When Count Altenberg went to London to obtain his passports, he went to
pay his parting respects to Lord Oldborough, whose talents and uncommon
character had made an indelible impression on his mind.
When he asked whether his lordship had any commands that he could
execute at his own court, he was surprised by receiving at once a
commission of a difficult and delicate nature. Lord Oldborough, whose
penetration had seen into Count Altenberg’s character, and who knew how
and when to trust, though he was supposed to be the most reserved of
men, confided to the Count his dissatisfaction with the proceedings of
Cunningham Falconer; his suspicions that the envoy was playing double,
and endeavouring to ingratiate himself abroad and at home with a party
inimical to his lordship’s interests.
“Diplomatists are all, more or less, insincere,” said Lord Oldborough.
“But to have chosen an envoy who joins ingratitude to duplicity would
reflect no credit upon the minister by whom he was appointed. Were I
speaking to a common person, I should not admit the possibility of my
having committed such an error. But Count Altenberg will judge by the
whole and not by a part. He knows that every man _in power_ is sometimes
the slave of circumstances. This Cunningham Falconer--all these
Falconers were forced upon me--how, it is of little consequence to you
to hear. It is sufficient for me to assure you, Count, that it was not
my judgment that erred. Now the necessity has ceased. By other means my
purpose has been accomplished. The Falconers are useless to me. But I
will not abandon those whom I have undertaken to protect, till I have
proof of their perfidy.”
Lord Oldborough then explained the points on which he desired to
inform himself before he should decide with regard to Cunningham.
Count Altenberg undertook to procure for his lordship the means of
ascertaining the fidelity of his envoy; and Lord Oldborough then turned
the conversation on general politics. He soon perceived that the Count
was not as much interested in these subjects as formerly. At parting,
Lord Oldborough smiled, and said, “You have been, since I saw you last,
Count Altenberg, too much in the company of a philosopher, who
prefers the happiness of a country gentleman’s life to the glory of a
statesman’s career. But height will soon recall high thoughts. Ambition
is not dead, only dormant within you. It will, I hope and trust, make
you in time the minister and pride of your country. In this hope I bid
you farewell.”
Commissioner Falconer having been told, by one of the people in the
antechamber, that Count Altenberg had arrived, and was now with the
minister, waited anxiously to see him, caught him in his way out, and
eagerly pressed an invitation from Mrs. Falconer to dine or spend the
evening with them--but the Count had now his passports, and pleaded the
absolute necessity for his immediately setting out on his return to his
own country. The commissioner, from a word or two that he hazarded upon
the subject, had the vexation to perceive that his hopes of engaging
Count Altenberg to assist the views of his son Cunningham were vain, and
he regretted that he had wasted so much civility upon a foreigner who
would make him no return.
Miss Georgiana Falconer’s mortification at the Count’s leaving England
was much alleviated by finding that he had not been detained by the
charms of Miss Caroline Percy, and she was almost consoled for losing
the prize herself, by seeing that it had not been won by her rival. Mrs.
Falconer, too, though she had long abandoned all hopes of the Count as
a son-in-law, yet rejoiced to be spared the humiliation of writing
to congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Percy upon the marriage and splendid
establishment of their daughter.
“After all, how ill they have managed!” said Mrs. Falconer; “the game
was in their own hands. Certainly Mrs. Percy must be the worst mother in
the world, and the daughter, with all her sense, a perfect simpleton, or
they might have made up the match when they had the Count to themselves
at Hungerford Castle.”
“I told you long ago, but you would never believe, Mrs. Falconer,” cried
the commissioner, “that Count Altenberg’s ruling passion was ambition,
and that he was not the least likely to fall in love, as you ladies call
it. The old Prince of ---- is going fast, and Count Altenberg’s father
has sent for him, that he may be on the spot to secure his favour with
the hereditary prince--I am sure I hope Count Altenberg will not be
minister; for from the few words he said to me just now when I met him,
he will not enter into my views with regard to Cunningham.”
“No, those political visions of yours, commissioner, seldom end in any
thing but disappointment,” said Mrs. Falconer. “I always said it would
be so.”
Then followed a scene of recrimination, such as was the usual
consequence of the failure of any of the plans of this intriguing pair.
“And, Mrs. Falconer,” concluded the commissioner, “I augur as ill of
your present scheme for Georgiana as I did of the last. You will find
that all your dinners and concerts will be just as much thrown away upon
the two Clays as your balls and plays were upon Count Altenberg. And
this is the way, ma’am, you go on plunging me deeper and deeper in
debt,” said the commissioner, walking about the room much disturbed,
“If any thing was to go wrong with Lord Oldborough, what would become of
us!”
“My dear, that is a very unseasonable apprehension; for Lord Oldborough,
as I hear on all sides, is firmer in power now than he ever was--of
that, you know, you were but yesterday giving me assurance and proof.
His favour, you know, is so high, that all who were leagued against him
in that combination he detected, were, in consequence of his lordship’s
letter, instantly dismissed from office: his colleagues are now of his
choosing--the cabinet, I understand, completely his own friends. What
more security can you desire?”
