Sir Thomas Crawley paced up and down his handsome library, a prey to
anxiety!--much depended on the turn events might take over which he had
no control, but which yet must exercise a great and lasting influence
on his future career. A ministerial crisis was at hand, and the party
to which Sir Thomas belonged would either be turned out, or would retain
their position reinforced by a coalition with some of their opponents,
and thus become stronger than they had ever before felt themselves. If
they went out, Sir Thomas was prepared, cleverly and respectably, to
“rat,” and come in again with the opposition; but if they remained
in, he was equally prepared to adhere to them with the most unshakable
fidelity, and to make himself as generally useful and agreeable as
in him lay: either way he trusted to see his services rewarded by a
baronetcy, and he was only waiting for this desirable consummation,
to make an offer of his bad heart, and dirty hand, to the ugly younger
daughter of a very aristocratic, disagreeable, old nobleman. If he
succeeded in all this, he told himself he should have reached the height
of his ambition, and mentally promised his conscience (for, reader,
he had a conscience as well as you and I, though-we, in our superior
sanctity, regard it as a poor limp, damaged, washed-out piece of goods,
and look down upon it accordingly, like two fine old English Pharisees
as we are) to give up sneaking, and shuffling, which he called tact
and policy, and live virtuously ever after, as became a member of the
aristocracy--thus fitting himself to proceed, _via_ the family vault,
to take possession of some equivalent for the Ashburn estates in another
world, in regard to which he was fain to own that his title at present
was a little---just a very little--doubtful. What a bad man Sir Thomas
was, to be sure! How lucky, dear reader, that you and I are so much
better than he!
But Sir Thomas had two friends in the ministry, Messrs. Tadpole and
Taper (the Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli knows them, and has made
notable mention of them in his tale of “Coningsby”), whose views were
exactly in accordance with his own, _i.e._--to take the best possible
care of their own interests, and (whenever that purpose could be best
insured by their _so_ doing) of each other’s also; and Sir Thomas
had that morning received the following note, marked “private and
confidential,” from his friend Tadpole:--
“Dear Sir Thomas,--I have just learned, from an _unmistakable quarter_,
that it is Lord ---------‘s (naming the Premier for the time being)
intention to apply to you for your living of Ashburn for the nephew of
Mr. ----------, the colonial Bishop of Boreanigger. The coalition is
still quite upon the cards, so it would scarcely be advisable to say
‘no;’ while, if they go out, which is more than probable, to say ‘yes’
would be certain to give offence where you would least wish to do so.
I would therefore suggest that, if you have not already filled up the
vacancy, it would be _most desirable_ to do so without delay, and you
will thus avoid the difficulty--_verbum sat_.
“I am, dear Sir Thomas, yours very faithfully.
“A. Tadpole.”
“P.S. You will kindly bear in mind that clerkship in the Woods and
Forests; young Grig, Mrs. Tadpole’s nephew, is a very promising lad, and
in good hands might do credit to his patron.”
Sir Thomas read and re-read the letter. How fortunate that Tadpole had
ferreted out this information! but for that he might have been forced
to commit himself irrevocably to the wrong side--horrible idea! Yes,
Tadpole was right: the living must be disposed of without an hour’s
delay: who should he give it to? It must be some one without political
influence or connection, Zest he should give offence to either party! At
this moment, from one of those strange chances which occasionally appear
to determine the whole destiny of a lifetime by the agency of a mere
trifle, Sir Thomas knocked some papers off his desk, and as he stooped
to pick them up, the card Ernest Carrington had sent in some weeks
before fell from among them. He raised it, and regarding it fixedly, as
though he were scrutinizing the person whose name it bore, muttered--
“Young Carrington, he is in the Church--why should not he do? He might,
of course, be had at a minute’s notice;--£800 a year would be a fortune
to him;--besides, there’s policy in the thing--I find North Park (a farm
of some five hundred acres) is in the entail; if he were to get scent
of it, and could obtain access to the papers, he might claim it any day;
his boyish, chivalrous scruples are sure to wear out; this would bind
him to me by the the of gratitude: he is just one of those hot-headed,
romantic dispositions that are always absurdly grateful. Gad! I could
not have hit on a fitter person; I’ll write to him at once: I’ve got
his direction, somewhere”--as he spoke, he began tossing over papers and
letters in search of the missing direction. “A very good thought,” he
continued; “I could see through that young fellow in a minute; he may
be managed as easy as a child, if you only take advantage of his weak
points. I like ’em of what they call an open disposition; they show
you their whole hand at starting; it’s your close, crafty, quiet dogs
that are the hardest to deal with. I shall make a point with him that
he gets every farthing out of that proud, haughty Mrs. Colville, and her
conceited, stuck-up minx of a daughter; they’ve looked down upon me, and
never liked me, I know: they’ll be sorry for it some day.”
