy
of that estate and station to which he had done honour. His lordship
went on to say that he was sorry that Mr. Percy's love of retirement, or
pride of independence, precluded all idea of seeing him in parliament;
but he hoped that Mr. Percy's sons were, in this extravagant notion of
independence, and in this _only_, unlike their father.
With all due deference, Alfred took the liberty of replying to the word
_extravagant_, and endeavoured to explain that his father's ideas of
independence did not go beyond just bounds: Lord Oldborough, contrary to
his usual custom when he met with any thing like contradiction, did not
look displeased; on the contrary, he complimented Alfred on his being a
good advocate. Alfred was going to _fall into a commonplace_, about a good
cause; but from that he was happily saved by Lord Oldborough's changing the
conversation.
He took up a pamphlet which lay upon his table. It was Cunningham
Falconer's, that is to say, the pamphlet which was published in
Cunningham's name, and for which he was mean enough to take the credit
from the poor starving genius in the garret. Lord Oldborough turned over
the leaves. "Here is a passage that was quoted yesterday at dinner at
Commissioner Falconer's, but I don't think that any of the company, or the
commissioner himself, though he is, or was, a reading man, could recollect
to what author it alludes."
Lord Oldborough pointed to the passage: "_Thus the fame of heroes is at
last neglected by their worshippers, and left to the care of the birds of
heaven, or abandoned to the serpents of the earth._"
Alfred fortunately recollected that this alluded to a description in Arrian
of the island of Achilles, the present Isle of Serpents, where there is
that temple of the hero, of which, as the historian says, "the care is left
to the birds alone, who every morning repair to the sea, wet their wings,
and sprinkle the temple, afterwards sweeping with their plumage its sacred
pavement."
Lord Oldborough smiled, and said, "The author--the reputed author of this
pamphlet, sir, is obliged to you for throwing light upon a passage which he
could not himself elucidate."
This speech of Lord Oldborough's alluded to something that had passed at
a dinner at Lord Skreene's, the day before Cunningham had set out on his
embassy. Cunningham had been _posed_ by this passage, for which Secretary
Cope, who hated him, had maliciously complimented him, and besought him to
explain it. Secretary Cope, who was a poet, made an epigram on Cunningham
the diplomatist. The lines we do not remember. The points of it were, that
Cunningham was so complete a diplomatist, that he would not commit himself
by giving up his authority, even for a quotation, and that when he knew
the author of an excellent thing, he, with admirable good faith, _kept it
to himself_. This epigram remained at the time a profound secret to Lord
Oldborough. Whilst Cunningham was going with a prosperous gale, it was not
heard of; but it worked round, according to the manoeuvres of courts, just
by the time the tide of favour began to ebb. Lord Oldborough, dissatisfied
with one of Cunningham's despatches, was heard to say, as he folded it up,
"_A slovenly performance_!"
Then, at the happy moment, stepped in the rival Secretary Cope, and put
into his lordship's hands the epigram and the anecdote.
All this the reader is to take as a note explanatory upon Lord Oldborough's
last speech to Alfred, and now to go on with the conversation--at the word
_elucidate_.
"I suspect," continued his lordship, "that Mr. Alfred Percy knows more of
this pamphlet altogether than the reputed author ever did."
Alfred felt himself change colour, and the genius in the garret rushed upon
his mind; at the same instant he recollected that he was not at liberty to
name Mr. Temple, and that he must not betray Cunningham. Alfred answered
that it was not surprising he should know the pamphlet well, as he probably
admired it more, and had read it oftener, than the author himself had ever
done.
"Very well parried, young gentleman. You will not allow, then, that you had
any hand in writing it?"
"No, my lord," said Alfred, "I had none whatever; I never saw it till it
was published."
"I have not a right, in politeness, to press the question. Permit me,
however, to say, that it is a performance of which any man might be proud."
"I should, my lord, be proud--very proud, if I had written it; but I am
incapable of assuming a merit that is not mine, and I trust the manner in
which I now disclaim it does not appear like the affected modesty of an
author who wishes to have that believed which he denies. I hope I convince
your lordship of the truth."
"I cannot have any doubt of what you assert in this serious manner, sir.
May I ask if you can tell me the name of the real author?"
"Excuse me, my lord--I cannot. I have answered your lordship with perfect
openness, as far as I am concerned."
"Sir," said Lord Oldborough, "I confess that I began this conversation with
the prepossession that you were equal to a performance of which I think
highly, but you have succeeded in convincing me that I was mistaken--that
you are not equal--but superior to it."
Upon this compliment, Alfred, as he thought the force of politeness could
no farther go, rose, bowed, and prepared to retire.
"Are you in a hurry to leave me, Mr. Percy?"
"Quite the contrary, but I was afraid of encroaching upon your lordship's
goodness; I know that your time is most valuable, and that your lordship
has so much business of importance."
"Perhaps Mr. Alfred Percy may assist me in saving time hereafter."
Alfred sat down again, as his lordship's eye desired it.--Lord Oldborough
remained for a few moments silent, leaning upon his arm on the table, deep
in thought.
"Yes, sir," said he, "I certainly have, as you say, much business upon my
hands. But _that_ is not the difficulty; with hands and heads business is
easily arranged and expedited. I have hands and heads enough at my command.
Talents of all sorts can be obtained for their price, but that which is
above all price, integrity, cannot--there's the difficulty--there is my
difficulty. I have not a single man about me whom I can trust--many who
understand my views, but none who feel them--'_Des ames de boue et de
fange!_' Wretches who care not if the throne and the country perish, if
their little interests--Young gentleman," said he, recollecting himself,
and turning to Alfred, "I feel as if I were speaking to a part of your
father when I am speaking to you."
Alfred felt this, and Lord Oldborough saw that he felt it strongly.
"_Then_, my dear sir," said he, "you understand me--I see we understand and
shall suit one another. I am in want of a secretary to supply the place
of Mr. Cunningham Falconer. Mr. Drakelow is going to Constantinople; but
he shall first initiate his successor in the business of his office--a
routine, which little minds would make great minds believe is a mystery
above ordinary comprehension. But, sir, I have no doubt that you will
be expert in a very short time in the technical part--in the routine of
office; and if it suits your views, in one word, I should be happy to have
you for my private secretary. Take time to consider, if you do not wish
to give an answer immediately; but I beg that you will consult no one but
yourself--not even your father. And as soon as your mind is made up, let me
know your decision."
After returning thanks to the minister, who had, by this time, risen to a
prodigious height in Alfred's opinion; after having reiterated his thanks
with a warmth which was not displeasing, he retired. The account of his
feelings on this occasion is given with much _truth_ in his own letter,
from which we extract the passage:
"I believe I felt a little like Gil Blas after his first visit at court.
Vapours of ambition certainly mounted into my head, and made me a little
giddy; that night I did not sleep quite so well as usual. The bar and the
court, Lord Oldborough and my special pleader, were continually before my
eyes balancing in my imagination all the _pros_ and _cons_. I fatigued
myself, but could neither rest nor decide. Seven years of famine at the
bar--horrible! but then independence and liberty of conscience--and in
time, success--the certain reward of industry--well-earned wealth--perhaps
honours--why not the highest professional honours? The life of a party-man
and a politician, agreed by all who have tried, even by this very Lord
Oldborough himself, agreed to be an unhappy life--obliged to live with
people I despise--might be tempted, like others, to do things for which
I should despise myself--subject to caprice--at best, my fortune quite
dependent on my patron's continuance in power--power and favour uncertain.
"It was long before I got my pros and cons even into this rude preparation
for comparison, and longer still before the logical process of giving
to each good and evil its just value, and drawing clear deductions from
distinct premises, could be accomplished. However, in four-and-twenty hours
I solved the problem.
"I waited upon Lord Oldborough to tell him my conclusion. With professions
of gratitude, respect, and attachment, more sincere, I fancy, than those
he usually hears, I began; and ended by telling him, in the best manner I
could, that I thought my trade was more honest than his, and that, hard as
a lawyer's life was, I preferred it to a politician's.--You don't suspect
me of saying all this--no, I was not quite so brutal; but, perhaps, it was
implied by my declining the honour of the secretaryship, and preferring to
abide by my profession. Lord Oldborough looked--or my vanity fancied that
he looked--disappointed. After a pause of silent displeasure, he said,
'Well, sir, upon the whole I believe you have decided wisely. I am sorry
that you cannot serve me, and that I cannot serve you in the manner which
I had proposed. Yours is a profession in which ministerial support can
be of little use, but in which talents, perseverance, and integrity, are
secure, sooner or later, of success. I have, therefore, only to wish you
opportunity: and if any means in my power should occur of accelerating that
opportunity, you may depend upon it, sir.' said his lordship, holding out
his hand to me, 'I shall not forget you--even if you were not the son of my
old friend, you have made an interest for yourself in my mind.'
"Thus satisfactorily we parted--no--just as I reached the door, his
lordship added, 'Your brother, Captain Percy--have you heard from him
lately?'
"'Yes, my lord, from Plymouth, where they were driven back by contrary
winds.'
"'Ha!--he was well, I hope?'
