Tales and Novels, Vol. VII by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales and Novels, Vol. VII

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"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 I 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.