“You don’t understand me, Mrs. Falconer: I am not thinking of the
security of Lord Oldborough’s power--of that, after all I have seen, I
can have no doubt; but I am not so sure of--”
“_The continuance of my own favour_,” he was going to say, but it was
painful to him to utter the words, and he had a superstitious dread,
common to courtiers, of speaking of their decline of favour, Besides, he
knew that reproaches for want of address in managing Lord Oldborough’s
humour would immediately follow from Mrs. Falconer, if he gave any hint
of this kind; and on his address the commissioner piqued himself, not
without reason. Abruptly changing his tone, and taking that air of
authority which every now and then he thought fit to assume, he said,
“Mrs. Falconer, there’s one thing I won’t allow--I won’t allow Georgiana
and you to make a fool of young Petcalf.”
“By no means, my love; but if he makes a fool of himself, you know?”
“Mrs. Falconer, you recollect the transaction about the draught.”
“For Zara’s dress?”
“Yes, ma’am. The condition you made then in my name with Georgiana I
hold her to, and I expect that she be prepared to be Mrs. Petcalf within
the year.”
“I told her so, my dear, and she acquiesces--she submits--she is ready
to obey--if nothing better offers.”
“_If_--Ay, there it is!--All the time I know you are looking to the
Clays; and if they fail, somebody else will start up, whom you will
think a better match than Petcalf, and all these people are to be
_fêted_, and so you will go on, wasting my money and your own time.
Petcalf will run restive at last, you will lose him, and I shall have
Georgiana left upon my hands after all.”
“No danger, my dear. My principle is the most satisfactory and secure
imaginable. To have a number of tickets in the wheel--then, if one comes
up a blank, still you have a chance of a prize in the next. Only have
patience, Mr. Falconer.”
“Patience! my dear: how can a man have patience, when he has seen the
same thing going on for years? And I have said the same thing to you
over and over a hundred times, Mrs. Falconer.”
“A hundred times at least, I grant, and that, perhaps, is enough to try
my patience you’ll allow, and yet, you see how reasonable I am. I have
only to repeat what is incontrovertible, that when a girl has been
brought up, and has lived in a certain line, you must push her in that
line, for she will not do in any other. You must be sensible that no
mere country gentleman would ever think of Georgiana--we must push her
in the line for which she is fit--the fashionable line.”
“Push! Bless my soul, ma’am! you have been pushing one or other of those
girls ever since they were in their teens, but your pushing signifies
nothing. The men, don’t you see, back as fast as the women advance?”
“Coarse!--Too coarse an observation for you, commissioner!” said Mrs.
Falconer, with admirable temper; “but when men are angry they will say
more than they think.”
“Ma’am, I don’t say half as much as I think--ever.”
“Indeed!--That is a candid confession, for which I owe you credit, at
all events.”
“It’s a foolish game--it’s a foolish game--it’s a losing game,”
continued the commissioner; “and you will play it till we are ruined.”
“Not a losing game if it be played with temper and spirit. Many throw up
the game like cowards, when, if they had but had courage to double the
bet, they would have made their fortune.”
“Pshaw! Pshaw!” said the commissioner: “Can you double your girls’
beauty? can you double their fortune?”
“Fashion stands in the place both of beauty and fortune, Mr. Falconer;
and fashion, my girls, I hope you will allow, enjoy.”
“Enjoy! What signifies that? Fashion, you told me, was to win Count
Altenberg--has it won him? Are we one bit the better for the expense we
were at in all those entertainments?”
“All that, or most of it--at least the popularity-ball--must be set down
to Lord Oldborough’s account; and that is your affair, commissioner.”
“And the play, and the play-house, and the dresses! Was Zara’s dress my
affair? Did I not tell you, you were wasting your time upon that man?”
“No waste, nothing has been wasted, my dear commissioner; believe me,
even in point of economy we could not have laid out money better; for at
a trifling expense we have obtained for Georgiana the credit of having
refused Count Altenberg. Lady Kew and Lady Trant have spread the report.
You know it is not my business to speak--and now the Count is gone,
who can contradict it with any propriety?--The thing is universally
believed. Every body is talking of it, and the consequence is, Georgiana
is more in fashion now than ever she was. There’s a proposal I had for
her this morning,” said Mrs. Falconer, throwing a letter carelessly
before the commissioner.
“A proposal! That is something worth attending to,” said the
commissioner, putting on his spectacles.
“No, nothing worth our attention,” said Mrs. Falconer, “only eighteen
hundred a year, which, you know, Georgiana could not possibly live
upon.”
“Better than nothing, surely,” said the commissioner; “let me see.”
“Not better than Petcalf, not within a thousand a year so good, putting
Asia Minor out of the question. So, you know, I could not hesitate an
instant.”
“But I hope your answer was very civil. People are not aware what
dangerous enemies they make on these occasions,” said Mr. Falconer: “I
hope your answer was very polite.”
“Oh! the pink of courtesy,” said Mrs. Falconer. “I lamented that my
daughter’s fortune was so small as to put it out of her power, &c., and
I added a great deal about _merit_, and the _honour done our family_,
and so on. But I wonder the man had the assurance to propose for
Georgiana, when he had nothing better to say for himself.”
“Petcalf, to be sure, if the general dies, is a thousand a year better.
I believe you are right there,” said Mr. Falconer; and with an air of
calculating consideration, he took up a pen.
“But what are you about, commissioner? going to write on that letter, as
if it were waste paper!” said Mrs. Falconer, starting up, and taking
it hastily from him: “I must have it for Lady Trant, Lady Kew, and some
more of our intimate friends, that they may be able to say they have
seen the proposal; for mothers and daughters too, in these days, are so
apt to boast, that it is quite necessary to have some written document
to produce, and there’s no going beyond _that_.”