"'Very well, I thank your lordship.'
"'That's well--he is a temperate man, I think. So he will stand the climate
of the West Indies--and, probably, it will not be necessary for his
majesty's service that he should remain there long.'
"I bowed--was again retiring and was again recalled.
"'There was a major in your brother's regiment about whom Captain Percy
spoke to me--Major--'
"'Gascoigne, I believe, my lord.'
"'Gascoigne--true--Gascoigne.' His lordship wrote the name down in a
note-book.
"Bows for the last time--not a word more on either side.
"And now that I have written all this to you, my dear mother, I am almost
ashamed to send it--because it is so full of egotism. But Rosamond, the
_excuser general_, will apologize for me, by pleading that I was obliged to
tell the truth, and the whole truth.
"Love to Caroline, and thanks for her letter.--Love to Rosamond, upon
condition that she will write to me from Hungerford Castle, and cheer my
solitude in London with news from the country, and from home.
"Your affectionate son,
"ALFRED PERCY.
"P.S. I hope you all like O'Brien."
We hope the reader will recollect the poor Irishman, whose leg the surgeon
had condemned to be cut off, but which was saved by Erasmus. A considerable
time afterwards, one morning, when Erasmus was just getting up, he heard
a loud knock at his door, and in one and the same instant pushing past
his servant into his bedchamber, and to the foot of his bed, rushed this
Irishman O'Brien, breathless, and with a face perspiring joy. "I axe your
honour's pardon, master, but it's what you're wanting down street in all
haste--here's an elegant case for ye, doctor dear!--That painter-jantleman
down in the square there beyond that is not _expicted_."
"Not expected!" said Erasmus.
"Ay, not expected: so put on ye with the speed of light--Where's his
waistcoat," continued he, turning to Dr. Percy's astonished servant, "and
coat?--the top coat, and the wig--has he one?--Well! boots or shoes give
him any way."
"But I don't clearly understand--Pray did this gentleman send for me?" said
Dr. Percy.
"Send for your honour! Troth he never thought of it--no, nor couldn't--how
could he? and he in the way he was and is. But God bless ye! and never mind
shaving, or another might get it afore we'd be back. Though there was none
_in it_ but myself when I left it--but still keep on buttoning for the
life."
Erasmus dressed as quickly as he could, not understanding, however, above
one word in ten that had been said to him. His servant, who did not
comprehend even one word, endeavoured in vain to obtain an explanation; but
O'Brien, paying no regard to his solemn face of curiosity, put him aside
with his hand, and continuing to address Dr. Percy, followed him about the
room.
"Master! you mind my _mintioning_ to you last time I _seen_ your honour,
that my leg was weak _by times_, no fault though to the doctor that cured
it--so I could not be _after carrying_ the weighty loads I used up and
down the ladders at every call, so I quit _sarving_ the masons, and sought
for lighter work, and found an employ that _shuted_ me with a jantleman
painter", grinding of his colours, and that was what I was at this morning,
so I was, and standing as close to him as I am this minute to your honour,
thinking of nothing at all just now, please your honour, _forenent_
him--_asy_ grinding, _whin_ he took some sort or kind of a fit."
"A fit! Why did you not tell me that sooner?"
"Sure I _tould_ you he was not _expicted_,--that is, if you don't know in
England, _not expicted to live_; and sure I _tould_ your honour so from
the first," said O'Brien. "But then the jantleman was as well as I am this
minute, that minute afore--and the _nixt_ fell his length on the floor
entirely. Well! I set and up again, and, for want of better, filled out a
thimble-full, say, of the spirits of wine as they call it, which he got by
good luck for the varnish, and made him take it down, and he come to, and
I axed him how was he after it?--Better, says he. That's well, says I; and
who will I send for to ye, sir? says I. But afore he could make answer, I
bethought me of your own honour; and for fear he would say another, I never
troubled him, putting the question to him again, but just set the spirits
nigh hand him, and away with me here; I come off without _letting on_ a
word to nobody, good or bad, in dread your honour would miss the job."
"Job!" said Dr. Percy's servant: "do you think my master wants a job?"
"Oh! Lord love ye, and just give his hat. Would you have us be standing on
ceremony now in a case of life and death?"
Dr. Percy was, as far as he understood it, of the Irishman's way of
thinking. He followed as fast as he could to the painter's--found that he
had had a slight paralytic stroke, from which he had recovered. We need not
detail the particulars. Nature and Dr. Percy _brought him through_. He was
satisfied with his physician; for Erasmus would not take any fee, because
he went unsent for by the patient. The painter, after his recovery, was one
day complimenting Dr. Percy on the inestimable service he had done the arts
in restoring him to his pencil, in proof of which the artist showed many
master-pieces that wanted only the finishing touch, in particular a huge,
long-limbed, fantastic, allegorical piece of his own design, which he
assured Dr. Percy was the finest example of the _beau ideal_, ancient or
modern, that human genius had ever produced upon canvas. "And what do
you think, doctor," said the painter, "tell me what you can think of a
connoisseur, a patron, sir, who could stop my hand, and force me from that
immortal work to a portrait? A portrait! Barbarian! He fit to encourage
genius! He set up to be a Mecaenas! Mere vanity! Gives pensions to four
sign-post daubers, not fit to grind my colours! Knows no more of the art
than that fellow," pointing to the Irishman, who was at that instant
grinding the colours--_asy_ as he described himself.
"And lets me languish here in obscurity!" continued the enraged painter.
"Now I'll never put another stroke to his Dutch beauty's portrait, if I
starve--if I rot for it in jail! He a Mecaenas!"
The changes upon this abuse were rung repeatedly by this irritated genius,
his voice and palsied hand trembling with rage while he spoke, till he was
interrupted by a carriage stopping at the door.
"Here's the patron!" cried the Irishman, with an arch look. "Ay, it's the
patron, sure enough!"
Dr. Percy was going away, but O'Brien got between him and the door,
menacing his coat with his pallet-knife covered with oil--Erasmus stopped.
"I axe your pardon, but don't go," whispered he: "I wouldn't for the best
coat nor waistcoat ever I seen you went this minute, dear!"
Mr. Gresham was announced--a gentleman of a most respectable, benevolent,
prepossessing appearance, whom Erasmus had some recollection of having seen
before. Mr. Gresham recognized him instantly: he was the merchant whom
Erasmus had met at Sir Amyas Courtney's the morning when he offended Sir
Amyas about the made shell. After having spoken a few words to the painter
about the portrait, Mr. Gresham turned to Dr. Percy, and said, "I am
afraid, sir, that you lost a friend at court by your sincerity about a
shell."
Before Erasmus could answer--in less time than he could have thought it
possible to take off a stocking, a great bare leg--O'Brien's leg, came
between Mr. Gresham and Dr. Percy. "There's what lost him a rich friend any
way, and gained him a poor one, if that would do any good. There it is now!
This leg! God for ever bless him and reward him for it!"
Then with eloquence, emphasis, and action, which came from the heart, and
went to the heart, the poor fellow told how his leg had been saved, and
spoke of what Dr. Percy had done for him, in terms which Erasmus would
have been ashamed to hear, but that he really was so much affected with
O'Brien's gratitude, and thought it did so much honour to human nature,
that he could not stop him.--Mr. Gresham was touched also; and upon
observing this, Erasmus's friend, with his odd mixture of comedy and
pathos, ended with this exhortation, "And God bless you, sir! you're a
great man, and have many to my knowledge under a compliment to you, and
if you've any friends that are _lying_, or sick, if you'd recommend them
to send for _him_ in preference to any other of the doctors, it would
be a charity to themselves and to me; for I will never have peace else,
thinking how I have been a hinderance to him. And a charity it would be to
themselves, for what does the sick want but to be cured? and there's the
man will do that for them, as two witnesses here present can prove--that
jantleman, if he would spake, and myself."
Erasmus now peremptorily stopped this scene, for he began to feel for
himself, and to be ashamed of the ridicule which his puffing friend, in
his zeal, was throwing upon him. Erasmus said that he had done nothing for
O'Brien except placing him in St. George's Hospital, where he had been
admirably well attended. Mr. Gresham, however, at once relieved his wounded
delicacy, and dispelled all fears and anxiety, by the manner in which
he spoke and looked. He concluded by inviting Dr. Percy to his house,
expressing with much cordiality a wish to be more intimately acquainted
with a young gentleman, of whose character he had accidentally learned more
good than his modesty seemed willing to allow should be known.
O'Brien's eyes sparkled; he rubbed his hands, but restrained himself lest
Dr. Percy should be displeased. When Erasmus went away, O'Brien followed
him down stairs, begging his honour's pardon--if he had said any thing
wrong or unbecoming, it was through ignorance.
It was impossible to be angry with him.
We extract from Erasmus's letter to his mother the following account of his
first visit to Mr. Gresham.