Ernest Carrington, when he returned to his rooms after morning school,
found two letters on his table. The first he opened was from Dr.
Donkiestir, and ran as follows:--
“My Dear Sir,--It is with considerable pain that I feel it ny duty to
urge upon you the propriety of resigning your position, as Mathematical
and Classical Master, at the school of which I have the honour to be
Principal. As regards talent and acquirements, I have never before had
so able an assistant, but there are other qualities necessary in the
onerous position of second-master of such a school as that over which I
have, since its establishment, presided, which are equally important.
In these qualities, the injudicious manner in which you this morning
allowed, what I admit to have been an impulse of generous feeling, to
hurry you into a breach of scholastic discipline, which a more hasty man
than myself might have construed into a personal insult, proves you to
be utterly wanting. It is to avoid the possibility of your again placing
both yourself and me in such a false and difficult position, that I
thus reluctantly press upon you the advisability of your immediate
resignation. When a few more years shall have passed over your head,
maturing your judgment, and tempering your impulsive disposition, I can
conceive you will prove eminently qualified for the responsible, yet
interesting office of an instructor to youth. In the meantime, I would
advise your looking out for a curacy, or a situation as tutor to some
young nobleman about to travel. I shall have much pleasure in giving you
unexceptionable testimonials for such a purpose, or in furthering you.
interest, to the extent of my power, in any other manner you may point
out.--Awaiting your reply,
“I remain, dear Sir,
“Yours very faithfully,
“John Hannibal Donkiestir, D.D.”
“So that is my reward for my philanthropy, is it?” was Ernest
Carrington’s mental comment as he finished perusing the Doctor’s letter.
“Well, I daresay I did wrong to interfere, but I should hate myself if
I could have sat by and watched the expression in that boy, Percy
Colville’s, beautiful face, or listened to that poor little child’s
heart-broken sobs, and not tried to help them--I’m glad I’ve saved the
little fellow, at all events; no more teaching for me; I’d sooner go
out as a missionary, and try to wash blackamore heathens into piebald
Christians than that. Well, now for a curacy, hard labour, and genteel
starvation on £80 a year; never mind, I shall be my own master, at all
events, and may do some good amongst the poor people: no drudgery can
be worse than this horse-in-a-mill life I have been leading of late.
A letter from Sir Thomas Crawley. What can he want of me? I’ve no more
birthrights to sell for a mess of pottage;” and with such hard, but not
unnatural, thoughts running in his brain, he broke the seal, and read as
follows--
“My dear young Kinsman,--Ever since I had the pleasure of making your
acquaintance, and learning the very sensible views you hold on all
topics, political and religious--views which agree so remarkably with my
own--I have been turning in my mind how best I may assist you, and
have come to the conclusion that I cannot better discharge my duty as a
patron of ecclesiastical preferment, than by offering you my living of
Ashburn, now vacant. The parish contains from six hundred to six hundred
and fifty souls, and the living is worth eight hundred per annum, with
a parsonage-house and glebe attached; you will thus be rendered
independent of any pecuniary difficulties, and able to apply your mind
entirely to that deeply interesting subject, the religious and social
improvement of the labouring classes. I have only two provisos to
make:--one is, that if you approve of the position I offer you, you will
signify your acceptance of it by return of post (my reason for this I
will explain satisfactorily when we meet); the other, that you
promise to urge your claim upon the estate of the late incumbent for
dilapidations in the house and glebe. I am sure you will agree with me,
that the Church is bound, in this latitudinarian age, to protect her
property; and I can bestow’ my living upon no one who will not give me a
distinct pledge upon this point.
“I remain, my dear young kinsman,
“Your affectionate friend and relative,
“Thomas Crawley, K.C.B.”
Poor Ernest! The revulsion of feeling was almost too much for him, and
in his contrition for the hard thoughts he had entertained of Sir Thomas
Crawley, he dashed off a hasty letter, full of generous feeling and
overflowing with gratitude, in which he thankfully accepted the living,
and pledged himself to see full justice done to the interests of the
Church as embodied in the Ashburn Rectory dilapidations: he was sorry
for it afterwards, when---- but we must not anticipate.