“Certainly--quite necessary. And what written document,” said the
commissioner, smiling, “have you to produce in the case of Count
Altenberg?”
“Oh! that is another affair,” said Mrs. Falconer, smiling in her
turn. “One must not in all cases have recourse to the same expedients.
Besides, if we produce our proofs on one occasion, we shall depend upon
having our word taken on trust another time; and it would be too much to
make a practice of showing gentlemen’s letters: it is not what I should
always do--certainly not with regard to a man of Count Altenberg’s
rank and pretensions, who merits to be treated with somewhat more
consideration, surely, than a man who hazards such a proposal as this. I
merely produced it to show you that Georgiana is in no absolute distress
for admirers. And now, my dear, I must trouble you--those public singers
are terribly expensive; yet at a concert we must have them, and one
cannot have them without coming up to their price--I must trouble you to
sign this draft, for our concert last week.”
“Now, Mrs. Falconer, I have signed it,” cried the commissioner, “and it
is the last, for a similar purpose, I ever will sign--upon my honour.”
“I have invited every body to a concert here next week,” said Mrs.
Falconer: “What can I do?”
“Do as others do,” said the commissioner; “let these musical professors
give a concert at your house: then, instead of paying them, you share
their profits, and you have the best company at your house into the
bargain.”
“Such things are done, I know,” said Mrs. Falconer, “and by people
of rank; but Lady Jane Granville would not do it, when she was more
distressed for money than we are, and I know many say it is what they
would not do.”
“It must be done by you, Mrs. Falconer, or you must give up having
concerts altogether,” said the commissioner, leaving the room.
To give up concerts was quite impossible, especially as French Clay
was, or pretended to be, passionately fond of music, and it was at her
musical parties that he never failed to attend assiduously. The next
concert was given by a celebrated performer at Mrs. Falconer’s house,
and she and the singers shared the profit. To such meanness can the
slaves of fashion condescend!
At this concert it happened that there was a new and remarkably
handsome, graceful, female Italian singer, who was much admired by all
the gentlemen present, and particularly by French Clay, who had set
up, with little ear, and less taste, for a great judge of music. He was
ambitious of appearing as the patron of this young performer. He went
about every where talking of her in raptures, and making interest for
her with all the great people of his acquaintance. Her own voice and her
own charms needed not the protection of Mr. Clay; from the night she was
first produced at Mrs. Falconer’s, she became at once the height of the
fashion. Every body was eager to have her at their parties, especially
as she had never yet been upon the stage. Admirers crowded round her,
and among them were many of rank and fortune: an old earl and a young
baronet were of the number. The ardour of competition so much increased
the zeal of French Clay, that what was at first only affectation, became
real enthusiasm. He was resolved to win the lady from all his rivals.
He had frequent opportunities of seeing her at Mrs. Falconer’s, where he
appeared always in glory as her patron.
Seraphina, the fair Italian, considering Mrs. Falconer as her first
patroness, made it a point of gratitude to hold her concerts frequently
at her house. Mrs. Falconer was proud of the distinction. Fresh éclat
was thrown upon her and upon her daughters.
French Clay was always near Miss Georgiana Falconer, or near Seraphina;
and he applauded each by turns with all the raptures of an amateur. Mrs.
Falconer saw that rivalship with the old earl and the young baronet had
worked Mr. Clay into a passion for Seraphina; but she thought she knew
how a passion for a singer must end, and as this did not interfere with
her matrimonial designs, it gave her little uneasiness. Bets ran high
in the fashionable world upon the three candidates. Mrs. Falconer had no
doubt that the old earl would carry off the prize, as he was extremely
rich, and was ready to make any settlement and any establishment. Her
prophecy would, probably, have been accomplished, but that French Clay,
strongly urged by the immediate danger of losing the lady, and flattered
by Seraphina’s mother, who, in another style of life, was equal to Mrs.
Falconer in address and knowledge of the world, was drawn in to offer
what alone could balance the charms of the baronet’s youth and of the
earl’s wealth--a week after the offer was made, Seraphina became
Mrs. French Clay. Upon this marriage Commissioner Falconer hastened
immediately to reproach his wife.
“There! Mrs. Falconer, I told you it would never do--There is another
son-in-law who has escaped you!”
Never did Mrs. Falconer’s genius appear so great as in circumstances
which would have confounded one of inferior resource. It is true, she
had been thrown into surprise and consternation by the first news of
this marriage; but by an able stroke she had turned defeat into victory.
With a calm air of triumph she replied to her husband, “I beg your
pardon, Mr. Falconer,--French Clay was only my ostensible object: I
should have been very sorry to have had him for my son-in-law; for,
though it is a secret, I know that he is overwhelmed with debt. The
son-in-law I really wished for has not escaped me, sir--the elder
brother, English Clay--Clay, of Clay-hall, I apprehend, you will
allow, is rather a better match for your daughter; and his proposal for
Georgiana, his relation, Lady Trant, was last night authorized to make
to me in form. And now, commissioner, there is an end of your fears
that your daughter should be left, at last, upon your hands; and now,
I flatter myself, you will acknowledge that I always knew what I was
about--mistress of Clay-hall, and of seven thousand a year--I think that
is doing pretty well for a girl who has nothing.”