"When I went to see Mr. Gresham, I was directed to an unfashionable part
of the town, to one of the dark old streets of the city; and from all
appearance I thought I was going to grope my way into some strange dismal
den, like many of the ancient houses in that quarter of the town. But,
to my surprise, after passing through a court, and up an unpromising
staircase, I found myself in a spacious apartment. The darkness changed
to light, the smoke and din of the city to retirement and fresh air. A
near view of the Thames appeared through large windows down to the floor,
balconies filled with flowers and sweet shrubs!--It was an Arabian scene
in London. Rosamond, how you would have been delighted! But I have not
yet told you that there was a young and beautiful lady sitting near the
balcony, and her name is Constance: that is all I shall tell you about
the young lady at present. I must go on with Mr. Gresham, who was in his
picture-gallery--yes, picture-gallery--and a very fine one it is. Mr.
Gresham, whose fortune is one of those of which only English merchants
can form any adequate idea, makes use of it in a manner which does honour
to his profession and to his country: he has patronized the arts with a
munificence not unworthy of the Medici.
"My complaining genius, the painter, who had abused his patron so much, was
there with his portrait, which, notwithstanding his vow never to touch it
again, he had finished, and brought home, and with it the sprawling Venus:
he was now extremely angry with Mr. Gresham for declining to purchase this
chef-d'oeuvre. With the painter was a poet equally vain and dissatisfied.
"I admired the mildness with which Mr. Gresham bore with their ill-humour
and vanity.--After the painter and poet, to my satisfaction, had departed,
I said something expressive of my pity for patrons who had to deal with the
irritable race. He mildly replied, that he thought that a man, surrounded
as he was with all the comforts and luxuries of life, should have
compassion, and should make allowance for genius struggling with poverty,
disease, and disappointment. He acknowledged that he had met with much
ingratitude, and had been plagued by the pretensions, expectations,
and quarrels of his tribe of poets and painters. 'For a man's own
happiness,' said he, 'the trade of a patron is the most dreadful he can
follow--gathering samphire were nothing to it.'
"Pray tell my father this, because it opens a new view, and new
confirmation of his opinions--I never spent a more agreeable day than this
with Mr. Gresham. He converses well, and has a variety of information,
which he pours forth liberally, and yet without the slightest ostentation:
his only wish seems to be to entertain and inform those to whom he
speaks--he has no desire to shine. In a few hours we went over a world of
literature. I was proud to follow him, and he seemed pleased that I could
sometimes anticipate--I happened to know as well as he did the history of
the two Flamels, and several particulars of the Jesuits in Paraguay.
"My father often told us, when we were boys, that there is no knowledge,
however distant it seems from our profession, that may not, some time or
other, be useful; and Mr. Gresham, after he had conversed sufficiently with
me both on literature and science, to discover that I was not an ignorant
pretender, grew warm in his desire to serve me. But he had the politeness
to refrain from saying any thing directly about medicine; he expressed only
an increased desire to cultivate my acquaintance, and begged that I would
call upon him at any hour, and _give him the pleasure of my conversation,
whenever I had time_.
"The next morning he called upon me, and told me that he was desired to ask
my advice for a sick partner of his, to whom, if I would accompany him, he
would immediately introduce me. Who and what this partner is, and of what
disease he is dying, if you have any curiosity to know, you shall hear in
my next, this frank will hold no more--except love, light as air, to all at
home.
"Dear mother, affectionately yours,
"E. PERCY"
CHAPTER XVI.
Now for the visit to Hungerford Castle--a fine old place in a beautiful
park, which excelled many parks of greater extent by the uncommon size
of its venerable oaks. In the castle, which was sufficiently spacious to
accommodate with ease and perfect comfort the _troops of friends_ which its
owner's beneficent character drew round her, there were apartments that
usually bore the name of some of those persons who were considered as the
most intimate friends of the family. The Percys were of this number. They
found their own rooms ready, the old servants of the house rejoicing to see
them again, and eager in offering their services. Many things showed that
they had been thought of, and expected; yet there was nothing that could
remind them that any change had taken place in their fortune: no formal
or peculiar civilities from the mistress of the house, from her daughter,
or nieces--neither more nor less attention than usual; but by every thing
that marked old habits of intimacy and confidence, the Percys were, as if
undesignedly and necessarily, distinguished from other guests.
Of these the most conspicuous was the Lady Angelica Headingham.--Her
ladyship had lately come to a large estate, and had consequently produced a
great sensation in the fashionable world. During the early part of her life
she had been much and injudiciously restrained. The moment the pressure was
taken off, the spirit boiled with surprising rapidity: immediately Lady
Angelica Headingham shone forth a beauty, a bel-esprit, and a patroness;
and though she appeared as it were _impromptu_ in these characters, yet,
to do her justice, she supported them with as much spirit, truth, and
confidence, as if she had been in the habit of playing them all her life,
and as if she had trod the fashionable stage from her teens. There was
only one point in which, perhaps, she erred: from not having been early
accustomed to flattery, she did not receive it with quite sufficient
_nonchalance_. The adoration paid to her in her triple capacity by crowds
of worshippers only increased the avidity of her taste for incense, to
receive which she would now and then stoop lower than became a goddess. She
had not yet been suspected of a real partiality for any of her admirers,
though she was accused of giving each just as much encouragement as was
necessary to turn his head. Of these admirers, two, the most eager and
earnest in the pursuit, had followed her ladyship to the country, and were
now at Hungerford Castle--Sir James Harcourt and Mr. Barclay.
Sir James Harcourt was remarkably handsome and fashionable--completely a
man of the world, and a courtier: who, after having ruined his fortune by
standing for government two contested county elections, had dangled year
after year at court, living upon the hope and promise of a pension or a
place, till his creditors warning him that they could wait no longer, he
had fallen in love with Lady Angelica Headingham. Her ladyship's other
admirer, Mr. Barclay, was a man of considerable fortune, of good family,
and of excellent sense and character. He had arrived at that time of life
when he wished to settle to the quiet enjoyment of domestic happiness; but
he had seen so much misery arise from unfortunate marriages among some of
his particular friends, that he had been afraid of forming any attachment,
or, at least, engagement. His acquaintance with fashionable life had still
further rendered him averse from matrimony; and from love he had defended
himself with infinite caution, and escaped, till in an unlucky moment
he had met with Lady Angelica. Against his better judgment, he had been
captivated by her charms and talents: his reason, however, still struggled
with his passion--he had never actually declared his love; but the lady
knew it probably better than he did, and her caprice and coquetry cost him
many an agonizing hour. All which he bore with the silence and patience of
a martyr.
When the Percy family saw Lady Angelica for the first time, she was in all
her glory--fresh from a successful toilette, conscious of renovated powers,
with an accumulated spirit of animation, and inspired by the ambition to
charm a new audience. Though past the bloom of youth, she was a handsome
showy woman, with the air of one who requires and receives admiration.
Her attitudes, her action, and the varied expression she threw into her
countenance, were more than the occasion required, and rather too evidently
designed to interest or to fascinate. She was surrounded by a group of
gentlemen; Sir James Harcourt, Mr. Barclay, Mr. Seebright, a young poet;
Mr. Grey, a man of science; and others--_personnages muets_. Arduous as was
the task, Lady Angelica's various powers and indefatigable exertion proved
capable of keeping each of these different minds in full play, and in high
admiration.
Beauties are always curious about beauties, and wits about wits. Lady
Angelica had heard that one of the Miss Percys was uncommonly handsome.
Quick as eye could glance, her ladyship's passed by Mrs. Percy and Rosamond
as they entered the room, fixed upon Caroline, and was satisfied. There was
beauty enough to alarm, but simplicity sufficient to remove all fears of
rivalship. Caroline entered, without any prepared grace or practised smile,
but merely as if she were coming into a room. Her two friends, the Lady
Pembrokes, instantly placed her between them, her countenance expressing
just what she felt, affectionate pleasure at seeing them.
"A sweet pretty creature, really!" whispered Lady Angelica, to her admirer
in waiting, Sir James Harcourt.
"Ye--ye--yes; but nothing _marquante_," replied Sir James.
Mr. Barclay's eye followed, and fixed upon Caroline, with a degree of
interest. The room was so large, and they were at such a distance from
Caroline, who was now occupied in listening to her friends, that Lady
Angelica could continue her observations without fear of being overheard.
"There is something so interesting in that air of simplicity!" pursued her
ladyship, addressing herself to Mr. Barclay. "Don't you think there is a
wonderful charm in simplicity? 'Tis a pity it can't last: it is like those
delicate colours which always catch the eye the moment they are seen,
by which I've been taken in a hundred times, and have now forsworn for
ever--treacherous colours that fade, and fly even while you look at them."
"That is a pity," said Mr. Barclay, withdrawing his eyes from Caroline.
"A thousand pities," said Lady Angelica. "Perhaps, in the country, this
delicate charm might possibly, and with infinite care and caution, last a
few years, but in town it would not last a season."
"True--too true," said Mr. Barclay.
"For which reason," pursued Lady Angelica, "give me something a little more
durable, something that can stand what it must meet with in the world:
fashion, for instance, though not half so charming till we are used to it;
or knowledge, though often dearly bought; or genius, though doubly taxed
with censure; or wit, though so hard to be had genuine--any thing is better
than a faded charm, a has-been-pretty simplicity."
