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Tales and Novels — Volume 07

by Maria Edgeworth · English · Gutenberg #8937 · 1,122,845 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales and Novels — Volume 07

Author: Maria Edgeworth


        
Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8937]
                Most recently updated: December 20, 2016

Language: English

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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, William Flis, David Widger and Distributed Proofreaders








TALES AND NOVELS, VOLUME VII (of X)


PATRONAGE


By Maria Edgeworth.


In Ten Volumes. With Engravings On Steel.





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 chargé 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 be 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 tête exaltée_, 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, chargé 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 chargé 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 chargé 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 entrée! 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 _divorcée_; 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 _bergère_, 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 mérite bien de l’être_,” 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 Cæsar, 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 _protégé_ 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 _réputation 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 _protégé_
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 inqui

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