The commissioner was so much delighted, that he willingly permitted his
lady to enjoy her triumph over him.
“Now only consider, commissioner,” she pursued, “if I had huddled
up that match with Petcalf!--Petcalf, I’ll answer for it, in case of
necessity, that is, in case of any difficulty on the part of Sir Robert
Percy, I can turn over to Bell. Poor Petcalf!” added she, with a smile:
“I really have a regard for that ever-lasting partner, and wish to leave
him a chance of being partner for life to one of my daughters. I am sure
he has reason to be excessively obliged to me for thinking of him at
this moment--I must go to Georgiana and talk about wedding-clothes,
laces, jewels, equipages--Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, piques himself
upon having every thing the best of its kind, and in the highest
style--Happy--happy girl!”
“Happy--happy father, who has got her off his hands!” cried the
commissioner.
“‘Twas my doing--‘twas all my doing!” said Mrs. Falconer.
“It was, my dear; and how was it brought about?” said Mr. Falconer:
“stay one minute from the wedding-clothes, and tell me.”
Mrs. Falconer returned, and in the pride of successful intrigue
explained all--that is, all she chose her husband to know.
Lady Trant was Mr. Clay’s near relation, and Mrs. Falconer’s intimate
friend--how she had engaged her ladyship so zealously in her cause was
the point which Mrs. Falconer did not choose to explain, and into which
the commissioner never thought of inquiring. There are moments in which
the most selfish may be betrayed into a belief that others act from
generous motives; and the very principles which they hold infallible
applied to all other cases, they think admit in their own of an
exception: so Commissioner Falconer, notwithstanding his knowledge of
the world, and his knowledge of himself, took it for granted, that,
in this instance, Lady Trant acted from the impulse of disinterested
friendship. This point happily admitted without question, all the rest
Mrs. Falconer could satisfactorily explain. Lady Trant being a friend
she could trust entirely, Mrs. Falconer had opened her mind to her
ladyship, and, by her suggestion, Lady Trant had seized the happy
moment when English Clay was enraged against his brother for his strange
marriage, and had deplored that Clay-hall, and the fine estate belonging
to it, should go to the children of an Italian singer: English Clay took
fresh fire at this idea, and swore that, much as he hated the notion of
a wife and children, he had a great mind to marry on purpose to
punish his brother, and to cut him off, as he deserved, for ever from
Clay-hall. Lady Trant commended his spirit, and urged him to put his
resolution into execution--English Clay, however, balked a little at
this: women now-a-days, he said, were so cursed expensive, that scarce
any fortune could suffice for a wife, and horses, and all in style; and
as to taking a wife, who would not be of a piece with the rest of
his establishment, that was what he was not the man to do. Lady Trant
answered, that of course he would wish to have a fashionable wife; that
was the only thing that was wanting to make Clay-hall complete.
“But then an establishment that was quite correct, and in the first
style for a bachelor, would be quite incorrect for a married man, and
every thing to do over again.”
“True; but then to grow into an old bachelor, and to hear every body
saying, or to know that every body is saying, behind your back, ‘He will
never marry, you know; and all his estate will go to his brother, or the
children of Seraphina, the singer.’”
There are some men who might feel tired of having the same idea
repeated, and the self-same words reiterated; but English Clay was not
of the number: on the contrary, repetition was necessary, in the
first place, to give his mind time to take in an idea; and afterwards,
reiteration was agreeable, as it impressed him with a sense of
conviction without the trouble of thought. After Lady Trant had
reiterated a sufficient time, he assented, and declared what her
ladyship observed was d----d true; but after a silence of several
minutes, he added, “There’s such a cursed deal of danger of being _taken
in_ by a woman, especially by one of those fashionable girls, who are
all in the catch-match line.” Lady Trant, who had been well tutored and
prepared with replies by Mrs. Falconer, answered that as Mr. Clay, of
Clay-hall, had a fortune that entitled him to ask any woman, so he
was, for the same reason, at full liberty to please himself; and though
family connexion and fashion would of course be indispensable to him,
yet money could be no object to a man of his fortune--he was not like
many needy young men, obliged to sell themselves for a wife’s fortune,
to pay old debts: no, Lady Trant said, she was sure her relation and
friend, Mr. Clay, of Clay-hall, would never bargain for a wife, and, of
course, where there was no bargaining there could be no fear of being
taken in.
English Clay had never considered the matter in this view before; but
now it was pointed out, he confessed it struck him as _very fair--very
fair_: and his pride, of which he had a comfortable portion, being now
touched, he asserted both his disinterestedness and his right to judge
and choose in this business entirely for himself. Who had a right to
blame him? his fortune was his own, and he would marry a girl without
sixpence, if she struck his fancy. Lady Trant supported him in
his humour, and he began to name some of the young ladies of his
acquaintance: one would look well in a curricle; another would do the
honours of his house handsomely; another danced charmingly, and would
be a credit to him in a ball-room; another would make a sweet-tempered
nurse when he should have the gout: but Lady Trant found some objection
to every one he mentioned, till, at last, when he had named all he could
think of in remainder to his heart, Lady Trant proposed Miss Georgiana.
But she was intended for his brother.