"When it comes to _that_, it is lamentable, indeed," said Mr. Barclay. He
seemed to wish to say something more in favour of simplicity, but to be
overpowered by wit.
Sir James shrugged his shoulders, and protested that simplicity had
something too _fade_ in it, to suit his taste.
All this time, where was Colonel Hungerford? He had been expected to arrive
this day; but a letter came to tell his mother, that he was detained by
indispensable military business, and that, he feared, he could not for
some weeks have the pleasure of being at home. Every one looked and felt
disappointed.
"So," thought Rosamond, "we shall be gone before he comes, and he will not
see Caroline!"
"So!" said Lady Angelica, to herself, "he will not see me."
Rosamond was somewhat comforted for her disappointment, by observing that
Caroline was not quite lost upon Mr. Barclay, pre-occupied though he was
with his brilliant mistress. She thought he seemed to notice the marked
difference there was in their manner of passing the day.
Lady Angelica, though she would sometimes handle a pencil, touch the harp,
or take up a book, yet never was really employed. Caroline was continually
occupied. In the morning, she usually sat with Rosamond and the two Lady
Pembrokes, in a little room called _the Oriel_, which opened into the great
library. Here in happy retirement Caroline and Rosamond looked over Mrs.
Hungerford's select library, and delighted to read the passages which
had been marked with approbation. At other times, without disturbing
the rest of the company, or being disturbed by them, Caroline enjoyed
the opportunity of cultivating her talents for music and painting, with
the assistance of her two friends, who eminently excelled in these
accomplishments.
All this time Lady Angelica spent in talking to show her wit, or lounging
to show her grace. Now and then her ladyship condescended to join the young
people, when they went out to walk, but never unless they were attended by
gentlemen. The beauties of nature have come into fashion of late, and Lady
Angelica Headingham could talk of bold outlines, and sublime mountains, the
charming effects of light and shade, fine _accidents_, and rich foliage,
spring verdure and autumnal tints,--whilst Caroline could enjoy all these
things, without expecting to be admired for admiring them. Mrs. Mortimer
was planting a new shrubbery, and laying out a ride through the park.
Caroline took an unaffected interest in all her plans, whilst Lady Angelica
was interested only in showing how much she remembered of Price, and
Repton, and Knight. She became too hot or too cold, or she was tired to
death, the moment she ceased to be the principal object of attention. But
though her ladyship was thus idle by day, she sometimes worked hard by
night--hard as Butler is said to have toiled in secret, to support the
character of an idle universal genius, who knows every thing without
studying any thing. From dictionaries and extracts, abridgments and
_beauties_ of various authors, here, and there, and every where, she picked
up shining scraps, and often by an ostentation of superficial knowledge
succeeded in appearing in conversation to possess a vast extent of
literature, and to be deeply skilled in matters of science, of which she
knew nothing, and for which she had no taste.
Mr. Seebright, the poet, was easily duped by this display: he expressed
the most flattering astonishment, and pronounced her ladyship to be an
universal genius. He looked up to Lady Angelica for patronage. He was
so weak, or so ignorant of the world, as to imagine that the patronage
of a fashionable literary lady of high rank would immediately guide the
opinion of the public, and bring a poet forward to fortune and fame. With
these hopes he performed his daily, hourly duty of admiration to his fair
patroness, with all possible zeal and assiduity; but it was observed by
Rosamond that, in conversation, whenever Mr. Seebright had a new idea or
a favourite allusion to produce, his eye involuntarily turned first to
Caroline; and though he professed, on all points of taste and criticism,
to be implicitly governed by Lady Angelica Headingham, there was "a small
still voice" to which he more anxiously listened.
As to Mr. Grey, the roan of science--he soon detected Lady Angelica's
ignorance; smiled in silence at her blunders, and despised her for her
_arts of pretence_. In vain, to win his suffrage, she produced the letters
of various men of note and talent with whom she was in correspondence; in
vain she talked of all the persons of rank who were her relations or dear
friends:--she should be so happy to introduce him to this great man, or to
mention him to that great lady; she should be so proud, on her return to
town, to have Mr. Grey at her _esprit parties_; she would have such and
such celebrated characters to meet him, and would have the pleasure and
honour of introducing him to every person worth knowing in town.
With all due civility Mr. Grey declined these offers. There were few
persons the pleasure or honour of whose company could compensate to him for
the loss of his time, or equal the enjoyment he had in his own occupations;
and those few he was so happy to have for his friends, he did not wish
to form new acquaintance--he never went to _conversaziones_--he was much
obliged to her ladyship, but he did not want to be _mentioned_ to great
men or great women. The nature of his fame was quite independent of
fashion.--In this respect men of science have much the advantage of men of
taste. Works of taste may, to a certain degree, be _cried up_ or _cried
down_ by fashion. The full-fledged bard soars superior, and looks down at
once upon the great and little world; but the young poet, in his first
attempts to rise, is often obliged, or thinks himself obliged, to have his
wing impelled by patronage.
With all her resources, however, both of patronage and of _bel-esprit_,
Lady Angelica was equally surprised and mortified to find herself foiled at
her own arms, by a girl whom nobody knew. She changed her manoeuvres--she
thought she could show Miss Caroline Percy, that, whatever might be her
abilities, her knowledge, or her charms, these must all submit to the
superior power of fashion. Caroline having lived in the country, could not
know much of the world of fashion. This was a world from which she thought
she could move every other at pleasure. Her conversation was no longer of
books, of which all of equal talents were competent to form a judgment; but
her _talk_ was now of persons, with whom no one who had not lived in the
great world could pretend to be acquainted, of whom they could not presume
to judge. Her ladyship tried in vain to draw Mrs. Hungerford and Mrs.
Mortimer to her aid; they were too well-bred to encourage this exclusive
and unprofitable conversation. But her ladyship knew that she could be
sufficiently supported by Sir James Harcourt! He prided himself upon
knowing and being known to _every body_, that is, _any body_, in London;
he had an inexhaustible fund of town and court anecdote. What an auxiliary
for Lady Angelica! But though their combined operations were carried
on with consummate skill, and though the league offensive was strictly
kept with every demonstration of mutual amity that could excite jealousy
or express contempt for rival powers; yet the ultimate purpose was not
gained--Caroline was not mortified, and Mr. Barclay was not jealous; at
least, he was not sufficiently jealous to afford a clear triumph.
One morning, when she had been playing off all her graces, while Sir James
admired her in every Proteus form of affectation, Mr. Barclay, as she
thought, evidently pained by her coquetry, retired from the sofa, where
she sat, and went to Mrs. Hungerford's table, where he took up a book and
began to read. Lady Angelica spared no art to distract his attention:
she contrived for herself an employment, which called forth continual
exclamations of admiration, joy, despair, which at first made Mr. Barclay
turn to see by what they could be caused; but when he found that they were
occasioned only by the rise or fall of a house of cards which she was
building, he internally said, "Pshaw!" and afterwards kept his eyes fixed
upon his book. Sir James continued to serve the fair architect with the
frail materials for her building--her _Folly_, as she called it--and for
his services he received much encouragement of smiles, and many marked
commendations. Mrs. Hungerford called upon Mr. Barclay to read a favourite
poem.
Mr. Barclay read remarkably well, and soon fixed the attention of all the
company, except that of Lady Angelica and her knight, Sir James Harcourt,
whom she detained in her service. She could not be so flagrantly rude as
to interrupt the reader by audible exclamations, but by dumb-show, by a
variety of gestures and pretty looks of delight at every fresh story added
to her card edifice, and at every motion of terror lest her tower should
fall, her ladyship showed Mr. Barclay that she was not listening to that
which she knew he was particularly desirous that she should hear.
The moment the reader's voice ceased, Lady Angelica approached the table.
"Ten millions of pardons!" said she, drawing some cards from beneath Miss
Caroline Percy's elbow, which rested on them. "Unpardonable wretch that I
am, to have disturbed such a reverie--and such an attitude! Mr. Barclay,"
continued her ladyship, "now if you have leisure to think of me, may I
trouble you for some of your little cards for the attic of my dear Folly?"
Mr. Barclay coolly presented the cards to her ladyship: then looked out of
the window, observed that his horse was at the door, and was following Mr.
Percy out of the room, when Lady Angelica, just as Mr. Barclay passed, blew
down her tower, and exclaimed, "There's an end of my folly--of one of my
follies, I mean: I wish I could blow them all away so easily."
The sigh and look of penitence with which she pronounced these words were
accepted as expiation--Mr. Barclay stopped and returned; while sweeping the
wreck of her tower from the table, she repeated,
"Easy, as when ashore an infant stands,
And draws imagined houses on the sands,
The sportive wanton, pleased with some new play,
Sweeps the slight works and fancied domes away:
Thus vanish at thy touch the tow'rs and walls,
The toil of _mornings_ in a moment falls."
"Beautiful lines!" said Mr. Barclay.
"And charmingly repeated," said Sir James Harcourt: "are they your
ladyship's own?"
"No; Homer's," said she, smiling; "Pope's Homer's, I mean."
