Some sage moralist has observed, that even in the accomplishment of our
most ardent wishes in this world, there is always some circumstance that
disappoints our expectations, or mixes somewhat of pain with the joy.
“This is perfectly true,” thought Rosamond. “How often have I wished for
Caroline’s marriage with Count Altenberg--and now she is married--really
married--and gone!”
It had passed with the rapidity of a dream: the hurry of joy, the
congratulations--all, all was over; and in sad silence, Rosamond felt
the reality of her loss--by Rosamond doubly felt at this moment, when
all her own affairs were in great uncertainty. Mr. Temple was still
unable to obtain the performance of the promise which had been made him
of _remuneration_ and _competent provision_. He had gone through,
in compliance with the advice of his friends, the mortification of
reiterating vain memorials and applications to the Duke of Greenwich,
Lord Skrimpshire, Lord Skreene, and Mr. Secretary Cope. The only thing
which Mr. Temple refused to do, was to implicate Lord Oldborough, or to
disturb him on the subject. He had spent some weeks with his old master
in his retirement without once adverting to his own difficulties, still
hoping that on his return to town a promise would be fulfilled, which
Lord Skreene had given him, that “the affair should in his absence be
settled to his satisfaction.” But on his return to town, his lordship
found means of evasion and delay, and threw the blame on others; the
course of memorials and representations was to be recommenced. Mr.
Temple’s pride revolted, his love was in despair--and frequently, in
the bitterness of disappointment, he reiterated to his friend Alfred his
exclamations of regret and self-reproach, for having quitted, from pique
and impatience of spirit, a profession where his own perseverance and
exertions would infallibly have rendered him by this time independent.
Rosamond saw with sympathy and anguish the effect which these feelings
of self-reproach, and hope delayed, produced on Mr. Temple’s spirits
and health. His sensibility, naturally quick, and rendered more acute by
disappointment, seemed now continually to draw from all characters and
events, and even from every book he opened, a moral against himself,
some new illustration or example, which convinced him more and more
of the folly of being a dependant on the great. He was just in this
repentant mood, when one morning, at Mrs. Alfred Percy’s, Rosamond heard
him sigh deeply several times, as he was reading with great attention.
She could not forbear asking what it was that touched him so much. He
put the book into her hands, pointing to the following passage. “The
whole of this letter[1],” said he, “is applicable to me and excellent;
but this really seems as if it had been written for me or by me.”
[Footnote 1: Letter from Mr. Williams (secretary to Lord Chancellor
West) to Mrs. Williams.]
She read,
“I was a young man, and did not think that men were to die, or to be
turned out . . . What was to be done now?--No money, my former patron
in disgrace! friends that were in favour not able to serve me, or not
willing; that is, cold, timid, careful of themselves, and indifferent to
a man whose disappointments made him less agreeable . . . I languished
on for three long melancholy years, sometimes a little elated; a smile,
a kind hint, a downright promise, dealt out to me from those in whom I
had placed some silly hopes, now and then brought a little refreshment,
but that never lasted long; and to say nothing of the agony of being
reduced to talk of one’s own misfortunes and one’s wants, and that
basest and lowest of all conditions, the slavery of borrowing, to
support an idle useless being--my time, for those three years,
was unhappy beyond description. What would I have given then for a
profession! . . . any useful profession is infinitely better than a
thousand patrons.”
To this Rosamond entirely acceded, and admired the strong good sense
of the whole letter; but she observed to Mr. Temple, that it was very
unjust, not only to himself, but what was of much more consequence,
to _her_, to say that all this applied exactly to his case. “Did Mr.
Temple,” she asked, “mean to assert that she could esteem a man who was
_an idle useless being_, a mere dependant on great men, a follower of
courts? Could such a man have recommended himself to her father? Could
such a man ever have been the chosen friend of her brother Alfred?
“It was true,” she acknowledged, “that this friend of her brother had
made one mistake in early life; but who is there that can say that he
has not in youth or age committed a single error? Mr. Temple had done
one silly thing, to be sure, in quarrelling with his profession; but he
had suffered, and had made amends for this afterwards, by persevering
application to literature. There he had obtained the success he
deserved. Gentlemen might sigh and shake their heads, but could
any gentleman deny this? Could it be denied that Mr. Temple had
distinguished himself in literature? Could any person deny that
a political pamphlet of his recommended him to the notice of Lord
Oldborough, one of the ablest statesmen in England, who made him his
secretary, and whose esteem and confidence he afterwards acquired by his
merit, and continued, in place and out, to enjoy?--Will any gentleman
deny this?” Rosamond added, that, “in defence of _her brother’s friend_,
she could not help observing, that a man who had obtained the esteem of
some of the first persons of their day, who had filled an employment of
trust, that of secretary to a minister, with fidelity and credit, who
had published three celebrated political pamphlets, and two volumes
of moral and philosophical disquisitions, which, as she had heard the
bookseller say, were become _stock books_, could not deserve to be
called an _idle useless being_. To be born and die would not make all
his history--no, such a man would at least be secure of
honourable mention in the Biographia Britannica as a
writer--moral--political--metaphysical.”
But while Rosamond thus did her utmost to support the spirits of her
lover, her own began to fail; her vivacity was no longer natural: she
felt every day more and more the want of her sister’s sympathy and
strength of mind.