“Oh! no.” Lady Trant had very particular reasons for being positive that
neither Mrs. nor Miss Falconer had ever such an idea, however they
might have let it go abroad, perhaps, to conceal their real wishes--Miss
Georgiana Falconer had refused so many gentlemen--Count Altenberg,
report said, among others; and it was plain to Lady Trant that the young
lady could not be easily pleased--that her affections were not to be
engaged very readily: yet she had a notion, she owned, that if--But she
was not at liberty to say more. She was only convinced that no girl was
more admired than Miss Georgiana Falconer, and no woman would do greater
credit to the taste of a man of fashion: she had all the requisites
Mr. Clay had named: she would look well in a curricle; she would do the
honours of his house charmingly; she sung and danced divinely: and Lady
Trant summed up all by reiterating, that Miss Georgiana Falconer never
would have married his brother.
This persuasive flattery, combining with English Clay’s anger against
his brother, had such effect, that he protested, if it was not for the
trouble of the thing, he did not care if he married next week. But the
making the proposal, and all that, was an awkward, troublesome business,
to which he could not bring himself. Lady Trant kindly offered to take
all trouble of this sort off his hands--undertook to speak to Mrs.
Falconer, if she had his authority for so doing, and engaged that he
should be married without any kind of awkwardness or difficulty. In
consequence of this assurance, Lady Trant was empowered by Mr. Clay to
make the proposal, which was received with so much joy and triumph by
Mrs. Falconer and by her Georgiana.
But their joy and triumph were not of long duration. In this family,
where none of the members of it acted in concert, or well knew what the
others were doing,--where each had some separate interest, vanity, or
vice, to be pursued or indulged, it often happened that one individual
counteracted the other, and none were willing to abandon their selfish
purpose, whether of interest or pleasure. On the present occasion, by
a curious concatenation of circumstances, it happened that Buckhurst
Falconer, who had formerly been the spoiled darling of his mother, was
the person whose interest immediately crossed hers; and if he
pursued his object, it must be at the risk of breaking off his sister
Georgiana’s marriage with English Clay. It is necessary to go back a
few steps to trace the progress of Buckhurst Falconer’s history. It is
a painful task to recapitulate and follow the gradual deterioration of a
disposition such as his; to mark the ruin and degradation of a character
which, notwithstanding its faults, had a degree of generosity and
openness, with a sense of honour and quick feeling, which early in life
promised well; and which, but for parental weakness and mistaken system,
might have been matured into every thing good and great. After his
mother had, by introducing him early to fashionable company, and to a
life of idleness and dissipation, disgusted him with the profession of
the law, in which, with talents such as his, he might, with application
and perseverance, have risen to wealth and eminence--after his father
had, by duplicity and tyranny, forced him into that sacred profession
for which the young man felt himself unfit, and which his conscience
long refused to consider merely as the means of worldly provision--the
next step was to send him with a profligate patron, as chaplain to a
regiment, notorious for gambling. The first sacrifice of principle
made, his sense of honour, duty, and virtue, once abandoned, his natural
sensibility only hastened his perversion. He had a high idea of the
clerical character; but his past habits and his present duties were in
direct opposition. Indeed, in the situation in which he was placed, and
with the society into which he was thrown, it would have required
more than a common share of civil courage, and all the steadiness of
a veteran in virtue, to have withstood the temptations by which he was
surrounded. Even if he had possessed sufficient resolution to change his
former habits, and to become a good clergyman, his companions and his
patron, instead of respecting, would have shunned him as a censor.
Unwilling to give up the pleasures of conviviality, and incapable of
sustaining the martyrdom of ridicule, Buckhurst Falconer soon abjured
all the principles to which he could not adhere--he soon gloried in
the open defiance of every thing that he had once held right. Upon all
occasions, afraid of being supposed to be subject to any restraint as
a clergyman, or to be influenced by any of the prejudices of his
profession, he strove continually to show his liberality and spirit by
daring, both in words and actions, beyond what others dared. He might
have been checked and stopped in his career of extravagance by the
actual want of money and of credit, had he not unluckily obtained, at
this early period, a living, as a reward for saving Bishop Clay from
being choked: this preferment, obtained in circumstances so ludicrous,
afforded him matter of much temporary amusement and triumph; and
confirmed him in the idea his father had long laboured to inculcate,
that merit was unnecessary to rising in the world or in the church. But
however he might endeavour to blind himself to the truth, and however
general opinion was shut out from him for a time by those profligate
persons with whom he lived, yet he could not help now and then seeing
and feeling that he had lost respectability; and in the midst of noisy
merriment he was often to himself an object of secret and sad contempt.
Soon after he was separated for a time from Colonel Hauton and his
companions, by going to take possession of his living, he made an effort
to regain his self-complacency--he endeavoured to distinguish himself
as an eloquent preacher.--Ashamed of avowing to his associates better
motives, by which he was partly actuated, he protested that he preached
only for fame and a deanery. His talents were such as soon accomplished
half his wish, and ensured him celebrity--he obtained opportunities
of preaching in a fashionable chapel in London--he was prodigiously
followed--his theatrical manner, perhaps, increased the effect of his
eloquence upon a certain class of his auditors; but the more sober and
nice-judging part of his congregation objected to this dramatic art and
declamatory style, as tending to draw the attention from the doctrine to
the preacher, and to obtain admiration from man more than to do honour
to God. This, however, might have passed, as a matter of speculative
opinion or difference of taste; provided the preacher is believed to
be in earnest, the style of his preaching is of little comparative
consequence. But the moment he is suspected of being insincere, the
moment it is found that he does not practise what he preaches, his power
over the rational mind ceases; and to moral feeling such a clergyman
becomes an object, not only of contempt, but of disgust and abhorrence.