To cover his blunder as fast as possible, Sir James went on to something
else, and asked what her ladyship thought of Flaxman's sketches from
the Iliad and Odyssey? He had seen the book lying on the library table
yesterday: indeed, his eye had been caught, as it lay open, by a striking
resemblance--he knew it was very rude to talk of likenesses--but, really,
the resemblance was striking between a lady he had in his view, and one of
the figures in Flaxman, of Venus, or Penelope, he could not say which, but
he would look for the book and see in a moment.
The book was not to be found on the library table; Mrs. Hungerford said she
believed it was in the Oriel: Sir James went to look--Miss Caroline Percy
was drawing from it--that was unlucky, for Mr. Barclay followed, stayed
to admire Miss Percy's drawings, which he had never seen before, and
in looking over these sketches of hers from Flaxman's Homer, and from
Euripides and AEschylus, which the Lady Pembrokes showed him, and in
speaking of these, he discovered so much of Caroline's taste, literature,
and feeling, that he could not quit the Oriel. Lady Angelica had followed
to prevent mischief, and Mrs. Hungerford had followed to enjoy the pleasure
of seeing Caroline's modest merit appreciated. Whilst Mr. Barclay admired
in silence, Sir James Harcourt, not with his usual politeness, exclaimed,
"I protest I had no notion that Miss Caroline Percy drew in this style!"
"That's possible," cried Lady Mary Pembroke, colouring with that prompt
indignation which she was prone to feel when any thing was said that seemed
derogatory to her friends, "that's possible, Sir James; and yet you find
Miss Caroline Percy does draw in this very superior style--yes, and it is
the perfection of her accomplishments, that they are never exhibited."
"You have always the pleasure of discovering them," said Mrs. Hungerford;
"they are as a woman's accomplishments and acquirements ought to be, more
retiring than obtrusive; or as my old friend, Dr. South, quaintly but aptly
expresses it--more in intaglio than in cameo."
At this instant a sudden scream was heard from Lady Angelica Headingham,
who caught hold of Mr. Barclay's arm, and writhed as if in agony.
"Good Heavens! What is the matter?" cried Mr. Barclay.
"Oh! cramp! cramp! horrid cramp! in my foot--in my leg!"
"Rest upon me," said Mr. Barclay, "and stretch your foot out."
"Torture!--I can't." It was impossible that she could stand without the
support of both gentlemen.
"Carry me to the sofa--there!"
When they had carried her out of the Oriel to the sofa in the library, and
when her ladyship found that she had excited sufficient interest, and drawn
the attention of Mr. Barclay away from Caroline, her ladyship began to
grow a little better, and by graceful degrees recovered the use of her
pretty limbs. And now, as she had reason to be satisfied with the degree
of feeling which Mr. Barclay had involuntarily shown for her when he
thought she was suffering, if her vanity had had any touch of gratitude or
affection mixed with it, she would not have taken this moment to torment
the heart of the man--the only man who ever really loved her; but all in
her was vanity: she began to coquet with Sir James Harcourt--she let him
put on her sandal and tie its strings--she sent him for her shawl, for she
had a mind to walk in the park--and when Mr. Barclay offered to attend her,
and when she found that Caroline and the Lady Pembrokes were going, she had
a mind not to go, and she resolved to detain them all in admiration of her.
She took her shawl from Sir James, and throwing it round her in graceful
drapery, she asked him if he had ever seen any of Lady Hamilton's
attitudes, or rather scenic representations with shawl drapery.
Yes, he had; but he should be charmed to see them in perfection from her
ladyship.
Notwithstanding the hint Mrs. Hungerford had given about _exhibiting_,
and notwithstanding Mr. Barclay's grave looks, Lady Angelica, avowedly
to please Sir James Harcourt, consented to give the exhibition of the
passions. She ran into the Oriel--attired herself in a most appropriate
manner, and appeared first in the character of Fear--then of Hope: she
acted admirably, but just as
"Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair,"
her ladyship's auburn tresses caught on some ornament in the room. The
whole fabric was raised a little from the fair head on which it seemed to
grow--Caroline sprang forward instantly, and dexterously disentangling the
accomplished actress, relieved her from this imminent and awkward peril.
"I am sure I'm exceedingly obliged to Miss Caroline Percy," said her
ladyship, adjusting her head-dress. "There, now, all's right again--thank
you, Miss Percy--don't trouble yourself, pray."
The heartless manner of these thanks, and her ladyship's preparing to go on
again with her exhibition, so displeased and disgusted Mr. Barclay, that
he left her to the flattery of Sir James Harcourt, and, sighing deeply,
quitted the room.
Lady Angelica, proud of showing her power of tormenting a man of his sense,
smiled victorious; and, in a half whisper, said to Mrs. Hungerford, "Exit
Mr. Barclay, jealous, because he thinks I did the shawl attitudes for
Sir James, and not for him--Poor man! he's very angry; but he'll ride it
off--or I'll smile it off."
Mrs. Hungerford shook her head. When her ladyship's exhibition had
finished, and when Sir James had continued repeating, either with his words
or his looks, "Charming! Is not she charming?" till the time of dressing,
an hour to which he was always punctual, he retired to his toilette, and
Lady Angelica found herself alone with Mrs. Hungerford.
"Oh! how tired I am!" cried her ladyship, throwing herself on a sofa beside
her. "My spirits do so wear me out! I am sure I'm too much for you, Mrs.
Hungerford; I am afraid you think me a strange wild creature: but, dear
madam, why do you look so grave?"
"My dear Lady Angelica Headingham," said Mrs. Hungerford, in a serious but
affectionate tone, laying her hand upon Lady Angelica's as she spoke, "I
was, you know, your mother's most intimate friend--I wish to be yours.
Considering this and my age, I think I may venture to speak to you with
more freedom than any one else now living could with propriety--it grieves
me to see such a woman as you are, being spoiled by adulation."
"Thank you, my dear Mrs. Hungerford! and now do tell me all my faults,"
said Lady Angelica: "only first let me just say, that if you are going to
tell me that I am a coquette, and a fool, I know I am--both--and I can't
help it; and I know I am what some people call _odd_--but I would not for
the world be a common character."
"Then you must not be a coquette," said Mrs. Hungerford, "for that _is_
common character--the hackneyed character of every play, of every novel.
And whatever is common is vulgar, you know: airs and affectation are common
and paltry--throw them aside, my dear Lady Angelica; disdain flattery,
prove that you value your own esteem above vulgar admiration, and then,
with such beauty and talents as you possess, you may be what you admire, an
uncommon character."
"_May_be!" repeated Lady Angelica in a voice of vexation. "Well, I know I
have a hundred faults; but I never before heard any body, friend or enemy,
deny that I _am_ an uncommon character. Now, Mrs. Hungerford, do you know
any one of a more uncommon character?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling, "I know the thing that's most
uncommon,
'I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.'"
"Oh! your friend, Miss Caroline Percy, I suppose. Well! though she is
so great a favourite of yours, I must say that, to my fancy, she is as
little of an uncommon character as any girl I ever saw--uncommon beauty, I
acknowledge, she has, though not the style of face I like."
"And an uncommonly good understanding, without one grain of envy,
affectation, or vanity," said Mrs. Hungerford.
"Vanity!--Stay till you see her tried," said Lady Angelica; "stay till she
has gone through one winter's campaign in London; stay till she has as many
admirers as--"
"As you have," said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling. "She seems to be in a fair
way of soon trying that experiment to your satisfaction."
A considerable pause ensued; during which many conflicting passions
appeared in Lady Angelica's countenance.
"After all, Mrs. Hungerford," resumed she, "do you think Mr. Barclay is
really attached to me?"
"I think he _was_ really attached to you, and strongly: but you have been
doing all you can to weaken and destroy his attachment, I fear."
"Fear nothing! I fear nothing," exclaimed Lady Angelica, "now you tell me,
dear Mrs. Hungerford, that you do not doubt the _reality_ of his love: all
the rest I will answer for--trust to me, I know my game."
Mrs. Hungerford sighed; and replied, "I am old, have stood by, and seen
this game played and lost so often, and by as able players as Lady Angelica
Headingham--take care--remember I warn you."
Miss Caroline Percy came into the room at this instant--Lady Angelica went
to her toilette to repair her charms.
CHAPTER XVII.
While Mrs. Hungerford was wasting her good advice upon Lady Angelica, Sir
James Harcourt at his toilette received this day's letters, which he read,
as usual, while his hair was dressing. Some of these letters were from
creditors, who were impatient to hear when his _advantageous marriage_
would be concluded, or when he would obtain that place which had been so
long promised. The place at court, as he was by this post informed by a
_private, very confidential_ letter, under a government cover and huge
seal, from his intimate friend, my Lord Skreene, ministers had found
themselves under the unfortunate necessity of giving away, to secure three
votes on a certain cabinet question.
Sir James threw the letter from him, without reading the rest of his
dear friend's official apologies: "So, the place at court is out of the
question--a wife must be my last resource," thought he, "but how to bring
her to the point?"