Letters from abroad gave no hope of Caroline’s return--delay after delay
occurred. No sooner had quiet been restored to the country, than
Count Altenberg’s father was taken ill, and his illness, after long
uncertainty, terminated fatally.
After the death of his father, the Count was involved in a variety
of domestic business, which respect for the memory of his parent, and
affection for surviving relations, could not allow him to leave. When
all this had been arranged, and when all seemed preparing for their
return to England, just when Rosamond hoped that the very next letter
would announce the day when they would set out, the French declared
war, the French troops were actually in motion--invasion was hourly
expected--it was necessary to prepare for the defence of the country.
At such a moment the Count could not quit his country or his Prince. And
there was Caroline, in the midst of a country torn by civil war, and in
the midst of all the horrors of revolution.
About this time, to increase the anxiety of the Percy family, they
learned that Godfrey was taken prisoner on his way home from the
West Indies. The transport, in which his division of the regiment had
embarked had been separated from her convoy by a gale of wind in the
night, and it was apprehended that she had been taken by the enemy.
Godfrey’s family hoped for a moment that this might be a false alarm;
but after enduring the misery of reading contradictory paragraphs and
contests of the newspaper writers with each other for several successive
days, it was at last too clearly established and confirmed, by official
intelligence, that the transport was taken by a Dutch ship.
In the midst of these accumulating causes of anxiety, trials of another
kind were preparing for this family, as if Fortune was determined to do
her utmost to ruin and humble those who had despised her worshippers,
struggled against her influence, and risen in the world in defiance of
her power. To explain the danger which now awaited them, we must return
to their old family enemy, Sir Robert Percy. Master of Percy-hall, and
of all that wealth could give, he could not enjoy his prosperity, but
was continually brooding on plans of avarice and malice.
Since his marriage with Miss Falconer, Sir Robert Percy’s establishment
had become so expensive as to fret his temper continually. His tenants
had had more and more reason to complain of their landlord, who, when
any of his farms were out of lease, raised his rents exorbitantly, to
make himself amends, as he said, for the extravagance of his wife. The
tenants, who had ever disliked him as the successor and enemy of their
_own_ good and beloved landlord, now could not and attempted not to
conceal their aversion. This renewed and increased the virulence of
his dislike to _our_ branch of the Percys, who, as he knew, were always
compared _with him and his_, and seemed to be for ever present to the
provoking memories of these tenants.
Sir Robert was disappointed hitherto in the hope for which he married,
the hope of an heir, who should prevent the estate from returning to
those from whom it had been wrested by his arts. Envy at seeing the
rising and prosperous state of _those Percys_, who, in spite of their
loss of fortune, had made their way up again through all obstacles,
combined to increase his antipathy to his relations. His envy had been
exasperated by the marriage of Caroline to Count Altenberg, and by the
high reputation of her brother. He heard their praises till his soul
sickened; and he was determined to be their destruction. He found a
willing and able assistant in Sharpe the attorney, and they soon devised
a plan worthy of their conjoined malice. At the time when Sir Robert had
come into possession of Percy-hall, after the suit had been decided in
his favour, he had given up all claim to the rents which Mr. Percy had
received during the years which he had held the estate, and had accepted
in lieu of them the improvements which Mr. Percy had made on the
estate, and a considerable quantity of family plate and a collection
of pictures. But now Sir Robert wrote to Mr. Percy without adverting to
this agreement, and demanding from him the amount of all the rents which
he had received, deducting only a certain sum on his own valuation for
improvements. The plate and pictures, which he had left at Percy-hall,
Sir Robert said he was willing to take in lieu of the debt; but an
immense balance against Mr. Percy remained. In technical phrase, we
believe, he warned Mr. Percy that Sharpe his attorney had directions
to commence a suit against him for the _mesne rents_. The amount of the
claim was such as it was absolutely impossible that Mr. Percy could pay,
even by the sale of every thing he possessed in the world. If this claim
were established, his family would be reduced to beggary, he must
end his days in a prison, or fly his country, and take refuge in some
foreign land. To this last extremity Sir Robert hoped to reduce him. In
reply, however, to his insolent letter, he was surprised, by receiving
from Mr. Percy a calm and short reply, simply saying that his son Alfred
would take the proper steps to bring the affair to trial, and that he
must submit to the decision of the law, whatever that might be. Sir
Robert was mortified to the quick by finding that he could not extort
from his victim one concession or complaint, nor one intemperate
expression.
But however calm and dignified was Mr. Percy’s conduct, it could not
be without the greatest anxiety that he awaited the event of the trial
which was to decide his future fate and that of his whole family.
The length of time which must elapse before the trial could come on was
dreadful. Suspense was the evil they found most difficult to endure.
Suspense may be easily borne by persons of an indolent character, who
never expect to rule their destiny by their own genius; but to those who
feel themselves possessed of energy and abilities to surmount obstacles
and to brave dangers, it is torture to remain passive--to feel that
prudence, virtue, genius avail them not--that while rapid ideas pass in
their imagination, time moves with an unaltered pace, and compels
them to wait, along with the herd of vulgar mortals, for knowledge of
futurity.