Murmurs were soon heard against the private conduct of the celebrated
preacher--perhaps envy for his talents and success mingled her voice
with the honest expressions of virtuous indignation. The murmurs grew
louder and louder; and Buckhurst Falconer, to avoid having inquiries
made and irregularities brought to light, was obliged to yield to a
rival preacher of far inferior talents, but of more correct conduct.
Commissioner Falconer was glad that his son was disappointed in this
manner, as he thought it would make him more attentive than he had been
of late to Colonel Hauton; and the living of Chipping-Friars was better
worth looking after than the fleeting fame of a popular preacher.
Buckhurst, however, still held fame in higher estimation than it had
ever been held by his father, who never valued it but as subordinate to
interest. But the love of fame, however superior to mercenary habits,
affords no security for the stability of conduct; on the contrary,
without good sense and resolution, it infallibly accelerates the
degeneracy of character. Buckhurst’s hopes of obtaining literary
celebrity being lost, he sunk another step, and now contented himself
with the kind of notoriety which can be gained by a man of talents,
who condescends to be the wit of private circles and of public dinners.
Still he met with many competitors in this line. In the metropolis, the
mendicants for fame, like the professional beggars, portion out the town
among them, and whoever ventures to ply beyond his allotted _walk_ is
immediately jostled and abused; and the false pretensions of the wit,
and all the tricks to obtain admiration, are as sure to be exposed
by some rivals of the trade, as the false legs, arms, and various
impostures of the beggar are denounced by the brother-beggar, on whose
monopoly he has infringed. Our wit was soon compelled to confine himself
to his own _set_, and gradually he degenerated from being the wit to
being the good story-teller of the company. A man who lives by pleasing
must become whatever the society in which he lives desire. Colonel
Hauton and his associates had but little taste for pure wit--low humour
and facetious stories were more suited to their capacities--_slang_ and
buffoonery were their delight. Buckhurst had early become a proficient
in all these: the respect due to the clerical character had not
restrained him from the exercise of arts for his own amusement, which
now he found indispensably requisite for the entertainment of others,
and to preserve favour with his patron. Contrary to all calculation,
and, as the commissioner said, to all reasonable expectation, the old
paralytic incumbent had continued to exist, and so many years had
passed since the promise had been made to Buckhurst of this living,
the transaction in consequence of which it was promised was now so
completely forgotten, that the commissioner feared that Colonel Hauton,
no longer under the influence of shame, might consider the promise
as merely gratuitous, not binding: therefore the cautious father was
solicitous that his son should incessantly stick close to the colonel,
who, as it was observed, never recollected his absent friends.
Buckhurst, though he knew him to be selfish and silly, yet had no
suspicion of his breaking his promise, because he piqued himself on
being a man of honour; and little as he cared, in general, for any one
but himself, Colonel Hauton had often declared that he could not live
without Buckhurst Falconer. He was always driving with the colonel,
riding, betting with him, or relieving him from the sense of his own
inability by making a jest of some person. Buckhurst’s talents for
mimickry were an infallible resource. In particular, he could mimick the
two Clays to perfection, could take off the affected tone, foreign airs,
and quick talkative vanity of French Clay; and represent the slow, surly
reserve, supercilious silence, and solemn self-importance of English
Clay. He used to imitate not only their manners, gesture, and voice, but
could hold conversations in their characters, fall naturally into their
train of thinking, and their modes of expression. Once a week, at least,
the two Clays were introduced for the amusement of their friend Colonel
Hauton, who, at the hundredth representation, was as well pleased as at
the first, and never failed to “witness his wonder with an idiot laugh,”
quite unconscious that, the moment afterwards, when he had left the
room, this laugh was mimicked for the entertainment of the remainder
of the band of friends. It happened one night that Buckhurst Falconer,
immediately after Colonel Hauton had quitted the party, began to set
the table in a roar, by mimicking his laugh, snuffling voice, and silly
observations; when, to his utter confusion, his patron, who he thought
had left the room, returned from behind a screen, and resumed his place
opposite to Buckhurst. Not Banquo’s ghost could have struck more terror
into the heart of the guilty. Buckhurst grew pale as death, and sudden
silence ensued. Recovering his presence of mind, he thought that it
was possible the colonel might be such a fool as not to have recognized
himself; so by a wink to one of the company, and a kick under the table
to another, he endeavoured to make them join in his attempt to pass off
the whole as mimickry of a Colonel _Hallerton_. His companions supported
him as he continued the farce, and the laughter recommenced. Colonel
Hauton filled his glass, and said nothing; by degrees, however, he
joined or pretended to join in the laugh, and left the company without
Buckhurst’s being able exactly to determine whether he had duped him or
not. After the colonel was fairly gone,--for this time Buckhurst took
care not only to look behind the screen, but even to shut the doors of
the antechamber, and to wait till he heard the parting wheels,--they
held a conference upon the question--duped or not duped? All agreed in
flattering Buckhurst that he had completely succeeded in giving _the
colonel the change_, and he was particularly complimented on his address
by a Mr. Sloak, chaplain to a nobleman, who was one of the company.