Sir James knew that though he was now in high favour, he might, at some
sudden turn of caprice, be discarded or deserted by his fair one, as had
been the fate of so many of his predecessors. The ruling passion, vanity,
must be touched, and the obvious means of awakening jealousy were in
his power. He determined to pay attentions to Miss Caroline Percy: his
experience in the tactics of gallantry supplying the place of knowledge of
the human heart, he counterfeited the symptoms of a new passion, and acted
"The Inconstant" so well, that Lady Angelica had no doubt of his being
what be appeared. She was not prepared for this turn of fate, well as she
thought she knew her game, and at this unlucky moment, just when she wanted
to play off Sir James against Mr. Barclay--and in an old castle in the
country too, where no substitute was to be had!
Her ladyship was the more vexed, because Mrs. Hungerford must see her
distress. Unused to any thing that opposed her wishes, she lost all temper,
and every word and look manifested resentment and disdain towards her
innocent and generous rival. In this jealousy, as there was no mixture of
love to colour and conceal its nature, it could not pass for refinement of
sentiment--it bore no resemblance to any thing noble--it must have been
detected, even by a less penetrating and less interested observer than Mr.
Barclay. His eyes were now completely opened.
In the mean time, Caroline's character, the more it was brought into light,
the more its value, goodness, and purity appeared. In the education of a
beauty, as of a prince, it is essential early to inspire an utter contempt
of flattery, and to give the habit of observing, and consequently the power
of judging, of character.
Caroline, on this occasion, when, perhaps, some little temptation
might have been felt by some ladies, remembered her own prayer against
coquetry--her manner towards Sir James was free from all possibility of
reproach or misconstruction: and by simply and steadily adhering to the
truth, and going the straight road, she avoided all the difficulties in
which she would have been involved, had she deviated but for a moment into
any crooked path.
But to return to Lady Angelica Headingham. She was pleased to see Sir James
Harcourt disconcerted, and delighted to see him mortified. Her ladyship's
disdainful manner towards Caroline was thrown aside,
"And all the cruel language of the eye"
changed at once. Lady Angelica acknowledged that no one could show more
magnanimity than Miss Caroline Percy had displayed in her conduct to Sir
James Harcourt. This speech was made of course to be repeated, and when
Caroline heard it she could not help smiling at the word magnanimity, which
sounded to her rather too grand for the occasion.
Sir James Harcourt finding himself completely foiled in his schemes, and
perceiving that the parties were closing and combining in a manner which
his knowledge of the world had not taught him to foresee, endeavoured with
all possible address and expedition to make his separate peace with Lady
Angelica. Her ladyship, however, was proud to show that she had too much
sense and spirit to accept again the homage of this recreant knight. He
had not time to sue for pardon--his adventure might have ended in a jail;
so forthwith he took his departure from Hungerford Castle, undetermined
whether he should again haste to court to beg a place, or bend his course
to the city, there to barter his fashion against the solid gold of some
merchant, rolling in his majesty's coin, who might be silly enough to give
his daughter, for a bow, to a courtier without a shilling. On one point,
however, Sir James was decided--betide him weal, betide him woe--that his
next mistress should neither be a wit, nor a beauty, nor yet a patroness.
After the departure of the baronet, the Lady Angelica expected to find her
remaining lover at her feet, in transports of joy and gratitude for this
haughty dismissal of his rival. No such thing: Mr. Barclay seemed disposed
to throw himself at the feet of another, and of the last person in the
world at whose feet her ladyship could bear to think of seeing him. Yet if
she had even now taken Mrs. Hungerford's friendly warning, she might still
have saved herself from mortification; but she was hurried on by her evil
genius--the spirit of coquetry.
She had promised to pay a visit this summer to an aunt of Mr. Barclay, Lady
B----, who lived in Leicestershire. And now, when every thing was arranged
for her reception, Lady Angelica changed her mind, and told Mr. Barclay
that she could not go, that she had just received letters from town, from
several of her fashionable friends, who were setting out for Weymouth, and
who insisted upon her meeting them there--and there was a delightful Miss
Kew, a protegee of hers, who was gone to Weymouth in the hope and trust
that her ladyship would _produce_ her and her new novel at the reading
parties which Lady Angelica had projected. She declared that she could
not possibly disappoint Miss Kew; besides, she had promised to carry Mr.
Seebright to Weymouth, to introduce him and his poem to her friends--his
subscription and the success of his poem entirely depended upon her going
to Weymouth--she could not possibly disappoint _him_.
Mr. Barclay thought more of his own disappointment--and said so: at which
her ladyship rejoiced, for she wished to make this a trial of her power;
and she desired rather that her reasons should not appear valid, and that
her excuses should not be reasonable, on purpose that she might compel
Mr. Barclay to submit to her caprice, and carry him off in triumph in her
train.
She carelessly repeated that Leicestershire was out of the question at this
time, but that Mr. Barclay might attend her, if he pleased.
But it did not please him: he did not think that his aunt was properly
treated, and he preferred her to all the bel-esprits and fine ladies who
were going to Weymouth--her charming self excepted.
She depended too much on the power of that charming self. Mr. Barclay,
whose bands she had gradually loosened, now made one resolute effort,
asserted and recovered his liberty. He declared that to Weymouth he could
not have the honour of attending her: if her ladyship thought the claims
and feelings of her protegees of greater consequence than his, if she held
herself more bound by the promises she had given to Mr. Seebright, Miss
Kew, or any of her bel-esprit friends, than by those with which she had
honoured his aunt, he could not presume to dispute her pleasure, or further
to press Lady B.'s request; he could only lament--and submit.
Lady Angelica flattered herself that this was only a bravado, or a
temporary ebullition of courage, but, to her surprise and dismay, Mr.
Barclay continued firm, calm, and civil. His heart now turned to the object
on which his understanding had long since told him it should fix. He saw
that Miss Caroline Percy was all that could make him happy for life, if he
could win her affections; but of the possibility of succeeding he had great
doubts. He had, to be sure, some circumstances in his favour: he was of a
good family, and had a considerable fortune; in a worldly point of view
he was a most advantageous match for Caroline Percy, but he knew that an
establishment was not the _first_ object, either with her, or with her
parents; neither could he wish that any motives of interest should operate
in his favour. His character, his principles, were good, and he had reason
to believe that Mr. Percy was impressed with a highly favourable opinion of
his good sense and general understanding. Caroline talked to him always as
if she liked his conversation, and felt esteem for his character; but the
very freedom and ease of her manner showed that she had no thoughts of him.
He was many years older than Caroline: it did not amount to an absolute
disparity, but it was an alarming difference. Mr. Barclay, who estimated
himself with perfect impartiality and candour, was sensible that though
his temper was good, yet that he was somewhat fastidious, and though his
manners were polite, yet they were reserved--they wanted that amenity,
gaiety, and frankness, which might be essential to win and keep a lady's
heart. The more his love, the more doubts of his own deserts increased;
but at last he determined to try his fate. He caught a glimpse of Caroline
one morning as she was drawing in the Oriel. Her sister and the two Lady
Pembrokes were in the library, and he thought he was secure of finding her
alone.
"May I beg the favour of a few minutes?"--he began with a voice of much
emotion as he entered the room; but he stopped short at the sight of Lady
Angelica.
In spite of all the rouge she wore, her ladyship's change of colour was
striking. Her lips trembled and grew pale. Mr. Barclay's eyes fixed
upon her for one moment with astonishment, then turning calmly away, he
addressed himself to Caroline, his emotion recurring, though he merely
spoke to her of a drawing which she was examining, and though he only said,
"Is this yours?"
"Yes, Lady Angelica has just given it to me; it is one of her drawings--a
view of Weymouth."
"Very beautiful," said Mr. Barclay, coldly--"a view of Weymouth."
"Where I hope to be the day after to-morrow," cried Lady Angelica, speaking
in a hurried, piqued, and haughty voice--"I am dying to get to Weymouth.
Mr. Barclay, if you have any letters for your friends there, I shall be
happy to carry them. Only let them be given to my woman in time," added her
ladyship, rising; "and now I must go and say _vivace! presto! prestissimo!_
to her preparations. Well, have you any commands?"
"No commands--but my best wishes for your ladyship's health and happiness,
whenever and wherever you go."
Lady Angelica sunk down upon her seat--made a strong effort to rise
again--but was unable. Caroline, without appearing to take any notice of
this, turned to Mr. Barclay, and said, "Will you have the goodness now to
give me the book which you were so kind as to promise me?"
Mr. Barclay went in search of it. Caroline proceeded with her drawing, gave
Lady Angelica time to recover, and left her the hope that her perturbation
had not been noticed. Her ladyship, as soon as she could, left the room,
repeating that she had some orders to give for her departure. Caroline
waited some time in vain for Mr. Barclay and his book. Afterwards, as
she was going up stairs, she was met by Rosamond, who, with a face full
of mystery, whispered, "Caroline, my father wants you this instant in
my mother's dressing-room--Mr. Barclay," added she, in a low voice, and
nodding her head, "Oh! I see you know what I mean--I knew how it would
be--I said so last night. Now go to my father, and you will hear all the
particulars."