There was something of a hypocritical tone in Sloak’s voice--something
of a doubtful cast in his eyes, which, for a moment, raised in
Buckhurst’s mind a suspicion of him. But, the next day, Colonel Hauton
appeared as usual. Buckhurst rode, drove, and jested with him as
before; and the whole transaction was, on his part, forgotten. A month
afterwards the rector of Chipping-Friars actually died--Commissioner
Falconer despatched an express to Buckhurst, who stood beside his bed,
with the news, the instant he opened his eyes in the morning. Buckhurst
sent the messenger on to Colonel Hauton’s at the barracks, and before
Buckhurst was dressed, the colonel’s groom brought him an invitation to
meet a large party at dinner: “the colonel would be unavoidably engaged,
by regimental business, all morning.”
Buckhurst’s friends and acquaintance now flocked to congratulate him,
and, by dinner-time, he had, in imagination, disposed of the
second year’s tithes, and looked out for a curate to do the duty of
Chipping-Friars. The company assembled at dinner, and the colonel seemed
in uncommonly good spirits, Buckhurst jovial and triumphant--nothing was
said of the living, but every thing was taken for granted. In the middle
of dinner the colonel cried, “Come, gentlemen, fill your glasses, and
drink with me to the health of the new rector of Chipping-Friars.” The
glasses were filled instantly, all but Buckhurst Falconer’s, who, of
course, thought he should not drink his own health.
“Mr. Sloak, I have the pleasure to drink your health; Mr. Sloak, rector
of Chipping-Friars,” cried the patron, raising his voice. “Buckhurst,”
added he, with a malicious smile, “you do not fill your glass.”
Buckhurst sat aghast. “Colonel, is this a jest?”
“A jest?--by G----! no,” said the colonel; “I have had enough of jests
and jesters.”
“What can this mean?”
“It means,” said the colonel, coolly, “that, idiot as you take me,
or make me to be, I’m not fool enough to patronize a mimick to mimick
myself; and, moreover, I have the good of the church too much at heart,
to make a _rector_ of one who has no rectitude--I can have my pun, too.”
The laugh was instantly turned against Buckhurst. Starting from table,
he looked alternately at Colonel Hauton and at Mr. Sloak, and could
scarcely find words to express his rage. “Hypocrisy! Treachery!
Ingratitude! Cowardice! If my cloth did not protect you, you would not
dare--Oh! that I were not a clergyman!” cried Buckhurst.
“It’s a good time to wish it, faith!” said the colonel; “but you should
have thought better before you put on the cloth.”
Cursing himself, his patron, and his father, Buckhurst struck his
forehead, and rushed out of the room: an insulting laugh followed from
Colonel Hauton, in which Mr. Sloak and all the company joined--Buckhurst
heard it with feelings of powerless desperation. He walked as fast as
possible--he almost ran through the barrack-yard and through the streets
of the town, to get as far as he could from this scene--from these
people. He found himself in the open fields, and leaning against a
tree--his heart almost bursting--for still he had a heart: “Oh! Mr.
Percy!” he exclaimed aloud, “once I had a friend--a good, generous
friend--and I left him for such a wretch as this! Oh! if I had followed
his advice! He knew me--knew my better self! And if he could see me at
this moment, he would pity me. Oh! Caroline! you would pity--no, you
would despise me, as I despise myself--I a clergyman!--Oh! father!
father! what have you to answer for!”
To this sudden pang of conscience and feeling succeeded the idea of the
reproaches which his father would pour upon him--the recollection of
his debts, and the impossibility of paying them--his destitute, hopeless
condition--anger against the new rector of Chipping-Friars, and against
his cold, malicious patron, returned with increased force upon his mind.
The remainder of that day, and the whole of the night, were passed in
these fluctuations of passion. Whenever he closed his eyes and began to
doze, he heard the voice of Colonel Hauton drinking the health of Mr.
Sloak; and twice he started from his sleep, after having collared both
the rector and his patron. The day brought him no relief: the moment his
creditors heard the facts, he knew he should be in immediate danger
of arrest. He hurried to town to his father--his father must know his
situation sooner or later, and something must be done.
We spare the reader a shocking scene of filial and parental reproaches.
They were both, at last, compelled to return to the question, What is
to be done? The father declared his utter inability to pay his son’s
debts, and told him, that now there remained but one way of extricating
himself from his difficulties--to turn to a better patron.
“Oh! sir, I have done with patrons,” cried Buckhurst.
“What, then, will you do, sir? Live in a jail the remainder of your
life?”
Buckhurst gave a deep sigh, and, after a pause, said, “Well, sir, go
on--Who is to be my new patron?”
“Your old friend, Bishop Clay.”
“I have no claim upon him. He has done much for me already.”
“Therefore he will do more.”
“Not pay my debts--and that is the pressing difficulty. He cannot
extricate me, unless he could give me a good living immediately, and he
has none better than the one I have already, except Dr. Leicester’s--his
deanery, you know, is in the gift of the crown. Besides, the good dean
is likely to live as long as I shall.”
“Stay; you do not yet, quick sir, see my scheme--a scheme which would
pay your debts and put you at ease at once--Miss Tammy Clay, the
bishop’s sister.”
“An old, ugly, cross, avaricious devil!” cried Buckhurst.