Caroline heard from her father the confirmation of Rosamond's intelligence,
and she received from him and from her mother the kind assurance that
they would leave her entirely at liberty to accept or refuse Mr. Barclay,
according as her own judgment and feelings might dictate. They said, that
though it might be, in point of fortune, a highly advantageous match,
and though they saw nothing to which they could object in his character,
understanding, and temper, yet they should not attempt to influence her in
his favour. They begged her to decide entirely for herself, and to consult
only her own happiness.
"All I insist upon, my dear daughter, is, that you should, without any
idle or unjust generosity, consider first and solely what is for your own
happiness."
"And for Mr. Barclay's," said Caroline.
"And for Mr. Barclay's, as far as you are concerned: but, remember, the
question he asks you is, whether you can love him, whether you will marry
him, not whether you would advise him to love or marry somebody else? Don't
I know all that passes in your mind?"
"Not all, perhaps," said Caroline, "nor can I tell it you, because it is
another person's secret; therefore, I am sure you will not question me
further: but since you are so kind as to trust to my judgment, trust to
it entirely, when I assure you that I will, without any idle or unjust
generosity, consider, principally, what is for my own happiness."
"I am satisfied," said Mr. Percy, "no--one thing more: without meaning or
wishing to penetrate into any other person's affairs, I have a full right
to say to my daughter all that may be necessary to assist her in deciding
on a point the most material to her happiness. Now, Caroline," continued
her father, looking away from her, "observe, I do not endeavour, from my
knowledge of your countenance, even to guess whether what I imagine is
fact; but I state to you this supposition--suppose you had been told that
another lady is attached to Mr. Barclay?"
"I never was told so," interrupted Caroline, "but I have discovered it
by accident--No, I have said too much--I do not think _that person_ is
attached to him, but that she might easily have become attached, if this
proposal had been made to her instead of to me; and I think that their
two characters are exactly suited to each other--much better suited than
mine could be to Mr. Barclay, or his to me: she has wit and imagination,
and great vivacity; he has judgment, prudence, and solid sense: in each
there is what would compensate for what is wanting in the other, and both
together would make a happy union."
"My dear Caroline," said her father, "I must put you upon your guard
against the too easy faith of a sincere affectionate heart. I am really
surprised that you, who have always shown such good judgment of character,
should now be so totally mistaken as to think a woman capable of a real
love who is merely acting a part from vanity and coquetry."
"Vanity! coquetry!" repeated Caroline: "nobody upon earth is more free from
vanity and coquetry than--Surely you do not imagine I am thinking of Lady
Angelica Headingham?--Oh! no; I have no compassion for her. I know that if
she suffers from losing Mr. Barclay, it will be only from losing 'the dear
delight of giving pain,' and I should be very sorry she ever again enjoyed
that delight at Mr. Barclay's expense. I assure you, I am not thinking of
Lady Angelica."
Both Mr. and Mrs. Percy were in doubt whether Caroline was thinking of her
sister Rosamond or of her friend Lady Mary Pembroke; but without attempting
to discover, they only repeated that, whoever the person in question might
be, or however amiable or dear to Caroline, she ought not to let this idea
interfere with her own happiness, or influence her in giving an answer
to Mr. Barclay's proposal, which she ought either to accept or decline,
according as her own feelings and judgment should decide.--"If you wish
to take time to decide, your father and I will make Mr. Barclay clearly
understand that he is not to consider this as any encouragement; and as to
the rest," added Mrs. Percy, "when you are sure that you mean right, and
that you do right, you will not, my dear Caroline, I hope, be deterred from
determining upon what is best for your own happiness, merely by the weak
fear of what idle foolish people will say about an affair in which they
have no concern."
Caroline assured her mother that no such weak fear acted upon her mind; and
that in any case where she had the least doubt whether she could like a
person as a husband or not, she should certainly ask for time to consider,
before she would give an answer; but that, with respect to Mr. Barclay,
she had had sufficient opportunities of seeing and judging of him in the
character of a lover, whilst he had been the admirer of Lady Angelica;
that she fully appreciated his good qualities, and was grateful for his
favourable opinion; but that she felt perfectly certain that she did not
and could not love him; and therefore she desired, as soon as possible,
to put him out of the pain of suspense, to prevent him from having the
mortification of showing himself the admirer of one by whom he must
ultimately be refused; and to leave him at liberty to turn his thoughts
elsewhere, to some person to whom he was better suited, and who was better
suited to him.
Mr. Barclay had made Mrs. Hungerford alone his confidant. As to Lady
Angelica Headingham, he thought that her ladyship could not be in any doubt
of the state of his affections as far as she was concerned, and that was
all she had a right to know. He never had actually declared his passion
for her, and his attentions had completely ceased since the determination
she had made to break her engagement with his aunt; but Lady Angelica had
still imagined that he would not be able to bring himself to part with
her for ever, and she trusted that, even at the moment of getting into
her carriage, she might prevail upon him to forget his wrongs, and might
at last carry him off. These hopes had been checked, and for a moment
overthrown, by Mr. Barclay's appearance this morning in the Oriel; the
emotion with which she saw him speak to Caroline, and the indifference with
which she heard him wish her ladyship health and happiness at Weymouth, or
wherever she went, for an instant convinced her of the truth. But obstinate
vanity recurred to the hope that he was not yet irreclaimable, and under
this persuasion she hurried on the preparations for her departure,
impatient for the moment of crisis--of triumph.
The moment of crisis arrived--but not of triumph. Lady Angelica
Headingham's landau came to the door. But _trunks packed and corded_ gave
no pang to her former lover--Mrs. Hungerford did not press her to stay--Mr.
Barclay handed her into the carriage--she stooped to conquer, so far as to
tell him that, as she had only Mr. Seebright and her maid, she could give
him a seat in her carriage, if he would come to Weymouth, and that she
would thence, in a fortnight at farthest, go to his aunt, dear Lady B----,
in Leicestershire. But all in vain--she saw it would not do--bid her
servant shut the carriage-door--desired Mr. Seebright to draw up the glass,
and, with a look of angry contempt towards Mr. Barclay, threw herself back
on the seat to conceal the vexation which she could not control, and drove
away for ever from irreclaimable lovers and lost friends. We do not envy
Mr. Seebright his trip to Weymouth with his patroness in this humour; but
without troubling ourselves further to inquire what became of her, we leave
her
"To flaunt, and go down a disregarded thing."
Rosamond seemed to think that if Caroline married Mr. Barclay, the
denouement would be too near, too clear, and commonplace: she said that in
this case Caroline would just be married, like any body else, to a man with
a good fortune, good character, good sense, and every thing very good, but
nothing extraordinary, and she would be settled at Mr. Barclay's seat in
Leicestershire, and she would be Mrs. Barclay, and, perhaps, happy enough,
but nothing extraordinary.
This plain view of things, and this positive termination of all hope of
romance, did not please Rosamond's imagination. She was relieved, when
at last Caroline surprised her with the assurance that there was no
probability of Mr. Barclay's succeeding in his suit. "And yet," said
Caroline, "if I were compelled at this moment to marry, of all men I have
ever yet seen, Mr. Barclay is the person to whom I could engage myself with
the least reluctance--the person with whom I think I should have the best
security for happiness."
Rosamond's face again lengthened. "If that is the case," said she, "though
you have no intention of marrying him at present, you will, I suppose, be
_reasoned into_ marrying him in time."
"No," said Caroline, "for I cannot be reasoned into loving him."
"There's my own dear Caroline," cried Rosamond: "I was horribly afraid that
this man of sense would have convinced you that esteem was quite sufficient
without love."
"Impossible!" said Caroline. "There must be some very powerful motive that
could induce me to quit my family: I can conceive no motive sufficiently
powerful, except love."
Rosamond was delighted.
"For what else _could_ I marry?" continued Caroline: "I, who am left by
the kindest of parents freely to my own choice--could I marry for a house
in Leicestershire? or for a barouche and four? on Lady Jane Granville's
principles for _an establishment_? or on the _missy_ notion of being
married, and having a house of my own, and ordering my own dinner?--Was
this your notion of me?" said Caroline, with a look of such surprise, that
Rosamond was obliged to fall immediately to protestations, and appeals to
common sense. "How was it possible she could have formed such ideas!"
"Then why were you so much surprised and transported just now, when I told
you that no motive but love could induce me to marry?"
"I don't recollect being surprised--I was only delighted. I never suspected
that you could marry without love, but I thought that you and I might
differ as to the quantity--the degree."
"No common degree of love, and no common love, would be sufficient to
induce me to marry," said Caroline.
"Once, and but once, before in your life, you gave me the idea of your
having such an exalted opinion of love," replied Rosamond.
"But to return to Mr. Barclay," said Caroline. "I have, as I promised
my father that I would, consulted in the first place my own heart, and
considered my own happiness. He appears to me incapable of that enthusiasm
which rises either to the moral or intellectual sublime. I respect his
understanding, and esteem his principles; but in conversing with him,
I always feel--and in passing my life with him, how much more should I
feel!--that there is a want of the higher qualities of the mind. He shows
no invention, no genius, no magnanimity--nothing heroic, nothing great,
nothing which could waken sympathy, or excite that strong attachment,
which I think that I am capable of feeling for a superior character--for a
character at once good and great."
"And where upon earth are you to find such a man? Who is romantic now?"
cried Rosamond. "But I am very glad that you _are_ a little romantic; I am
glad that you have in you a touch of human absurdity, else how could you be
my sister, or how could I love you as I do?"
"I am heartily glad that you love me, but I am not sensible of my present
immediate claim to your love by my touch of human absurdity," said
Caroline, smiling. "What did I say, that was absurd or romantic?"
"My dear, people never think their own romance absurd. Well! granted that
you are not romantic, since that is a point which I find I must grant
before we can go on,--now, tell me, was Mr. Barclay very sorry when you
refused him?" said Rosamond.
"I dare not tell you that there is yet no danger of his breaking his
heart," said Caroline.
"So I thought," cried Rosamond, with a look of ineffable contempt. "I
thought he was not a man to break his heart for love. With all his sense, I
dare say he will go back to his Lady Angelica Headingham. I should not be
surprised if he went after her to Weymouth to-morrow."
"I should," said Caroline; "especially as he has just ordered his carriage
to take him to his aunt, Lady B----, in Leicestershire."
"Oh! poor man!" said Rosamond, "now I do pity him."
"Because he is going to his aunt?"
"No; Caroline--you are very cruel--because I am sure he is very much
touched and disappointed by your refusal. He cannot bear to see you again.
Poor! _poor_ Mr. Barclay! I have been shamefully ill-natured. I hope I did
not prejudice your mind against him--I'll go directly and take leave of
him--poor Mr. Barclay!"
Rosamond, however, returned a few minutes afterwards, to complain that Mr.
Barclay had not made efforts enough to persuade Caroline to listen to him.
"If he had been warmly in love, he would not so easily have given up hope.
'None, without hope, e'er loved the brightest fair;
But love can hope, where Reason should despair.'
"That, I think, is perfectly true," said Rosamond.
Never--begging Rosamond and the poet's pardon--never--except where
reason is very weak, or where the brightest fair has some touch of the
equivocating fiend. Love, let poets and lovers say what they will to the
contrary, can no more subsist without hope than flame can exist without
fuel. In all the cases cited to prove the contrary, we suspect that there
has been some inaccuracy in the experiment, and that by mistake a little,
a very little hope has been admitted. The slightest portion, a quantity
imperceptible to common observation, is known to be quite sufficient to
maintain the passion; but a total exclusion of hope secures its extinction.
Mr. Barclay's departure was much regretted by all at Hungerford Castle,
most, perhaps, by the person who expressed that regret the least, Lady
Mary Pembroke--who now silently enjoyed the full chorus of praise that
was poured forth in honour of the departed. Lady Mary's common mode of
enjoying the praise of her friends was not in silence; all she thought and
felt usually came to her lips with the ingenuous vivacity of youth and
innocence. Caroline had managed so well by not managing at all, that Lady
Mary, far from guessing the real cause of Mr. Barclay's sudden departure,
repeatedly expressed surprise that her aunt Hungerford did not press him to
stay a little longer; and once said she wondered how Mr. Barclay _could_
leave Hungerford Castle whilst Caroline was there; that she had begun to
think he had formed an attachment which would do him more honour than his
passion for Lady Angelica Headingham, but that she feared he would have
a relapse of that fit of folly, and that it would at last end fatally in
marriage.
Mrs. Hungerford smiled at the openness with which her niece told her
conjectures, and at the steadiness with which Caroline kept Mr. Barclay's
secret, by saying no more than just the thing she ought. "The power of
keeping a secret is very different from the habit of dissimulation. You
would convince me of this, if I had doubted it," said Mrs. Hungerford, to
Caroline. "Now that the affair is settled, my dear, I must insist upon
your praising me, as I have praised you for discretion. I hope I never
influenced your decision by word or look, but I will now own to you that
I was very anxious that you should decide precisely as you have done. Mr.
Barclay is a sensible man, an excellent man, one who will make any amiable
woman he marries happy. I am convinced of it, or I should not, as I do,
wish to see him married to my niece--yet I never thought him suited to
you. Yours is a character without pretension, yet one which, in love and
marriage, would not, I believe, be easily satisfied, would require great
qualities, a high tone of thought and action, a character superior and
lofty as your own."
Mrs. Hungerford paused, and seemed lost in thought. Caroline felt that this
lady had seen deeply into her mind. This conviction, beyond all praise,
and all demonstrations of fondness, increases affection, confidence, and
gratitude, in strong and generous minds. Caroline endeavoured, but could
not well express in words what she felt at this instant.
"My dear," said Mrs. Hungerford, "we know that we are speaking plain
truth to each other--we need no flowers of speech--I understand you, and
you understand me. We are suited to each other--yes, notwithstanding the
difference of age, and a thousand other differences, we are suited to
each other. This possibility of a friendship between youth and age is
one of the rewards Heaven grants to the early and late cultivation of
the understanding and of the affections. Late as it is with me in life,
I have not, thank God, survived my affections. How can I ever, whilst
I have such children, such friends!" After a pause of a few moments of
seemingly pleasurable reflections, Mrs. Hungerford continued, "I have
never considered friendship as but a name--as a mere worldly commerce
of interest: I believe in disinterested affection, taking the word
_disinterested_ in its proper sense; and I have still, believe me, the
power of sympathizing with a _young_ friend--such a young friend as
Caroline Percy. Early as it is with her in life, she has so cultivated her
understanding, so regulated her mind, that she cannot consider friendship
merely as a companionship in frivolous amusement, or a mixture of gossiping
confidences and idle sentiment; therefore, I am proud enough to hope that
she can and will be the friend of such an old woman as I am."
"It would be the pride of my life to have--to deserve such a friend,"
cried Caroline: "I feel all the condescension of this kindness. I know you
are much too good to me. I am afraid you think too highly of me. But Mrs.
Hungerford's praise does not operate like flattery: though it exalts me
in my own opinion, it shall not make me vain; it excites my ambition to
be--all she thinks me."
"You _are_ all I think you," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and that you may
hereafter be something yet nearer than a friend to me is the warmest wish
of my heart--But, no, I will not indulge myself in expressing that wish;
Such wishes are never wise where we have no power, no right to act--such
wishes often counteract their own object--anticipations are always
imprudent. But--about my niece, Lady Mary Pembroke. I particularly admire
the discretion, still more than the kindness, with which you have acted
with respect to her and Mr. Barclay--you have left things to their natural
course. You have not by any imprudent zeal or generosity hazarded a word
that could hurt the delicacy of either party. You seem to have been fully
aware that wherever the affections are concerned, the human mind is most
tenacious of what one half of the philosophers in the world will not allow
to exist, and the other half cannot define. Influenced as we all are every
moment in our preferences and aversions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes
avowedly, by the most trifling and often the silliest causes, yet the
wisest of us start, and back, and think it incumbent on our pride in love
affairs, to resist the slightest interference, or the best advice, from the
best friends. What! love upon compulsion! No--Jupiter is not more tenacious
of his thunderbolt than Cupid is of his arrows. Blind as he is, none may
presume to direct the hand of that little urchin."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who
brought the post-bag, with many letters for Mrs. Hungerford.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The arrival of the post was at this time an anxious moment to Mrs.
Hungerford, as she had so many near relations and friends in the army and
navy. This day brought letters, with news that lighted up her countenance
with dignified joy, one from Captain Hungerford, her second son, ten
minutes after an action at sea with the French.
"Dear mother--English victorious, of course; for particulars, see Gazette.
In the cockle shell I have, could do nothing worth mentioning, but am
promised a ship soon, and hope for opportunity to show myself worthy to be
your son.
"F. HUNGERFORD."
"I hope I am grateful to Providence for such children!" cried Mrs.
Hungerford.
Mrs. Mortimer darted upon Captain Hungerford's name in the Gazette--"And
I cannot refrain from mentioning to your lordships the gallant manner in
which I was seconded by Captain Hungerford."
"Happy mother that I am! And more happiness still--a letter also from my
colonel! Thanks of commanding officer--gallant conduct abroad--leave of
absence for three weeks--and will be here to-morrow!"
This news spread through the castle in a few minutes, and the whole house
was in motion and in joy.
"What is the matter?" said Rosamond, who had been out of the room when the
colonel's letter was read. "As I came down stairs, I met I can't tell how
many servants running different ways, with faces of delight. I do believe
Colonel Hungerford is come."
"Not come, but coming," said Mrs. Hungerford; "and I am proud that you, my
friends, should see what a sensation the first sound of his return makes in
his own _home_. There it is, after all, that you may best judge what a man
really is."
Every thing conspired to give Caroline a favourable idea of Colonel
Hungerford. He arrived--and his own appearance and manners, far from
contradicting, fully justified all that his friends had said. His
appearance was that of a soldier and a gentleman, with a fine person and
striking countenance, with the air of command, yet without presumption;
not without a consciousness of his own merit, but apparently with only
a consciousness sufficient to give value and grace to his deference for
others. To those he respected or loved, his manner was particularly
engaging; and the appropriate attentions he paid to each of his friends
proved that their pe |