“Rich! passing rich! and well inclined toward you, Buckhurst, as you
know.”
Buckhurst said that she was his abhorrence--that the idea of a man’s
selling himself in marriage was so repugnant to his feelings, that he
would rather die in a jail.
His father let him exhaust himself in declamation, certain that he would
be brought to think of it at last, by the necessity to which he was
reduced. The result was what the commissioner saw it must be. Creditors
pressed--a jail in immediate view--no resource but Miss Tammy Clay. He
went down to the country to the bishop’s, to get out of the way of his
creditors, and--to consider about it. He found no difficulty likely
to arise on the part of the lady. The bishop, old, and almost doting,
governed by his sister Tammy, who was an admirable housekeeper, and kept
his table exquisitely, was brought, though very reluctantly, to consent
to their marriage.
Not so acquiescent, however, were Miss Tammy’s two nephews, French and
English Clay. They had looked upon her wealth as their indefeasible
right and property. The possibility of her marrying had for years been,
as they thought, out of the question; and of all the young men of their
acquaintance, Buckhurst Falconer was the very last whom they would have
suspected to have any design upon aunt Tammy--she had long and often
been the subject of his ridicule. French Clay, though he had just made
an imprudent match with a singer, was the more loud and violent against
the aunt; and English Clay, though he was not in want of her money, was
roused by the idea of being duped by the Falconers. This was just at the
time he had commissioned Lady Trant to propose for Miss Georgiana. Aunt
Tammy had promised to give him six thousand pounds whenever he should
marry: he did not value her money a single sixpence, but he would not
be tricked out of his rights by any man or woman breathing. Aunt Tammy,
resenting certain words that had escaped him derogatory to her youth
and beauty, and being naturally unwilling to give--any thing but
herself--refused to part with the six thousand pounds. In these hard
times, and when she was going to marry an expensive husband, she
laughing said, that all she had would be little enough for her own
establishment. Buckhurst would willingly have given up the sum in
question, but English Clay would not receive it as a consequence of his
intercession. His pride offended Buckhurst: they came to high words, and
high silence. English Clay went to his relation, Lady Trant, and first
reproaching her with having been too precipitate in executing his first
commission, gave her a second, in which he begged she would make no
delay: he requested her ladyship would inform Mrs. Falconer that a
double alliance with her family was more than he had looked for--and in
one word, that either her son Buckhurst’s marriage with his aunt Tammy,
or his own marriage with Miss Georgiana, must be given up. He would
not have his aunt at her age make herself ridiculous, and he would not
connect himself with a family who could uphold a young man in duping an
old woman: Lady Trant might shape his message as she pleased, but this
was to be its substance.
In consequence of Lady Trant’s intimation, which of course was made with
all possible delicacy, Georgiana and Mrs. Falconer wrote to Buckhurst in
the strongest terms, urging him to give up his intended marriage. There
were, as they forcibly represented, so many other old women with large
fortunes who could in the course of a short time be found, who would be
quite as good matches for him, that it would argue a total insensibility
to the interests and entreaties of his beloved mother and sister, if he
persisted in his present preposterous design. Buckhurst answered,
“MY DEAR MOTHER AND GEORGY,
“I was married yesterday, and am as sorry for it to-day as you can be.
“Yours truly,
“B.F.
“P.S.--There are other young men, with as good fortunes as English Clay,
in the world.”
The letter and the postscript disappointed and enraged Mrs. Falconer and
Georgiana beyond description.
English Clay left his D.I.O. at Mrs. Falconer’s door, and _banged_ down
to Clay-hall.
Georgiana, violent in the expression of her disappointment, would have
exposed herself to Lady Trant, and to half her acquaintance; but Mrs.
Falconer, in the midst of her mortification, retained command of temper
sufficient to take thought for the future. She warned Lady Trant to be
silent, and took precautions to prevent the affair from being known;
providently determining, that, as soon as her daughter should recover
from the disappointment of losing Clay-hall, she would marry her to
Petcalf, and settle her at once at the lodge in Asia Minor.
“Till Georgiana is married,” said she to herself, “the commissioner will
never let me have peace: if English Clay’s breaking off the match gets
wind, we are undone; for who will think of a rejected girl, beautiful
or fashionable though she be? So the best thing that can be done is
to marry her immediately to Petcalf. I will have it so--and the
wedding-clothes will not have been bought in vain.”
The bringing down the young lady’s imagination, however, from Clay-hall
to a lodge was a task of much difficulty; and Mrs. Falconer often in
the bitterness of her heart exclaimed, that she had the most ungrateful
children in the world. It seems that it is a tacit compact between
mothers and daughters of a certain class, that if the young ladies are
dressed, amused, advertised, and exhibited at every fashionable public
place and private party, their hearts, or hands at least, are to be
absolutely at the disposal of their parents.
It was just when Mrs. Falconer was exasperated by Georgiana’s
ingratitude, that her son Buckhurst was obliged to come to London after
his marriage, to settle with his creditors. His bride insisted upon
accompanying him, and chose this unpropitious time for being introduced
to his family. And such a bride! Mrs. Buckhurst Falconer! Such an
introduction! Such a reception! His mother cold and civil, merely
from policy to prevent their family-quarrels from becoming public; his
sisters--
But enough. Here let us turn from the painful scene, and leave this
house divided against itself.